Harries are so protective of Harry and it's moments like this where i'm reminded that he thinks this suit of armor his fans wear to protect him from unnecessary discourse and just harmful rhetoric will be there when he fucks up and its just not going to happen this time around. we are in one of the worst economic crisis of our lifetime and instead of trying to find ways to make touring accessible, he only picks 1 city in the entire United States, makes the base price $50-$1k and to make matters worse turns ON dynamic pricing.
Spending an entire day in your living room doing radio interviews saying this album is about "human connection" and how being in the crowd at shows made you "understand" your audience and how you want to make that feeling tangible and fun again holds no water when you then turn around and try to sell the most expensive tickets to date.
I'll be shocked if he even addresses this or if he just slaps on another 5-10 shows and calls it a day. I'm sure we can all bet what will happen.
I love Harry but yâall wanting to think he has no idea what his tickets are selling for is kinda crazy. He might not know the exact amount but he probably knows how much heâs estimated to make if he sells out (and letâs be real he will) this tour. In my mind itâs worst if he doesnât know because that means he doesnât care enough to even ask how much his fans that he wasnât even sure were gonna âwaitâ for him to drop more music are gonna spend to see him. He is a grown man and has been in this industry for most of his life, he knows whatâs going on.
This is an ugly and greedy industry at its core and I can love Harry but also be upset at the things he allows to happen. And before anyone says he canât control ticket prices, yes he can. Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift and even BTS have all made sure their tickets didnât have dynamic pricing and were more on the affordable side. It can be done. His team just knows we will pay whatever price to see Harry even though we will be upset about it (rightfully so). We have to stop assuming Harry is just walking around clueless and is just concerned about making music, this is his career and he also wants to make money.
exactly! those prices are ridiculous. âresidenciesâ are ridiculous â it saves him money on costs but forces ppl to spend more in order to get there. I love him but Iâm not supporting these prices. I had a $250 eras tour FLOOR seat...
summary: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky canât stop talking about his lovely wife.
warnings: third person & second person (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; swearing; original characters; ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (heâs pathetically obsessed); mention of pregnancy; ovulation; fluff; smut; slight daddy & mommy kink; use of slut once; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of sex in public?).
word count: 5k
a/n: I just... I blame those pictures. unfortunately I have important stuff to do next week + stranger things 5 comes out, so I had to "rush" this and post it now. itâs almost 2am where I live so I promise Iâll come back for any typos, my eyes are burning right now lol
hope youâll enjoy it đŒ
ps: I know nothing about ceos and investment companies, I based everything on my own researches and good ol' wattpad fanfics I've read in the past. so I apologize if there is any mistake.
The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue melting off his features and shoulders tensing up automatically. Monica literally throws her phone in her bag, pretending sheâs been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.
Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world has already personally disappointed him the moment he opened his eyes. His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologneâ Tom Fordâs Beau de Jourâ is not too strong, but it's a reminder of his authority that lingers in the air. Ever his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that canât strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. Heâs very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce. The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnesâ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to not touch his watch. Ever again. Scott almost fainted when he noticed that the CFO, Mr. Wilson, was rather amused as he pressed his lips together so tightly to avoid bursting out laughing.
Needless to say Mr. Pierceâs company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.
Mr. Barnes walks with clipped, purposeful steps, black coat perfectly pressed and tie mathematically aligned. He doesnât even glance at his visibly fidgety employees. He doesnât need to. His blue eyes are always hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office at the very end of the open space.Â
He also doesnât greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.
The CEO doesnât talk much in generalâ not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with pride in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple âfix this.â could ruin an entire afternoon. A âthis is unacceptable.â, a week.
The worst thing is that he doesnât even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.
He doesnât need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. If someone tries to impress him, he ignores it. If someone tries to joke, he blinks slowly, as if theyâve just offended his entire bloodline.
Even if the nickname âdemanding assholeâ has spread around the office with alarming speed, Mr. Barnes puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.Â
Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like a final sentence. An order to not be disturbed.
He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.
And this is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with her smug smile and high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.
Wanda makes sure to show her everything: from the multiple desks lined up on the wood flooring, to the big glass-walled meeting room. The two stop momentarily in the grey break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works.Â
A dull knock on the open door pauses their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.
âI need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.âÂ
âIâ yes sir, Iâm so sorry. Iâll bring it to your office right nowââ He raises a palm, stopping her nervous ranting.
âNo need, leave it to Natasha and sheâll bring it to me.â Mr. Barnes has already turned away when the red-head remembers the girl beside her.
âUm sâsir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.â His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before heâs returning to his cavern.
âWas that⊠James Barnes?â Wandaâs eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.
âYeah, thatâs him. A real gentleman, as you can see.â
Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. âI didnât think I would meet him today. Iâve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.â
Wanda blinks once, then twice, still processing her excitement. âA⊠Fan?â
âOf course!â The blonde wheezes. âHeâs a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up.â She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. âAnd a very handsome one, at that.âÂ
âYou know heâs married, right?â Madisonâs head twists toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl of frustration.
âWhat?â
Itâs impossible, she knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.
âYeah, and also very much in love with his wife.â The red-head nods, quite amused by the fact that this freshly-graduated girl has the hots for her terse boss. She almost regrets telling her he is married, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.
Madisonâs mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. âOh Wanda, everything ends, even marriages.â
The analyst simply smirks knowingly, walking to the door. âHm, good luck with that.â She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. âCâmon, Iâll show you your desk. Itâs right next to mine and Darcyâs.â
The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway.Â
âMove Starkâs call to Wednesday, and if he dares to complain, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from his competitor.â The moment she hears Mr. Barnesâ deep, commanding voice, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.
He steps inside without noticing her at first, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in handâ itâs his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, then his left foot starts tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.
Madison takes a second to adjust her hair, before she turns toward the man. âGood morning, Mr. Barnes!â Â
He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.
She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. âI, um⊠I baked something. Thought Iâd bring some in for the team.â
Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. So she swallows, continuing.
âTheyâre chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.â As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this internâs insistence, but in that moment his wifeâs words echo clearly through his mind.
âTheyâre your employees, Jamie. Just⊠Try to be a little nicer?â
With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madisonâs incredulous eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone reluctantly performing a mandatory task.
A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. âI need to tell my wife to bake cookies next time, but she already baked me a pie two days ago.âÂ
Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife to bake him cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then try to find a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.
Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. âOh! What kind of pie?â
His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. âApple. Itâs my favorite.â
Her eyes lit up. âI can make it for you! Next time IââÂ
âIt was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.â He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. âSheâs a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.â
Is he pouting? âI finished the whole thing in two days.âÂ
Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes set the cookie down on the counter.Â
âI need to text her,â He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. âtell her to make another one for tonight.â
And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madisonâs crushed expectations behind.
Itâs not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. âCan we eat them now?âÂ
Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didnât go as well as she predicted. Thatâs okay! Madison wasnât elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.
The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Starkâs new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also prove she âknows her dealâ too to Mr. Barnes, by outlining a section of the submission.Â
Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire's proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.
âSo I told him I didnât give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex wifeââ
âAsk me about my lunch.â Darcy balks at Madison, tilting her head.
âExcuse me?â
âAsk me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!â She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Darcy stares at her appalled, until their bossâ booming voice reaches her ears. Thatâs when she rolls her eyes to the sky, exhaling loudly. Of course itâs one of the new internâs weird plans to catch Mr. Barnesâ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after âThe Cookie Failureâ, as Scott named it.Â
âWhere did you find those nice tomatoes?â She mutters reluctantly.
âLouder.â
âWhere did you find those nice tomatoes?â This time she yells, attracting the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.
Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. âYou mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? I grow them in my garden!â
Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunchâ no, she was not eavesdropping, she was simply passing by his office. At some point he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb.Â
Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patient, to grow fucking vegetables. Therefore she just went grocery shopping, but no one actually noticed the difference.
âMy wife has a beautiful garden.â Madisonâs face falls.
âDoes she now?â Mr. Stark amusedly encourages him.
âLast year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.â He pats the pocket of his black pants. âHold onâ I have pictures.â And everyone gathers around him. Like fucking bees around a flower. Even Darcy!Â
âLook at the color! Isnât she amazing?â Some murmur amongst them with a smile, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.
âAnd these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. Andâ oh! Here she is mulching. I took this one, she didnât know I was there.â Madison almost has an aneurysm as the corners of his mouth softly lift up. âSheâs cute, isnât she?â
Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. âI, uh⊠planted some basil.â
And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. âMy wife grows five varieties of basil.â
Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. Mr. Barnes's head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream.
âAlright.â His frown returns. âBreakâs over. Miss Maximoff, itâs your turn.â
Thatâs when real life finally dawns on Madison.Â
âShit.â She whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of twelve people about things she only read on her university books until now.
Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes seem to make their way up her esophagus as sweat coats her back. Her hands are shaking by the time she gets to the analyst by the huge screen. That's when Mr. Barnes decides to approach them, while the others take their previous seats at the table.Â
âMaximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performanceââ
Madison perks up. âI drafted that sectionââ
âMy wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.â He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment. âSuch a brilliant woman.â
Her fiasco at Mr. Starkâs deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection, the intern decides to take a new approach. Itâs a Friday when she stays back at the office on purpose, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays since the company is closed on the weekends and he doesnât want to be bothered. This time, she stakes everything on showing her commitment to the job.Â
Silence hangs heavy in the building as soon as the team leaves, so itâs easy to catch the sound of rustling papers and the creaking of his chair around nine, meaning heâs finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands close to her desk, deliberately pretending to check she has everything in her bag. When he finally opens the door, she gives an over-the-top sigh, raising her eyes as she puts on her best surprised expression.Â
âOh! Mr. Barnes! I didnât think there was anyone left at this hour.â Bucky stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. âHad to finish a few things for Wanda and I didnât notice the time. Iâm just so passionate and happy about being here, you surely get that?â
He stares at her, deadpan. âWho are you, again?â
Her eyes bulge out. âIââ She gapes at him for a second. âMadison Carrell! The new intern!â She rushes out, almost shrieking.
âOh.â He utters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. âNo, I don't actually get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.â After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work. Â
James Buchanan Barnesâ one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbesâ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industriesâ longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife!? And run a fucking bakery?
âSheâs always telling me I need to come home earlier.â He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. âShe worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I canât wait to see her.â
Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted three hours of her night doing nothing here only to hear her crush sing praises about a woman sheâs never met, yet knows entirely too much about.
The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too lost grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madisonâs slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once theyâre outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head slightly at the sight, Madison immediately catches it from her peripheral vision. And thatâs when she sees an opportunity.
Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!
Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.
âCanât believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.â She scoffs. âCâmon, itâs still November! Who is the idiot that does that?â Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his stern expression.Â
âMy wife.â
Madisonâs heart drops to her stomach. âWâWhatââ
âMy wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.â His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks completely redâ and not only because of the cold. Her mouth opens a few times, not really knowing what to say or do in front of a man eyeing her with so much vitriol. Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.
âIââ
âGoodnight, Miss Carroll.â
âWhatââ She whispers, completely caught off guard. âItâs Carrell!â She shouts, but heâs already halfway to his black Jaguar.
âFUCK!â
Wanda is engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder, when a loud thump on her right makes both women jolt.
It's Madison and she is... A mess.Â
Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she didnât even try to brush it. Her makeup consists of some smudged gloss, a rough contrast to the full face she displayed every single morning since she sets foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirtâ probably coffee.Â
Theyâve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months sheâs been here.Â
âHoney, are you okay?â The redhead tentatively asks.Â
âOkay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldnât I be okay?â She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk.Â
âYou sure?â Darcy raises an eyebrow.
âYeah, of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he canât stop talking about her for one.â Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. âDamn.â The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. âSecond!â
Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.
âHey, lower your voice!â Wanda whisper shouts. âI understand youâre disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your fucking boss?â
âItâs been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company!â At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and hitting the slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workersâ bewildered gaze. âHe describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of fucking vegetables in their phone!?âÂ
âFor Godâs sake, is she even real!?â
As if by magic, the ding of the elevator pauses everything. The doors open, revealing a woman sheâs never seen before tentatively taking a step forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern; the sleeves are sheer, long, and flowy, giving off a romantic, almost ethereal feel. The skirt flares out with a gentle, flowy silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.
The entire floor gapes, always taken aback by her random visits. Thereâs only one person who doesnât seem fazed at all, and thatâs Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shut close.Â
âSweetheart.âÂ
Your eyes immediately finds Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room.Â
âJamie.â His own lips twist into a bright smile when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms.Â
âWhat are you doing here, doll? Itâs your day off.â He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs.
âWhere are your tights?â He frowns, gently tugging you forward. âC'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.â
âWanted to see you.â You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping nobody catches your words except your husband.
âThey're not the only thing Iâm not wearing right now.âÂ
Buckyâs eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe and he starts coughing under your pleased gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but itâs so endearingly rare witnessing their glacial boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl.Â
âShit.â He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. âLetâs go, sweetheart.âÂ
Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still they can't stop watching as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his eyes not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.
âThank God she came by.â Scott leans in, addressing the three women. âHeâs always more lenient after her visits.â He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.
The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. âWhat?â
âMy pretty little slut, coming to daddyâs office without wearing any panties.â Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as they keep you nice and still on his desk.
Itâs been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month.Â
Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about you being by his side during those hard nights spent in his office amongst mountains of documentsâ he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time.
And you supported him through it all, his pretty doll.Â
So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your voice hot against his ear as you breathed out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldnât remember your own name.
Honestly, it wasnât his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a few thrusts, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their bossâ office.
From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing.Â
âFuck, daddy youâre so big.â You whine, keeping a tight grip on his shirt.Â
He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips once. âFuck, say it again.â He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. âYou know I love it when you call me that, baby.âÂ
âDaddy please.â He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your tits, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipplesâ sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him until the movie ends.
âCanât wait for these to swell up, gonna take care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.â His head moves, tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. âWanna taste your milk so badâ bet it's as sweet as your pussy.â
âBucky!â Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper that echoes loudly in the room.
âShh-shh.â Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin. âLook at you, so pretty while I fuck my baby in your belly.â
Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. âYouâll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.âÂ
âPlease.â You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. Itâs too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way he looks at you with so much affection, his big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases.Â
âYouâre so fucking wet, baby.â Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his girth disappears inside you. The sudden shift of focus on the squelching sounds of you two coming together makes your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Youâve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of suddenly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip with thrill.
âEveryone will know how good I fuck you, how good I take care of my wife.â He growls out against your lips. âMy gorgeous mommy.â
That damn name makes your whole body shudder and your pussy clench; the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up.Â
âFuck, Daddy!â A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. âFuck, it's... too bigâŠâ You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.
âI know, baby. I know. So big you canât even talk properly.â He smirks. âStill, you take it so good, such a good mommy.â
He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the side of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.
ââM gonna make you a mommy.â He pants harshly into your damp skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. âThe prettiest.â Thrust. âSweetest.â Thrust. âMommy.â
âYes yes yes daddy pleaseââ Â
Buckyâs low grunts and moans fill the otherwise silent office. Heâs pumping into you so good your eyes roll back and your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.
âYouâre so tight. Shit, youâre coming baby, arenât you?â He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. âYeah? You finally gonna milk daddyâs cock?âÂ
Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps.Â
âDaddyâŠâ You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. âI'mâ coming!â Your back arches as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. Bucky quickly brings his fingers down, stroking your throbbing clit until your hips buckle up in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhereâ the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. Itâs always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your exhausted body quivering for more.Â
âFuckâ Daddyâs coming too.â He grits out, giving you one last cruel thrust before spilling his warm, hot seed deep inside you. âShitâ thatâs it⊠Take it all, beautiful.â
Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling hands stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs lazily stroking small circles into your skin as Bucky himself tries to regain his breath. Yet you can feel the smugness dripping off his voice.Â
âGave it to you so good you canât even sit up straight, hm?â
You donât have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.
Bucky chuckles, proud of himself. âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â His arms move around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. âSo gorgeous.â He coos, his eyelids slowly shutting close as the tip of his nose nuzzles the skin of your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream.
âSo fucking good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.â His hands gently cradle your cheeks, coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. âGonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.â He utters between kisses.
âLove you too, Jamie.â Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up a little when hearing those three magic words.
âThink we did it this time?â You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years spent together, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.
His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his uncontrollable tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension out of your limbs as you tighten your hold around his torso.
âI have a hunch we did, my love.â
She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha. She is Mr. Barnesâ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life.
But Natasha was not at her desk by Mr. Barnesâ office. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely desert, she noticed with a frown.
And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.
It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular.
With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. âHey, are you okay?â
Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, and Wanda barely catches her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator.
Anyways, im OBSESSED with how love struck bucky is like hes too focused on y/n to even notice anybody else and i find it too loveable i just adore fics that portray bucky as a truly whipped manđ
Welcome To My Blog! I write Bucky Fanfics as of right now. 18+ content, minors please do not interact! This acc is still a bit new so I apologize in advance if thereâs not enough warnings! Please feel free to message me or give me ideas to write.
Harry, crown prince and a spirited commoner are drawn together, defying society, duty, and the rules of the ton.Â
Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope youâre all doing well đ This story was originally posted on March 21st for my Patreon subscribers, where it has already been completed in full. Since all my patrons have had early access, Iâm so excited to finally share it here with you! Itâs inspired by Bridgerton (yes, the Netflix show đ), so if you love period drama + romance, this oneâs for you.
âš If youâd like to be added to my tag list, just let me know in the comments. And if youâd like early access to future stories, bonus chapters, and exclusive content, you can join me over on Patreon.
wc -> 3.2K
The season had begun.
For most, the arrival of spring meant renewalâthe promise of fresh blossoms, soft breezes, and warm afternoons spent in Hyde Park. But for the ton, it meant something far more treacherous. The drawing rooms of Mayfair and the grand ballrooms of Grosvenor Square had become battlegrounds, where reputation was both sword and shield, and marriage was the ultimate prize.
None bore the weight of the season more than Prince Harry, heir to the throne of England.
For months now, the Queen had made her wishes painfully clear: it was time for him to find a bride. The court whispered, the nobility schemed, and yet, Harry remained indifferent. It wasnât that he disrespected his dutyâon the contrary, he had been raised on duty. Every step he took, every word he spoke was scrutinized, measured, and deemed either appropriate or unworthy of a future king.
And a future queen? Well, she would have to be perfect.
Harry loathed the entire process. The ton was filled with young ladies who knew what was expected of themâhow to smile prettily, how to flatter, how to appear desirable but not too eager. Each time he attended a ball, it was the sameâdelicate curtsies, soft laughter, the flutter of lace-trimmed fans. He would bow, dance, make polite conversation, but none of them stirred anything in him.
âShe is quite beautiful, is she not?â his mother had pressed just last week, gesturing toward Lady Eleanor Ashford, the daughter of a powerful duke.
Harry had glanced at herâshe was beautiful, yes. But he felt nothing.
The Queen had sighed, folding her hands in her lap. âYou cannot wait forever, my dear.â
Harry knew that. And yet, he remained unmoved.
Across London, in a grand but modest townhouse on Berkeley Square, Lady Y/N sat in front of her vanity as her motherâs voice droned on behind her.
âThe season has only just begun, and already, you have received invitations from Lord Pembroke, Viscount Sterling, and even that dreadful Marquess of Dorset.â Her mother sighed as she adjusted a pearl bracelet around her wrist. âDarling, you could secure an engagement before summer if you played your cards right.â
Y/N met her own gaze in the mirror, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She knew her mother meant wellâafter all, Y/N was not the daughter of a duke or an earl. Her family was highly respected but untitled, which meant she would need to marry well to maintain her position among the ton.
But none of that mattered to her.
She wanted something⊠more.
Not just a good match, not just a wealthy husband who could offer security. She wanted a marriage built on something far rarerâtrue companionship. Love.
âI will not marry a man simply because he offers,â Y/N said smoothly, applying a hint of rose balm to her lips.
Her mother huffed. âThen at least try to look interested, my dear.â
Y/N sighed, turning away from the mirror. âAnd what if I do not find anyone who interests me?â
Her mother paused, something wistful passing over her expression before she pressed a kiss to Y/Nâs temple. âThen I suppose we shall pray that someone does.â
By the time the Queenâs Garden Party arrived, the entire ton was abuzz with excitement.
The event was one of the most exclusive gatherings of the yearâonly the most distinguished families received invitations, and for the unmarried ladies, it was another opportunity to secure the attention of a suitor.
Y/N had attended in previous years, and each time, she had found herself bored beyond reason. This time was no different. She had barely arrived before Lord Pembrokeâa well-mannered but utterly uninspiring gentlemanâsought her company.
âMy lady,â he said smoothly, bowing before her. âMight I say, the sunlight does you a great favor today.â
Y/N smiled politely. âHow kind of you to say, my lord.â
She allowed him to make conversation for a few minutes, nodding where appropriate, but her mind drifted. The gardens were in full bloom, a sea of soft pinks and lavenders stretching beneath the grand terraces. She longed for a moment of peaceâa reprieve from the exhausting expectations of courtship.
At last, she excused herself, stepping away from the crowd and toward the sprawling rose garden.
The scent of fresh blooms filled the air, and for the first time that day, she breathed freely.
She was so lost in thought, admiring the deep red petals of a climbing rose, that she did not notice the figure approaching beside her.
âDo you often steal moments away from the crowd, or am I simply fortunate today?â
A voice. Smooth, rich, amused.
She turnedâand found herself staring into the striking green eyes of none other than Prince Harry himself.
For a moment, Y/N simply stared.
It was one thing to hear about the princeâto see him from across a crowded ballroom or to catch a fleeting glimpse of him in the royal box at the opera. But standing before him now, his gaze fixed directly upon her, was an entirely different matter.
Prince Harry was striking, yes, but not in the way one would expect of royalty. His golden curls were slightly tousled, as if he had run a hand through them moments ago. His sharp jawline bore the hint of stubbleâunusual for a man so closely observed by society. And his eyes, impossibly green, held something unreadable beneath their surface.
She should have curtsied immediately. She should have lowered her gaze and uttered the expected greeting, Your Highness, with the soft, lilting voice of a proper lady.
Insteadâ
âGoodness, are you always this quiet, or have I finally stunned someone into silence?â he teased, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Y/N blinked, suddenly realizing she had, in fact, been staring at the prince for far too long.
Oh. Oh no.
A rush of mortification burned up her neck, but she refused to crumble. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. âI was merely attempting to determine if you are real,â she replied smoothly. âAfter all, Your Highness is spoken of so often, I half expected you to be a myth.â
Harryâs brows lifted slightly. It was not the response he had anticipated.
Most ladies stammered before him. They blushed. They simpered. They certainly did not suggest that he was a figment of the imagination.
âI can assure you, I am quite real,â he said, amusement flickering in his gaze.
She hummed, tilting her head slightly. âA shame.â
His smirk deepened. âA shame?â
âYes,â she mused, turning her attention back to the roses. âIf you were a myth, people might have been more creative. A prince with emerald eyes who sweeps unsuspecting ladies off their feet in a rose gardenânow that would be a far more interesting tale.â
Harry found himself completely thrown.
Who was this woman?
He knew of Lady Y/N, of course. She had made a name for herself this seasonânot for being the most beautiful or the most accomplished, but for being different. She lacked the careful precision of other ladies. Where they moved with effortless grace, she was known to take a misstep or two in the middle of a dance. Where they fluttered their lashes and demurred, she spoke with unfiltered honesty, often leaving even the most polished gentlemen scrambling for a reply.
She was not the sort of woman the Queen would approve of.
And yetâŠ
âPerhaps I should take offense,â Harry said after a beat. âDo you mean to say you are disappointed by my existence?â
Y/N turned to face him once more, a teasing glint in her eye. âNot at all. I am only saying that if you are to exist, Your Highness, you might at least try to live up to your legend.â
Harry let out a soft chuckle. He had met countless women this season, all of whom had been eager to prove their worth as his potential bride. But none had challenged him.
Not like this.
Before he could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.
âLady Y/N!â
Her mother.
Y/N winced internally before stepping back, quickly gathering herself. âIt seems my mother has caught me wandering again.â She glanced at him, her lips curving in something dangerously close to a smirk. âTry not to disappear back into myth before the next ball, Your Highness.â
And with that, she turned on her heel, walking briskly toward the crowd.
Harry watched her go, hands clasped behind his back.
He had been thoroughly unimpressed with this seasonâs offerings. But Lady Y/NâŠ
She had just become very interesting.
If there was one thing Lady Y/N knew how to do, it was cause her mother distress.
âYou were speaking to the prince? Alone?â Lady Hathawayâs voice was nothing short of scandalized as they walked through the grand halls of the palace. âDo you have any idea what people would say if they had seen you?â
Y/N sighed, lifting her skirts just slightly to avoid stepping on themâshe had already tripped once today, much to the amusement of the Duke of Kent. âIt was hardly alone, Mama. There were at least a dozen people within earshot.â
âThat is beside the point! The prince!â Lady Hathaway pressed a gloved hand to her forehead, as if physically pained by the thought. âAnd what did you say to him? You were not⊠yourself, were you?â
Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. âI can assure you, I did not burst into song or challenge him to a duel, if that is what you mean.â
Lady Hathaway made a strangled noise, clearly unconvinced. âYou must take this season seriously, Y/N. You have already dismissed three perfectly suitable gentlemen. We do not have the luxury of being selective.â
Her mother had said this often in the past weeks. And, to an extent, Y/N understood. She was not from a titled family. She had no grand inheritance to her name. If she wished to secure a respectable future, she needed to marry well.
But good heavens, must she marry boring?
Lord Carrington had been dull as a butter knife. Lord Pembroke had spoken only of his hunting dogs. And Lord Danforth, while handsome, had once taken twenty full minutes to recount his journey to the countryside in excruciating detail.
Not one of them had made her feel.
Not likeâ
She shook the thought away before it could fully form.
Prince Harry was not an option.
She knew that.
Two nights later, at the grand ball hosted by the Duchess of Ashford, Y/N was beginning to suspect she was being watched.
She had felt it all eveningâthe weight of a gaze, lingering on her longer than it should. But each time she turned, the ballroom was filled with so many people, so much movement, that she could not be certain.
It was only when she paused near a marble pillar, fanning herself lightly, that she found her answer.
Prince Harry.
He stood across the ballroom, half-concealed behind a gathering of lords and ladies, his expression unreadable. But he was watching her. Still.
Her stomach gave an odd little flip.
No.
Absolutely not.
She had already spent far too much time thinking about him since the garden partyâabout the way his voice had curled around his words, the smirk he had barely concealed.
This would not do.
Determined to put some distance between herself and the thoughts she should not be having, she turned abruptlyâonly to walk directly into a passing footman.
A gasp tore from her lips as the tray he carried tipped, a full glass of champagne tipping straight onto the front of her gown.
âOh!â
âOh dearâmy lady, Iââ The footman paled.
Y/N had a second to mourn the beautiful silk before she burst into laughter.
The poor man looked so terrified.
âDo not look so stricken,â she assured him with a grin. âIt is only a dress, not a war crime.â
Several heads turned in their direction at the commotionâincluding, unfortunately, her motherâs. Lady Hathaway looked horrified, a hand pressed to her chest as if she might faint right there.
And across the ballroomâ
Prince Harry was smiling.
Not the polite, practiced smile of a prince. But a real, unguarded one.
The kind that sent something dangerous through her veins.
Oh no.
This was bad.
The carriage ride home was excruciating.
Lady Hathaway had not spoken a word since they left the ballâher lips pressed so tightly together it seemed as though she was physically restraining herself from unleashing her thoughts. Y/N had almost begun to think she might be spared.
She was wrong.
The moment they stepped into the grand foyer of their home, the doors barely shut behind them, her mother exploded.
"Do you take pleasure in humiliating me, Y/N?"
Y/N sighed, carefully unfastening her gloves. "Mother, it was an accident."
"An accident?" Lady Hathaway's voice rose to an octave only reserved for absolute catastrophes. "Spilling champagne down the front of your gown? Laughingâlaughing!âas if you were in a tavern instead of a ballroom filled with the most distinguished families in England? And in full view of the prince!"
At that, Y/N straightened. "Ah, so that is the real concern."
Lady Hathaway looked positively livid. "You do not wish to be the subject of his scrutiny. It is one thing to catch a gentlemanâs eye, but his? You are a novelty to him, Y/N, a source of amusementâ"
"That is quite an assumption," Y/N interrupted, crossing her arms. "And perhaps he simply enjoys a lady who does not take herself so seriously."
Her mother inhaled sharply, as if she had been personally insulted. "You are impossible."
Y/N only shrugged. "I prefer unpredictable."
Lady Hathaway pinched the bridge of her nose, her patience clearly unraveling. "Do you think this is a game? We do not have the luxury of scandal, nor the connections to recover from it."
That made Y/Nâs stomach twist.
She knew her mother only wanted the best for herâsecurity, respectability, a match that would guarantee her a good life.
But was that enough?
Before she could formulate a response, there was a sudden, sharp knock at the front door.
Both women turned.
One of the servants hurried forward, hesitated only a moment, then opened itârevealing a tall, uniformed man standing rigidly at the entrance.
A royal guard.
Lady Hathaway let out a gasp.
Y/N merely blinked.
"Lady Y/N," the guard spoke with crisp precision, bowing slightly. "His Royal Highness, Prince Harry, requests your company for a promenade tomorrow morning in Hyde Park."
A stunned silence followed.
Y/Nâs heart stuttered in her chest.
Her mother looked as though she might faint. "The princeâ"
"Yes, my lady." The guard dipped his head. "I am to escort Lady Y/N at precisely ten oâclock."
Another silence.
Y/N swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "Iâ"
Her mother grabbed her wrist, fingers tightening like a vice.
"She would be delighted," Lady Hathaway declared, a desperate sort of enthusiasm in her voice. "It is an honor."
The guard nodded. "Very well. I shall return at the designated time."
With that, he turned sharply on his heel and strode back toward the carriage waiting at the curb, disappearing into the night.
The moment the door shut, Lady Hathaway spun on her daughter.
"You will not ruin this."
Y/N barely heard her.
Prince Harry had invited her to a promenade.
In the daylight.
In public.
This was not just amusement. Not a passing curiosity.
This was something else.
Something dangerous.
And for the first time in her life, she was not entirely sure if she wanted to run from it⊠or straight toward it.
The fire crackled softly in Prince Harryâs study, casting flickering golden light over the grand room. He stood near the towering window, one hand clasped behind his back, the other tracing idly along the rim of his glass. He had barely taken a sip.
His mind was elsewhere.
On her.
Y/N Hathaway.
A woman unlike any he had ever encountered within the rigid circles of court. She was not the wealthiest, nor the most highly ranked, yet she carried herself with a quiet confidence that drew him in.
She was unpredictable.
She did not fawn over him, nor did she shrink in his presence. She had looked him in the eye, unbothered by his status, and had laughedâan act that should have been insignificant, but to him, it was utterly disarming.
And now, he had extended an invitation.
Would she accept?
Harry exhaled, tilting his head slightly as he gazed out at the palace grounds, watching as the royal carriage departed toward the Hathaway residence.
He was not nervous.
Princes did not get nervous.
And yet, the thought of her refusingâof her treating his interest as nothing more than a fleeting amusementâmade something tighten in his chest.
A sharp knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened.
"Enter."
The door swung open, and his royal guard stepped inside, bowing deeply. "Your Highness."
Harry turned fully, his expression neutral, though his fingers clenched briefly at his side. "What news?"
The guard lifted his head. "Lady Y/N has accepted your invitation, Your Highness. I am to escort her to Hyde Park at precisely ten oâclock tomorrow morning."
For a brief moment, a flicker of something rare passed through Harryâs expressionârelief.
"Very good," he murmured, inclining his head in gratitude. "You may go."
The guard bowed once more before excusing himself, slipping out of the study with precise, measured steps.
But before the door could fully closeâ
Another voice entered the room.
"You are smiling."
Harry did not turn. "Am I?"
"Indeed," the Queen mused as she stepped into the study, her gown sweeping elegantly across the polished floor. "Which I find most curious, considering I have just overheard that your planned engagement tomorrow is not with a foreign princess or a titled lady of the court, but rather the Hathaway girl."
At that, Harry finally turned, his features composed. "You disapprove?"
His mother regarded him carefully, her hands clasped in front of her. "She has no title, no grand fortune. Surely, you know that is not a match the court will accept."
Harry said nothing.
He merely smiled.
A small, knowing, maddening smile.
The Queen exhaled, shaking her head. "You are impossible."
Still, her gaze softenedâjust slightly.
For all her concerns, there was a warmth in her eyes, an unspoken fondness as she studied her son.
He was his fatherâs son, through and through.
And if there was one thing she had learned long ago⊠it was that Harry had inherited his fatherâs heart.
And once it was set on somethingâon someoneâno force in the world could sway him.
WHEN CLARK KENT starts to babysit your son on a near-daily basis, you don't expect to fall for himâor for your son's wild theory how âMr Clark is Supermanâ to finally make sense.Â
pairing: corenswet!clark kent x single mum!neighbour!reader
word count:Â ~21k (pls don't ask, i don't know how i managed this either)
warnings: clark is in his 30s, reader is around 23-24 (having had her baby with her childhood âsweetheartâ), drinking, swearing, light/implied smutâoral (fem!receiving), clark is a consent king, clark beats up your sleazy baby daddy, angst angst angst, calum is just a babyyy, not beta read we die like m*n, the kaiju is used as a plot device but has nothing to do with the movie's plotline
author's note:Â first fic for the #whiteboyofthemonth + i also lost like 100 years off my lifespan writing this. it isn't my best work, admittedly, but i hope you enjoy <3
YOU SHOULDNâT BE KNOCKING ON HIS DOOR AGAIN FOR THE SIXTH TIME THIS WEEK.
Especially not when itâs only Wednesday. But here you are, dressed haphazardly in your work uniformâyouâre half sure your sweater is on backwardsâas you bang on your neighbourâs door with the palm of your hand.Â
For a second, you consider calling him, just in case heâs in the shower. Heâs always been terrible at answering the phone though, so you mutterâscrew itâand continue to bang on the door.
âClark!â
Clark Kent lives alone in apartment 5B with his dog named Krypto. He was raised on farmland in a town called Smallville, Kansas, and he works as a journalist at The Daily Planet. He claims to like his coffee black, but actually adds in a buttload of sugar because he finds the taste of coffee too bitter and much prefers the âsweeter things in lifeââyou found this out about him the first time you offered to bring him coffee. Heâd made sure that you had added at least four spoons of sugar.Â
Heâs also got a total of two friends: Lois Lane and Supermanâokay, maybe that's a little mean when you say it like that, but Lois is the only person youâve ever seen at his apartment and he interviews Superman so often that you're fairly sure they're best friends at this point.Â
Youâve come to know all of this because, on occasion, he babysits your four-year-old son Calum when your boss decides to be an ass and calls you into work for an evening shift. (And, on occasion, you like to read his articles in the paper, even though you probably havenât touched a real book since giving birth.)
Thatâs why youâre here now, standing out of apartment 5B at peak rush hour, desperately knocking on his door. Your boss had called you just a half hour ago, askingâdemanding, reallyâthat you cover someone elseâs 6PM shift. Calum stands beside you, blinking slowly, still drowsy after his nap earlier that afternoon, but thereâs an eager look on his face as he anticipates spending the evening at Clarkâs. His favourite Superman plushy is tucked under his arm, a little dirty from being dragged around all day, every day.
âClaaark, you in there?â You call out, rapping your fingers on the hard wood, your movements lazy and irritated.
It doesnât take much longer before he finally answers the stupid door. Heâs a little out of breath, like heâs just run a marathon, but his normally messy hair is gelled back, a single curly strand resting against his forehead. His glasses are askew on his nose, a little tilted as putting them on was an afterthought. He gives you a onceover, taking in your wrinkled uniform âif he notices your sweater tag sticking out below your chin, he doesnât say anything about it. âHey. Sorry, I was⊠on a work call.â
You start to frown. A work call? At 5PM? And he didnât hear you once?Â
Unusual as his schedule may seem, you shake the thought away. âMy boss scheduled me for a shift last minute. Can you look after Calum while Iâm gone?â
Before Clark can even consider opening his mouth to answer you, your son comes barrelling in, throwing himself into Clarkâs arms with a screech. âHi, Mr Clark!â
âHi, buddy.â Clark laughs, but thereâs an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it. And more than anything, he looks tired, like a little bit of mental rest is all he needs.Â
âMaybe this isnât the best time,â you say apologetically, quickly rethinking your decision to leave Calum with him. Youâre already holding your hand out, ready to take Cal back as the alternatives rush through your mindâMrs Vanderbilt downstairs adores taking care of kids, but you know he hates her food. Janet-three-doors-down used to babysit when she was younger, though sheâs been known to bring people around lately to do God knows what with God knows who.
âStop.â Clark interrupts your spiralling thoughts, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. âItâs okay. Iâve got him. Go to workâI know the drill.âÂ
And he does. Clarkâs been helping out for weeks now, and they follow the same routine every time without fail: play with Krypto, read a book, have a snack. If itâs late at night, Clarkâs gracious enough to feed Calum dinner and put him to bed. Heâs carried your son from his apartment to yours a floor down enough times now, a sleeping Calum in his arms as he does you favour after favour.Â
Youâve tried to pay him back, but he refuses your money every time.Â
âYou need it more than I do,â he always says gently, routinely guiding you out the door before you can argue. Since then, youâve done what you can: you offer him a plate of food when you know heâs been working late, and you walk Krypto some mornings on your daily run. Itâs nothing compared to the things he does for youâbut if itâs all heâll accept, then youâre willing to repay him a hundred times over.
âThank you,â you breathe out, clutching the strap of your handbag tighter. You reach out to Calum, still nestled in Clarkâs arms, and kiss his forehead. âBe good for Mr Clark, okay, baby?â
He nods eagerly, waving goodbye as you turn away.
The moment the front door closes behind you, Clark lowers Calum to the ground. Immediately, the young boy whirls around to face him.Â
âYou promised weâd play superheroes today,â he says accusingly, his small frame already filled with so much conviction that Clark can only wonder what heâll be like when heâs older.Â
âDid I?â Clark raises his brow, a playful frown on his lips as he pretends to think. âI donât remember promising that.â
âYes, you did!â Calum insists. âYou said youâll take me around like Superman againâ!â
 âHm, maybe youâre thinking about another Superman, buddy.â
âNo!â The boy tries to protest, hopping around Clark with an energy the older man has never been able to suppress.Â
âIâm serious, bud,â Clark says, feigning innocence. âI think youâre thinking about another Superman.â
Calum giggles. âYouâre silly.â
Clark just gasps, turning around as if to look for someone else Calum could be talking about before pointing at himself with mock offence. âMe? Silly?âÂ
âYes, you! You canât lieâMama says itâs bad.âÂ
âAh,â Clark pretends to groan, but the smile on his lips gives him away. âYouâve caught meâthought I could get away with it, sorry, bud. Promise you wonât tell your mum that I lied?â
Truth be told, Clark hadnât meant for his neighbourâs kid to find out his real identity. Itâd happened as a mistake. A minor slip up that could have cost him his life. But the thing about kids? No one believes them, especially not the ones who have their heads in the cloudsâones like Calum.Â
He still remembers the day that Calum had found out.
It was one of the first times heâd ever taken care of Calum for youâprobably the third or fourth timeâand heâd had his back turned to Calum and Krypto, who were playing in the living room. His glasses had been off, smudged with fingerprints and specks of dust that had gathered throughout the day. Heâd been wiping them with the hem of his shirt when he felt a tap on his lower back. Calum had already been yapping awayâsomething about his day at the parkâand, as Clark turned around to face him, the boy shrieked. It was a sharp, shrill sound that had him glancing up hurriedly to figure out what was wrong; a spider behind him, perhaps orâ
âSuperman.âÂ
The kidâs voice had come out as a gasp, unintentionally low as he pointed straight at Clark. Clark frowned, but it was hard to deny the sinking feeling in his stomachâshit.
âCalum, noââ Clark had started to protest, but Calumâs shouts only grew louder.Â
âYouâre Superman! Youâre Superman!âÂ
Clark had to clamp his hand shut over Calumâs mouth then, forcing the little boy silent lest the neighbours heard that the man next door was Superman. His shouts were muffled under the weight of Clarkâs but eventually became more subdued as he gave in to the authority behind the older manâs hold.
âYes,â Clark gritted out, almost reluctant to admit it. âYeah, bud. Iâm Supermanââ
After a moment, when he was sure Calum had settled, Clark took his hand off the kidâs mouth and stepped back warily, ready to jump back in if he decided to have another random burst of energy.
Calum just stared up at him, his tiny expression filled with awe and amazement, like a kid in a candy store. His voice was soft, in a way Clark had never heard before, as he whispered, âYouâre my hero.â
Clark was sure he melted then, and looking back sometimes, heâs still shocked he hadnât become a part of the floor when Calum had told him that. And heâs never been much for sentiment, but thereâs something about it, knowing that a child looked up to a heroâto himâthat warmed his heart more than anything else.
Since then, itâs become a well-kept secret between him and Clark. In exchange for Calumâs silence, Clark gave him a taste of the superhero life. The suit, the flyingâhe even cooked breakfast turkey with his eye lasers once, at Calumâs behest. (Never again.)
âTell you what, bud,â Clark says, dropping to one knee in front of Calum. âYou eat your dinner, and then maybe we can play heroes. Deal?â
He holds up his pinkie finger, a promise.Â
Calum beams as he wraps his tiny hand around it. âDeal!â
âÂ
Itâs 11:30PM when you knock on Clarkâs door for the second time that night.Â
When he opens the door, heâs changed into pyjamas since you last saw him earlier that evening. A white tee hugs his arms and chest, flannel pants loose and low on his hips. His hair is tousled, like heâs been rolling aroundâand judging by the state of Calum when he appears behind Clarkâhe probably has been.Â
âMama!â Calum screams, darting towards you. He wraps his arms around your legs, squeezing tightly.Â
You rake your fingers through his hair gently. âYou boys roughhousing again?âÂ
Clark only laughs, nodding his head. âYou know it.â
âThank you so much for looking after him again,â you say softly, an apologetic smile playing at your lips. A small part of you feels so guilty for leaving your son in his care so often, but thereâs no one else willing to babysit a kid on such short noticeâand for free as well. âIt means a lot to me.â
âSeriously, itâs no worries,â he responds with a smile just as kind. Itâs the most genuine thing youâve seen all day.. âCalumâs a great kid and heâs great company. I love having him around.â
âAre you sureâ?âÂ
He holds a hand up, silencing you before you can continue protesting. âIâm sure. I promise. Anytime you need me to look after him, just knock or call, you have my number.Iâll clear my schedule upâjust ask.â
A wave of gratitude crashes over you. Since moving to Metropolis, itâs been hard for you to make friends on top of making a livingâbeing a young, single mum in the city isnât easy. You work long hours most days, take extra shifts just to afford rent and send Calum to preschool during the week. Work had been especially rough today. Youâd had half a mind to quit on the spot before your shift even reached halfway; the chefs kept yelling at you for minor mistakes even though most of them werenât even your fault, and youâd traded tables multiple times, with the excuse of, âOh, but youâre so much better at dealing with the bad customersâ.Â
But you canât tell him all that, not without making it weird, so you settle for, âYouâre the best.â
Clark shrugs modestly, softening like heâs used to the praise. âWell, someoneâs got to keep that troublemaker in check.â
âIâm not a troublemaker! Iâm the boss!â Calum giggles, reaching out to tug on the hem of Clarkâs tee. âYou said so!â
âSure, boss.â Clark rolls his eyes playfully as he ruffles Calumâs hair. âWhatever you say, buddy.â
You glance between them, your expression softening despite the exhaustion that feels like itâs dragging you down.Â
âWell, even bosses need to sleep, so say bye to Mr Clark, honey,â you tell Calum gently, already turning away. His grip on your hand loosens as he stays back to hug Clark goodbye.Â
âBye, buddy,â Clark says. And then, easy as anythingâ
âSee you next time, sweetheart.â
Sweetheart.Â
The word rolls off his tongue like itâs nothing. He says it so normally, like heâs always called you that.
A shiver runs down your spine at the sound of it, so natural and right. You pause. Not visibly, you hope, but heâs the kind of guy who notices the small details regardless. Still, something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest, as your throat works around a swallow, but the dryness sticks. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with you? Itâs just a word. A casual term of endearment.
Except it isnât. Not when he says it like that.Â
Thatâs when you force yourself to turn, a tiny shift to confront his gaze.Â
Heâs still in the doorway, smile playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what heâs doing. A little cocky, but the gentleness in his gaze tells you otherwise, those wispy black curls falling over his eyes in a way that make you want to brush it away.Â
All you say is, âSee you, Clark,â and you start to make your way home.
Clarkâs door closes behind you. Calum follows you down the hallway, little legs scurrying to keep up with your pace. Heâs holding his Superman plushy to the ground, not caring that itâs getting dirtied on the stained carpet. You make a mental note to chuck that in the wash while heâs sleeping.
âMama! Mama! MamââÂ
His chanting echoes throughout the staircase as he follows you back home, not quite caring that his loud volume could wake the neighbours.
âYes, baby?â you hum when you stop in front of your door. âWhatâs wrong?â
Calum pauses. Blinks. And then he steps back, as if reconsidering his words, before blurting out, âMr Clark is Superman!â
You just raise a brow, glancing down at him as you rummage through your bag for the keys to your apartment. âThatâs nice, honey.â
âNo, but actually,â Calum insists, pulling on your sleeve. âHe showed me his suit! Itâs got the âSâ and everything!â
âRight,â you mutter, jamming the key into the lock. The door swings open with a click and you flick on the lights, dumping your bags by the door. Calum bounds in after you. âAnd Iâm Batman.â
He stops in his tracks, blinking up at you rapidly. âBut⊠youâre a girl.â
âAnd Mr Clark is a journalist, CalâI promise you, the closest heâs gotten to Superman is like⊠interviewing him or something,â you say with a shrug.
Calâs always been the imaginative typeâgod knows how many trees youâve had to coax him out of when heâs played superheroes at the park. So him pretending that your hunk of a neighbour is Superman is the furthest thing from unusual.Â
Even then, you canât help the flicker of curiosity that sparks inside of you, wondering, for just a moment, if Clark Kent really is more than just meets the eye. Honestly? You can kind of see itânot that youâve actually paid attention to what Superman looks like or anything, but Clark really does fit the whole âfriendly neighbourhood heroâ stereotype. Tall, strong, with biceps that look like they couldâ
Youâre drawn back to the moment he called you âsweetheartâ, voice rough because of the late hour but it had been like honey dripping from his mouth. So sweet that it makes your stomach turn even now. Youâve been called it beforeâby flirty waiters, by creepy customers who donât understand personal space, by strangers on the streets. But when Clark had said it, it had been different. Honest.Â
Calum pulls you back to Earth with his relentless squawking. Heâs waving his arms about, walking in circles around you in a desperate attempt to get you to believe him. âBut he flew me around his apartment, Mama!â
âMhm,â you hum, scooping him into your arms. With a small boop on his nose, you carry him to the kitchen, setting him on the marbletop counter so he canât escape. âAnd did you time travel too, or just regular flying today?â
âSuperman canât time travel, Mama.â It comes out in a huff, and his arms are crossed over his chest.Â
You frown down at him. âHe canât? Oh. I didnât know that. Well⊠was it just⊠regular flying, then?â Thatâs when your frown deepens, as your work-addled brain finally kickstarts back to life, and you realiseââHey, Mr Clarkâs got a small apartment. How was he supposed to fly around without knocking anything over, huh?â
Calum just gasps, as if youâve caught him out on a lie. âHe did! He floated me around!â
Maybe youâre just too tired to even think straight, but somehow, your four-year-old son sounds a little too convincing right now. He stares up at you with those wide eyes, a small, frustrated pout on his face, as if truly offended that you donât believe him. And, for a split secondâ
Nope. Nope. Clark Kent is not Superman and youâre just easily swayed by your little boy with his unfairly persuasive eyes.Â
âYouâre funny, baby.â
âMamaâ!â He tries to protest when you hook your hands under his armpits, swinging him down to the floor. âGo get ready for bed, Calum. And you better be changed by the time I get to your room or Iâll get Mr Clark toâŠâ Shit, I donât know. â... Iâll get him to fly your favourite teddy across the world and youâll never see it again.â
You know how much that toy means to himâitâs his favourite thing to play with besides his Superman figurines. A genuine look of terror crosses Calumâs face, a plea at the tip of his tongue. But the thin line of your lips shows him that you mean business and he scurries away with a yelped, âDonât call Mr Clark!â Â
As you watch Calum disappear down the hall, you canât shake away the warmth in your chest. Clarkâs voice echoes through your head, the sight of him seared into your mindâ
See you next time, sweetheart.
Heâd said it like a promise, like he was so sure that youâd be back soon. A buzz of excitement tingles at your fingertips, already anticipating seeing him again the next time you need him to take care of Calumâeven if for a moment.Â
Yeah. Youâre so fucked.
â
Over the next couple of weeks, it becomes routine to drop Calum off at Clarkâs place every evening. Not because you have work, but because Cal just likes spending time with Clark.
And, despite how busy he is, Clark always makes time for your son.Â
Some nights, you bring over dinnerâplates of rice and meat in foil trays, fresh salads in glass bowls covered in clingwrap.Â
You donât stay.Â
Staying means that you and Clark Kent are friends. It means that thereâs something between you and there isnât. Heâs just your neighbour, one you trust enough to leave your son with on a daily basis. The guy who does you the same massive favour time and time even though youâre still unsure of how to repay him, and who, for some reason, calls you sweetheart more than your own name.Â
Clark Kent is just your neighbour.Â
You have to remind yourself this every time you see him, so dropping Calum off is limited to a strict routine: knock. Smile. Say bye. Leave. Clark seems to understand this unspoken rule you have with yourself, respects it enough to never drag conversation beyond the casual âHow are you?â.
So itâs a⊠surprise when he swings the door open wider one day to invite you in, one that catches you off guard. Calum has already wandered in, and youâd heard him let out a loud shriek when he saw Krypto. Youâre sure you hear a crash come from inside but Clark doesnât even seem phased.Â
He just smiles warmly and gestures you inside. âYouâre welcome to come in.â
You freeze. Thatâs the last thing you expected him to say. Every possibility runs through your headâevery potential lie, excuse and story known to man that sounds respectable and believable all at onceâthat could possibly help you get out. Avoid conversation. Connection.Â
But a sharp gasp comes from inside Clarkâs apartment, and small feet patter against the tiled floor as Calum scurries up to the door. Krypto is hanging over his arm, tongue lolled out as they both stare up at you.Â
âYouâre staying?â Calumâs voice comes out as a garble, muffled by Kryptoâs fur bunched up in his face. His eyes are bright, like heâs been waiting for this day to comeâhis two worlds, colliding.Â
âNo, not today, baby. IâŠâ You stammer, trying to find a reasonable excuse, but the words die on your tongue when you catch the hopeful look on his face.Â
Somehow, Clark clocks your bullshit before you can even think of a plausible excuse. He points out, matter-of-factly, âYou donât have work. Youâre not in uniform.â
Dammit. âUh⊠I was⊠planning on spending the night watching TVââ
âI have a TV.â He says it like itâs enough to immediately convince you.Â
âI know you have a TV,â you throw back. âBut I⊠am watching Netflix.â
Youâve got him now, youâre sure. Thereâs no way heâ
âI also have Netflix,â he adds, a small smirk splitting his face. âSo you should come in, sweetheart.âÂ
Thereâs that stupid word again. Sweetheart. And when he pairs it with that smirk, it makes your chest squeeze. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath to compose yourself again before straightening your back and meeting his gaze head-on.Â
âFine,â you relent with a sigh, but no amount of feigned resignation could hide the relenting smile teasing at your lips.Â
âYay!âÂ
Calum claps, best as he can as he holds Krypto, before he attempts to reach out and drag you further into Clarkâs apartment. One of his tiny hands is clasped in yours, the other arm struggling to keep Krypto above ground as he guides you inside. You can hear Clark lock the door behind you, following you in with a steady gait that screams comfort and familiarity.Â
Calum drops your hand then and scurries off somewhere without you.Â
You donât really know where to go from here.Â
Clarkâs place is clean, unsurprisingly so. It seems as though he cleans it almost pedantically, like heâs comfortable with using a vacuum and a mop. Somehow, thatâs the most attractive part of himâmost men wouldnât even know the difference between a vacuum and a mop. Turning into the living room, you take the whole scene in: Calum is sitting on the carpet, a picture book in hand as Krypto lies down next to him. Grey blankets are strewn over the arm of his black leather couch. Books stacked high in a pile that looks seconds from toppling over. Magazines and newspapers and research all laid out on the floor. A fake potted plant set on the coffee table.
So heâs a plant dad. Or close to one. Same difference.Â
âCalum gets his hands into them,â Clark says by way of explanation, standing next to you when he notices where your gaze is focused at.Â
âThatâs why I donât keep anything potted in my house.â
âI was like that when I was younger.â There a reminiscent smile on his face as he talks, one that warms your own heart. âI loved getting into the dirt and all that. My Ma would always yell at me, âClark Joseph Kent! Get your dirty shoes out of my house or so help me Godâ!â
That gets a laugh out of you. âShe sounds like my kinda girl.â
He turns to look at you properly, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he says, âOh, sheâd love you, thatâs for sure.â And then, after a second, he asks, âCan I get you anything?â
âNoââ you start to say, but he just nods, as if a no isnât an answer at all. âSoda, it is.â
Clark doesnât wait for a response before moving to the kitchen. On his way, he pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and pats the seat, motioning for you to sit. Settling down onto the cushion, you lean forward to rest your chin in your palms as you look over at him. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a can before he digs into the freezer for ice.Â
His motions are robotic, practiced almost, as he spoons the ice into a cup. Flips the tab up, and the can opens with a satisfying hiss. He pours it into the glass before sliding it over to you.Â
âEnjoy,â he says with a wink, and you can only roll your eyes playfully.
You donât drink straight away though, just keep a watchful eye as he pours his own cup. Itâs then that you catch the pots on the stove, still steaming with a heat that suggests he just cooked.
âWell, colour me surprised,â you say sarcastically, âClark Kent can cook. And to think, I spent all this time giving you food because I thought you were just another helpless manchild.â
Thatâs a lie. Youâve always known he was capableâyouâd never have left Calum with him so often if not. But you like pushing his buttons and his reactionâa mildly offended frown as he stammers to defend himselfâsends a thrill down your spine.
Clark gathers himself quickly, a retort sharp on his tongue.
âUnless you count pouring a drink as being a chefââ he shrugs, taking a sipââThen yeah, Iâm a chef.â
After a while, he sits up in his chair, reaching over to straighten a placeholder thatâs already set out perfectly. âMy mother raised me to be self-sufficient. Cooking, cleaning⊠it was her way or the highway.â
You donât know how to respond to that, to this little snippet of a life you were never supposed to be privy to. Youâre only neighbours after allâacquaintances, at most. Never once did you expect your relationship with Clark to go beyond that. Being invited into his apartment is one of the last things you expected to happen.
And though itâs sweet, the way heâs accepted you and Calum as a permanent fixture in his daily life, youâre not sure if youâre ready for him to become a permanent fixture in yours.
So, to divert the conversation, all you say is, âYour dog is weird,â as you watch as Krypto drags Calum around by the collar of his shirt.
He wears a Superman cape in place of a collar and you canât help but find it strangeâyouâd never pegged Clark as a Superman fan, per se, though youâve always known heâs worked closely with the hero. If anything, the sight amuses you. It makes you giggle every time you see it.
Clark follows your gaze and practically does a double take when he sees what theyâre up to. âKrypto, noâ!â
The dog in question growls before letting Calum go and he hits the floor with a muted thud. Calum just laughs, scrambling after him.
âSoâŠâ Clark starts the conversation back up.
âSo,â you echo.
âHowâve you been?âÂ
But before you can even get a word out, Clark tells you, almost warningly, âAnd donât lie to me, sweetheart. Iâm not here to judge you.â
You sigh, a soft exhale that spokes volumes about the weariness that bears heavy on your shoulders. âWorkâs been good, like normalââ
âYou,â he cuts in, ânot work.â
âI⊠have been tired,â you admit quietly. You use your finger to trace the drops of water that run down the side of the glass, doodling in the condensation. Itâs your best attempt at avoiding his gaze as it bears into you, persistent. âYou know, work has been a lot⊠Calâs been a lot and thereâs only so much I can handle, yâknowââ
âI know,â he reassures. He pauses before saying, âCalumâs great company. Most of the time.â
Your brows quirk up. âMost of the time?âÂ
âHe makes a mess more often than not,â he says with a shrug, âbut heâs good company. A smart kid.âÂ
âAh, heâs always been like that,â you murmur. âToo⊠everything⊠for his own good. Sometimes, I wonder how I ever managed to raise him on my own these last few years. Heâs a handful, to say the least. But youâve been a lot of help, you know that, right?â
A knowing smile playing at his lips, and he just shrugs, unfazed. Youâve said it enough times ever since he started babysitting, and youâre sure heâs sick of it by now, but it hardly scrapes the surface of the appreciation you have towards him.
âI know,â he says simply.Â
âAnd⊠Iâm really thankful for it,â you continue, and the weight of your gratitudeâa debt unpaidâweighs down heavy on your shoulders.
âI know,â he repeats, the look never leaving his eyes. Like he knows exactly how you feel.Â
âAnd if thereâs any way to make it up to youââ
âSweetheart.â Clark cuts you off before you , and reaches over to squeeze your upper arm, his massive palm warm even through the thick material of your jumper. His hand drifts up, finger hooking beneath your chin to redirect your focus to him. Your breath catchesâbetween every sweetheart, every lingering look⊠he hasnât dared touch you so closely. So familiar.
âParenthood takes time, thatâs what my Pa always tells me,â he rumbles. âThe offer always standsâif you ever need help⊠you know where to find me.â
âÂ
Clark holds onto his end of the promise.Â
The setting sun creeps through the sheer material of your living room curtains, basking your apartment in a warm, golden glow. He is in your kitchen, elbow-deep in your sink as he scrubs the dishes with careful, soapy hands.Â
Heâd made a beeline for the kitchen the second youâd opened the door for him. You could only watch as he put the kettle on, manoeuvring your space like he knows exactly where to find what he needsâand he does. Heâs watched you do it enough times now. Two spoons of sugar, one teabag, no milk, piping hot water. Your favourite pink mug. Just the way you like it.
Clark has been spending a lot of time at your place lately. He likes to joke that âitâs a pitstop before I get homeâ, but a small part of you thinks that heâs just lonely. So, you welcome him into your home every time he knocks, so he knows that heâs not alone.Â
Youâve heard bits and pieces of his story since heâs come to Metropolisâhis job at the Daily Planet, every failed date and messed up girl heâs been out with. The old ladies at his favourite cafe across the road from work, who never fail to give him a free pastry every morning because heâs âthe handsomest thing theyâd ever seenâ. How his boss is an ass most days, and Jimmy Olsen always has something to say, while Lois is the only one really standing up for him. You met her once, Lois Lane, whenÂ
And on quiet days, he indulges you. Tells you about his life back in Smallville. Youâve come to know about his parents, Pa and Ma Kent, and the farm he lived on for more than half his life. How leaving home, although a blessing and an opportunity, was one of the biggest challenges heâs ever faced.Â
Every time he talks about home, thereâs always a faraway look in his eyes. Like heâs dreaming about a place he canât quite call home anymore, not in the way he calls Metropolis home now. Youâre tempted to ask more, find out about the fields he once played in, the girls he kissed behind his parentsâ barn. But you donât pry. Itâs a part of his life, his past, that you feel like you have no right overâno matter how close you two get, youâve come to accept that you might always be disconnected from a part of him heâs not yet ready to show.Â
You enjoy listening to him talk though. Every word he says is a story, every story a lesson and youâre a thousand percent sure you want to keep learning.Â
In return, he treats you, with cups of tea and the occasional hot chocolate on the nights itâs particularly chilly. Some days, he arrives with groceries if heâs noticed youâre running low on something you have yet to replenishâfresh milk, fruits and vegetables, and a specific pack of blueberry muffins that he knows Calum loves.Â
âYou didnât have to come over,â you say quietly, clutching the steaming mug of tea heâd made you.Â
âI donât mind helping,â he shrugs. He sounds honest about it. Perhaps thatâs the worst thing about your friendship with Clark. Heâs willing to give and give and give. You still donât know how to pay him back.Â
Unsure of what to say, you fall quiet, the familiar noises of the city below settling in the cracks of the silence. Then you pipe up, âAnd you donât need to wash my dishesââ
âI donât mind helping,â he repeats, firmer now as he fixes you with a stern look that brooks no argument. âYouâve left it for hours. Any longer and it would start to stink.â
All you can do is wrinkle your nose and pout, hating to admit that heâs right.Â
Today is one of those days where Calum is at your cousinâs house. She has kids his age and youâre just glad that heâs connecting with family when you arenât able to take him yourself. And despite the fact that Cal isnât here, you donât mind that Clark has come over. Ironically, thatâs when you enjoy his company the most. When thereâs no Calum or Krypto running amok, and itâs just the two of you, coexisting in a single space, sharing the same air and the same silence.Â
Your apartment is a picturesque thing, the type that comes up when you search âapartment inspoâ on Pinterestâit smells like cinnamon and vanilla and there are fairy lights strewn up around the window sill. Itâs perfect for you and Calum, decorated and lived in in a way thatâs perfect for a mother and son. Grey coloured carpet that miraculously never gets dirty, despite the fact that thereâs a four-year-old wandering around all day. House slippers by the front doorâa small Lightning McQueen themed pair for Calum, another pink and fluffy one for yourself.Â
And, as Clark began to assimilate into your life, spending more time in your home, little bits of him started to seep into parts of you. Â
Now, he has a spare jacket hanging from the hook on the door of the linens closet. Heâd left it there a couple weeks ago and never bothered to take it homeâyouâve stopped reminding him too. âIn case I need it one day,â heâd told you the first time you tried giving it back, taking the liberty to hang it on the hook himself. You could only watch as he beamed at you, that face so full of pride, before stepping back with an approving nod. That hoodie feels like a brand, an unspoken symbol of Clarkâs presence, and, even though youâre hesitant to admit it, his importance in your life.
Youâre even sure that, sometime in the last few weeks, he brought in his favourite coffee powder. It sits on your countertop, beside your sugar, honey and teabags. He leaves it open sometimes, on the days that he comes over and forgets to close it after using you. Youâve grown accustomed to closing it now, a small step in your routine that you do without second thought. Â
Somehow, Clark Kent has become a part of your life and you didnât even realise it.Â
âYou know⊠My Ma would love it if I had kids.âÂ
Clarkâs words shatter the silence youâve grown comfortable in, making you glance up with a frown. His confession is unexpected, sure, but youâre just glad that heâs willing to open up to you.Â
 Sipping lightly at your tea, the liquid is still warm, settling comfortably in your stomach and easing the stress of the day. âWhatâs the holdup?â
âWork,â he says simply before pausing. His gaze falls to your lips before it flicks away, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. Recently, youâve come to notice that, when Clark blushes, his neck, along with the tips of his ears, turns red. Itâs endearing, you think. Thereâs something so incredibly boyish about it, the way his whole face scrunches up as if to hide the embarrassment he feels every time he gets flustered.Â
After a momentâs pause, almost as an afterthought, he adds, âJust looking for the right girl, really.â Â
âWhat about Loisâ?âÂ
The question is halfway out of your mouth before he whirls around, the soapy plate in his hands clattering into the sink. His eyes are wide with something close to terror. Maybe itâs offense. Or maybe heâs just insulted by the fact that you even suggested it in the first place, like the idea of being with Lois never crossed his own mind.Â
âGod, no,â Clark sputters, an appalled look in his eyes. Then, as if concerned that his words might come off as rude, he says, âLois is⊠just a friend.â
âJust a friend,â you repeat, a knowing grin on your face. You cock your brow and shrug. âSure. Whatever you say, Clark.â
âI swear!â His voice cracks a little as he turns back to the sink, rinsing the plate heâd dropped. He stacks it in the rack, moving on to the next one before clearing his throat. âSheâLois says I need to get out more. I think this counts. Being here. With you.â
âWell, Iâm glad you enjoy my company.â
Your phone buzzes on the countertop.Â
The dark screen lights up to reveal the photo of Calum on your wallpaperâitâs only recent, one you snapped a few weeks ago at the local park. Youâd gotten ice cream that day, shared a cone under the hot yellow sun, sheltered beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Triple choc chip, you still remember it. Clark had introduced it to Calum while babysitting him and itâs been your sonâs favourite ever since. His face is smeared with ice cream in the photo, and the gaps where two of his baby teeth have fallen out are on full display as he beams up at you.
And at the bottom of your screen, above all the other notifications, is a message from your cousin.Â
Gonna drop Cal off at your place soon
Says he misses you, mama xx
A rush of warmth courses through your veins as you smile down at the message. A day without Calum is a day too long for you. Quickly, you type up a message before sending it off.
âHey, Clark?âÂ
Clark glances up when you speak and his face is pinched in confusion, waiting for you to continue.
Pocketing your phone, you hop off the stool to place your mug in the sink. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you offer him a soft grin and murmur, âIâm sure youâll find her one day. The âright girlâ, I mean. Most of the time, the right person is right in front of you.â
âI hope so,â he mutters, voice low and bitter, like heâs been waiting too long for a future that doesnât seem eager to arrive.Â
âThank you.â Gravitating closer towards him, you rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.Â
He stills under your touch before relaxing into it. And, with a familiarity that makes your heart stutter, his soapy hand finds your waist, resting against the curve of it for a short moment. Then you step back, pulling away from his touch entirely. But the moment doesnât shatter. The stillness remains, a comfort that you both bask in while itâs there.Â
âAnytime, sweetheart,â he replies, and you know he means it.Â
âÂ
Four months after the very first time Clark invited you into his house as âfriendsâ, youâve begun to frequent each otherâs apartments more often. Calum is almost always in tow, of course, like a squirmy little parasite that giggles too much when someone looks at it.Â
But nowadays, itâs more about seeing each other than anything else.Â
On the days that youâre not working, sometimes he makes his way to your apartment during his lunchbreak so that the two of you can enjoy a meal together. He claims that itâs because one of your homecooked meals is far better than running out to a Chipotle. And other times, when Clark has long since settled himself on your couch, heâll flick through Netflix in search of a show to bingewatch, and so far, youâve been through Gilmore Girls, Brooklyn-99 and Stranger Things. Â
Your favourite shared pastime, though, is sitting on the otherâs couch, soda in handâsince neither of you drink muchâas you gossip about anything and everything in the world. And today, itâsâ
âDoes Calum ever ask about his dad?â
The question takes you by surprise and you blink up at him from where you sit beside him, sunken into the couch. Thereâs a soft blanket thrown over your lap, phone in hand, Instagram opened and forgotten. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again to take a deep breath.Â
Clark has never pried before. Doesnât ask for more than what youâre willing to give.
But you canât blame his curiosity, not really. Not when heâs been so patient with you, never going beyond what you needâa shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold. Â
âNot really,â you murmur eventually, indulging him in just the slightest of ways. âItâs just been me and him since before he was born, I donât think he realises someone is⊠missing from our family.â
âIs there?â He asks softly, but you hear the weight in itâlike heâs asking something bigger than youâre ready to answer.Â
You can only laugh in response, but it sounds almost forced, like youâre trying to alleviate a weight on your chest. A reality youâre not willing to face. âI donât know.â
Maybe.
âYou donât know,â he repeats slowly.
Deliberately avoiding his gaze, you just shrug. Ever since you were a young girl, youâd always looked up to your parents.Â
They were, in theory and in practice, the perfect couple.Â
Your father had swept your mother off her feet when they were only in collegeâyouâve heard stories, seen the photos of how he charmed her over. A simple smile every time he looked at her, white teeth on display and a spark in his eyes that only she could seem to light up. Coffee every morning without fail, waiting on your motherâs bedside table for when she wakes up, that perfect sip that would remind her why she fell for your father in the first place.Â
You still see it now, in the way they answer every FaceTime call side by side, beaming faces as they look at you and Calum. How, without fail, they do everything together. Afternoon walks in the park, hand in hand, your father purposefully walking slower to keep up with your motherâs leisurely pace. Trips to the farmerâs market on Saturday mornings to pick up more of their favourite jams and breads, and dinners at the dining table every nightâeven though itâs been particularly quiet since you and Cal moved away to the big city.
And ever since you were a young girl, youâd always imagined that the perfect familyâyour perfect familyâwould be the exact same way. A husband, who would love and care for you the same way youâd love and care for him. A simple life, without empty spaces. Without holes.Â
Youâd thought youâd get the chance to have that with your ex. Turns out, men like your father donât exist.Â
âIâm⊠waiting, I guess,â you mumble. âJust looking for the right guy.â
The words sound unsettlingly familiar to Clark. He shifts in his spot, trying to recall where he had heard them. Itâs a faint memory, one he canât quite grasp onto. So, he just asks, âAnd, this âright guyâ. Whatâs he like?â
âHe has to love Calum,â you say immediately, certainly. âHis love for me means nothing if he doesnât love Calum.â
Clark just remains silent. Listening attentively as he nods, absorbing every word. Gaze soft, like he can see the genuine yearning behind your eyes for a love that transcends the momentâsomething so out of reach, yet so close each time you imagine it. Your own gaze reflects his own emotionsâa storm that begs to be tamed, a heart screaming for connection. Flowers on your birthday and Valentineâs Day and any day in between, just because. Kisses in bed and late mornings after sleeping tangled in the same sheets.Â
âHeâd be kind,â you say wistfully, âthe kind of man who loves me because Iâm someone worth loving. Heâd know what I want before I even say it, and if Iâm ever mad, heâll do whatever he can to make me happier again because seeing me smile is the best part of his day. And⊠he should think that Iâm the most beautiful girl heâs ever seen. I need to be important to himâheâd bring me flowers every Sunday, take me out for dinner dates, and all that. I want to be the girl he looks at like Iâm his world.â
âAh, so you want to be spoiled?â He grins down at you. âThatâs pretty high maintenance of you, sweetheart.â
You just roll your eyes. âI prefer the term âprincess treatmentâ.â
âAnd⊠does this lucky man have any particular appearance in here?â He taps your forehead with his forefinger, almost teasing in the act. His touch lingers, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes before pulling away entirely.Â
Chewing on your bottom lip, you think for a moment. You can see your lucky man in your head, clear as day. Youâd be lying if you didnât imagine about him sometimes, when the lights are low or work is quiet. His face is fuzzy, like a figure in a dream you see often enough to recognise, but too fleetingly to truly remember.Â
Gathering what you can recall, you settle on, âTall.â
Clark raises a brow. âJust tall?â
âTall,â you repeat with a shrug. ââSix foot fourâ kind of tall. Heâd be⊠ideally, heâd be big. Like, broad, almost? I want him to be able to just⊠completely engulf me every time he hugs me. Dark-haired dudes are pretty sexy tooââ
He cuts in with a laugh, a rumble deep from within his chest as he looks at you amusedly. âCould you be any more specific?â
You continue on, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake off his playful comments. âLight eyes⊠a strong jaw⊠big nose. Glasses, maybe. Tan skinâbut not too dark to the point where it looks fake, yâknow? Thereâs nothing more unattractive than a fake tââ
But then Clarkâs fingers are hooking under your chin, drawing your focus back to him and your tangent falters. He searches your face with a darkened gaze, as if looking for something in your eyes, seeking to be let in.
âIt doesnât matter what he looks like. All that matters is you.â
It comes out as a murmur, a slight rasp on his lips. Honest.
Your breath hitches, and all you can do is take him in. Clark Kent with those stupid blue eyes, an ocean in and of itself that makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and drown in them. His hair is ruffled from resting his head back on the couch, and youâre tempted to run your fingers through them to smooth it back. Strong jaw that could cut glass and the bluest eyes that remind you of the sky lit up by the yellow sun.Â
Everything youâd described made flesh and bone and blood. All that you want in a man. Or maybe just all that you want.Â
His nose brushes against yours. âSweetheart⊠youâre giving me that look again.â
âWhat look?âÂ
âLike you want me.âÂ
You donât answer at first. Just search his gaze for the words to voice a truth youâre tempted to deny. And then finally, âI donât look at you like that.â
Clark chuckles, hiding the amused smile that tugs at his lips. âSure, you donât.â
âI donâtââ you start to protest, but your voice is weak and youâre putty in his hands, practically melting the moment he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip. âI donât look at you like IâŠâ
You canât finish that sentence.Â
âYes,â he says, the smile never fading. âYou do. When you think Iâm not looking, or from across the room. I notice, sweetheart. When it comes to you, I always do.â
Thereâs a scratch in your throat, one that doesnât disappear even as you swallow to get rid of it. âYouâre just⊠weirdly observant.â
He doesnât respond. He just draws closer, palm shifting to cup your face properly, until his forehead rests on yours. Thereâs something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn, nervous and anticipatory all at once. It has you relaxing against him, your body pliant in his hold.
âGive me the word and Iâll stop,â he whispers, a soft murmur that washes over you like the waves of a rolling tide.Â
âI donât want you to stop,â you breathe out. Almost afraid that, if you were to speak too loudly, the tension would snap and the moment would endâlike it never existed to begin with.
His lips are a hairsbreadth away from yours and he pauses. âSweetheart, are you sure?âÂ
All you offer is a tiny, imperceptible nod of your head, so small it could have been mistaken for a twitchâbut he notices. Heâs right. He always notices.
Clark doesnât hesitate.
His mouth finds yours in an instant, warm, wanting and so sure. It starts gentle, like heâs holding back, terrified of scaring you off or backing you into a corner. But when you melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens the kiss.Â
And itâs as if something just clicks into place.
One hand drifts down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as the other remains cradling your jaw. You can taste a hint of the soda from earlier on his breath, the steady thrum his heart strong beneath your fingertips.
Clark kisses you like heâs memorising you. Or maybe he has something to prove and words alone arenât enough.
By the time he pulls back, just an inch, your breath catches in your throat. Your lips part, pink and puffy, as his eyes search yours. Waiting.Â
Youâre not sure who moves firstâmaybe itâs both of you at the same, acting on instinct and base natureâbut then youâre kissing again, and this time itâs messier, hungrier.
A nagging thought lurks in the back of your mind as he wrecks you, mind and soulâthe dam between you has finally broken and youâre both helpless to stop whatâs spilling out.Â
âÂ
Somehow, you find yourself on Clarkâs couch, in his bed and his arms more often than not. It never ventures further than making out though. He knowsâcan already read you better than anyoneâthat youâre not ready. And heâs the last person to pressure you. So, heâs been patient. Stolen kisses in the kitchen, with you perched on the countertop so that youâre eye-level with him, while Calum plays in the background, oblivious to the act, but not the connection. It gets more desperate the longer youâre aloneâparted lips beneath chasing hands, sharing breath like itâs the only language you both understand.
Despite it allâthe endless passion and desireâthereâs a permanent hunger you canât seem to satiate.Â
âWe shouldnât,â you pant out, breaking away from the kiss.Â
Youâre lying on your back on his couch, as Clark leans over you. He supports himself with one hand, making sure not to put his weight on you, while the other cups your face.
âSweetheart, weâve been âfriendsâ for months, and youâre only now telling me âwe shouldnâtâ?â His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek in a soothing back-and-forth motion that has you leaning into his touch instinctively.Â
Damn him and his stupid nice-guy act, you think, eyes narrowing as you take him in. Thereâs lipstick around his mouth, a chocolatey pink identical to the mess heâs made of you. You brush your fingers over his lips, smudging away the soft flush of colour. He tilts his head and presses a featherlight kiss to your fingertips.Â
Heâs got a twinkle in his eye that tells you, even though heâs enjoying the banter, he wants more. Heâs ready for more.Â
The idea alone terrifies you.Â
Itâs been months since you last slept with someone, let alone with a guy youâve come to know so well. Itâs been longer since you were actually invested in one.Â
Clark is a good man, thereâs no denying that. Kind and sweet and a gentle giant, the kind you bring home to your dad. God knows he would love it if you brought Clark home after the whole experience with Calumâs father. Thatâs exactly the thing, though. Navigating single life with a young kid isnât easy. Every guy youâve dated in the years since giving birth has either been clingy with mommy issues or too much of a weirdo to be able to bring around Calum. You never would have thought that the man for you had been just one floor up.
And now youâre laid back on his couch where heâs holding you like heâs already yours. Smelling like citrus and safety and a little smoke, gazing down at you like youâve hung the moon and the stars and shaped his world with gentle hands.Â
Thatâs what scares you the most. Because what if this is the part where it all goes wrong? What if Clark decides that the hassle of youâof Calum, and raising your son by your sideâisnât worth the trouble? What if you let him in, just to lose him before you truly have him?
âI justââ
He catches the worried look in your eye almost immediately, and he holds a finger to your lips, silencing you. âHey. I donât mean to pressure you. Iâm sorry.â
A faint blush colours your cheeks. His genuine concern causes a warm feeling to flood through your chest, and you canât help but look awayâhis stare is intense. Honest. His grip shifts, tightening around your chin before you can pull away entirely. It forces you to look at him.
âI donât know who hurt you,â he murmurs, searching your eyes, âbut Iâm not going to hurt you.â
âI know,â you say quietly.Â
Itâs a bold promise after all, one youâre sure he wonât be able to keep.Â
âDo you, though?â
âYes,â but it sounds like youâre trying to convince yourself more than him.Â
Clark simply leans in closer. âDo you?â
This time, you donât respond. Thereâs something about the look in his eyes that tells you he wonât take ânoâ for an answer. At your silence, he nudges your chin up with his nose, his lips finding your throat to suckle on the soft skin almost immediately. Your breathy sighâwhile unwarrantedâis like a church choir, an angelâs chorus as it descends from Heaven, and as sweet as the pop of a ripe pomegranate seed between his teeth. He takes a moment to breathe in it, revel in itâallowing himself to imagine how you would moan beneath him when he finally stops holding back. How the sweetness of your essence would drip from his lips, a dirty mess but one that heâs ready to savour.Â
Somehow, the air feels thicker. Filled with something akin to want.Â
It makes your fingers twitch, a tingle running down your body, electric where his skin meets yours.Â
âCan I show you?â he murmurs, slowly shifting until heâs lying between your thighs. His hands find purchase on your hips, never venturing too far. The broad width of his shoulders forces your legs apart.Â
When you donât respond, he glances up at you.Â
âCan I, sweetheart?âÂ
A mellow whimper leaves your lips as your eyelids flutter shut, pure bliss tingling throughout your body. And just like the first time he kissed you, all you offer him is a jerk of your head. Itâs slightly forced, but you canât find your voiceâbecause you know that if you open your mouth now, you might just start begging.
âI need words, angel,â Clark rasps, looking up at you through the thick of his lashes. His fingers trail down your leg, teasing the skin below the hem of your shorts. He drags it higher, tantalisingly slow and deliberate, until the curve of your thigh is bared to him. His touch is featherlight, maddening, and you press closer, desperate to feel the heat of him through his shirt.
âClarkâŠâ you whisper, fingers finding his jaw so you can tilt his face up. His gaze locks on youâthereâs a hunger in his stare, a desire that pools in the depths of his soul, so pure and honest that youâre ready to throw it all to the wind and say âYesâ to whatever he wants.Â
âSay it,â he urges, voice husky but gentle, like youâre porcelain he needs to handle with care.Â
You lick your lips, still cradling his jaw. âYes,â you breathe out. âYou can.â
He doesnât move right away. Just holds you there, strong hands anchoring you to the couch as his breath ghosts over your skin, waiting for you to change your mind. When itâs clear that youâre not going back, he drags the waistband of your shorts down, baring you slowly.Â
âBeautiful,â he groans, taking in the sight of your exposed legs. âThe most beautiful girl in the world.â
A faint blush dusts your cheeks as your legs close on instinct. But he pries them open again, his fervent touch almost reverent in the act. His fingers brush against the underside of your jaw, tilting your head down to look at him.Â
âDonât hide from me,â he pleads. âI wanna see. Please, let me see youââ
âOkay,â you whisper. âOkay.â
âThank you.â He immediately goes to tug your panties off. Itâs just a simple pink pair but he still rumbles out, âSo pretty, sweetheart. Everything about you is.â
Soft kisses travel down your thigh, and he takes his time worshipping you, until youâre left writhing below him. His warm breath hits your skin, and, with a soft whine, you press your head back into the pillow, back arching to curve into his body. He steadies you, the tip of his nose nudging the point above your mound.
âPlease, ClarkâŠâÂ
He doesnât hesitate. His mouth finds your core, tongue flicking out to lick through your slitâÂ
And the first taste is fucking heaven.Â
âÂ
Clarkâs not too sure why he brought wine.Â
Itâs a nice bottle of red, straight from the vineyards in Napa Valley. Heâd flown there right after work, and he can only imagine how strange it must have been: Superman casually buying a bottle of wine, thousands of miles from home. Heâs certain you canât tell the difference between store bought wine and something fancier. Youâre not a drinker, after allâheâs made you enough mugs of tea and hot chocolate to know that. Â
But he remembers you once mentioning that you havenât had a drink since Calum was born. And tonight, he wanted to treat you.Â
Surprise you, more like, because you technically donât know heâs coming for a âdate nightâ at your place. The second you messaged him that morning, saying you were off night shifts for the rest of the week and planned on dropping Cal off to your cousinâs again to spend the night, heâd instantly made plans to indulge you. Breakfast for dinner, wine, desserts and a romcom on your couch. Just the two of you.
The gesture is romantic in his head, and he finds himself rehearsing what he wants to say to you on the walk downstairs, from his apartment to yours.Â
ââHey, sweetheartâ,â he recites to himself, ââIâm here to⊠surprise you.â No, thatâs weird. âSurpriseâ? Boring. âClear up your schedule, tonight itâs just me, you and Netflixââ?â
That last one makes him recoil, the sound of it forced on his tongue. For all that itâs worth, heâs not the flashy type, and heâs terribly uncorny. Heâs not good at keeping surprises, even worse at setting them up. For you though, heâs willing to try.
Clark rounds the corner leading out of the stairwell, stepping into the main hallway, where he can hear voices echoing faintly down the hallway. He can barely make out the wordsâtwo people, one of them whose voice is sharp, laced with mockery. The other sounds more nervous, insistent as they driveÂ
Clark inhales sharply when he finally sees you. Fists clenched and face set in a frown, unable to hide the fearâand repulsionâin your eyes. By your body language alone, Clark knows exactly whoâs at the door.
Your ex-boyfriend. Calumâs father.Â
âYou gonna invite me in or what?â The man sneers, looking past your shoulder in an attempt to peer into your home. Heâs tall-ish and lean, with a denim jacket that hangs loose off his shoulders, a smirk that makes Clark shiver and greasy hair that looks like it hasnât been washed for days.
 Clark instantly clocks whatâor rather, whoâheâs looking for. But he knows that Calumâs with your cousin, and he canât help but exhale in relief, knowing that it means your son is out of reach.
You donât seem to notice Clark yet. Not until he comes up behind your ex, his footsteps purposeful. His presence fills the hallway in an instant, blanketing it with something close to comfort and security. You can sense it almost immediately, only looking up when you feel his stare burning into you.
Your name is a soft rumble in his chest, andâ
âClark,â you breathe out, relief easing the tension in your fingers and they relax visibly at your sides.
Your ex whirls around, taken off guard, only to be greeted by Clarkâs towering frame and an unreadable expression. Clarkâs tallâalways has been, so the guy has to step back a little just to meet Clarkâs stare dead-on.Â
Clarkâs gaze flicks to your ex for just a moment before focusing on you again, as if your ex doesnât exist. âHey,â Clark says, his voice neutral but clipped. âI didnât know you had company.â
You blink. âDylan was just⊠stopping byââ
âDylan?â Clark frowns, his head swivelling between you and your ex to gauge the true nature of âDylanâsâ visit .
âIâm Calumâs father.â Dylan steps forward, holding a hand out to Clark. Thereâs an air of confidence, self-proclaimed familiarity in the way he carries himselfâand an arrogance that makes Clarkâs blood simmer. âNice to meet you, man.â
Clark doesn't immediately take his hand. His eyes flick to you for a beat, brows drawing in to pinch in the subtlest frown. You avoid his gaze. He finally reaches out and clasps Dylanâs hand, but itâs brief. Cold. Just enough pressure to make a point.
âClark Kent,â he says, taking Dylanâs hand gingerly. âIâm her upstairs neighbour.â
âHe takes care of Calum when Iâm at work sometimesââ you begin explaining, but Clark interrupts you to ask Dylan, âSo, what brings you around?â
âI was just having a conversation with my baby mama. Didnât realise I needed to clear it with you, big guy.â
Clark takes a step forward. Not by much, but just enough that Dylanâs smirk twitches. He catches himself quickly though, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as if to size Clark up. You mightâve giggled if you werenât so stressedâClark still towers over Dylan by over six inches, his broad frame making him almost colossal next to your ex.Â
âFunny.â Clarkâs tone is flat, unamused. âBecause last I checked, fathers who actually show up donât need to justify it.â
Dylanâs jaw tightens and he quickly retorts, âI donât need to be lectured by a guy who plays house with someone elseâs kid.â
Clark clenches his fists, the twitch in them unmistakeable. Slip up, he thinks, give me a reason to hurt you the way youâve hurt her. âI take care of your son when sheâs working. Thatâs hardly playing house.â
âYou telling me you havenât fucked her yet? Havenât even wanted to?â
The venomâand truthâin his words makes you recoil. A subtle flinch that Clark notices immediately. Dylan doesnât seem to be any the wiser to the way you react though, oblivious to the way his words hit their mark.Â
âPretty boyâs all up in our business, brings a bottle of wine with him, hair combed back like heâs on a date, and youâre seriously trying to tell me he hasnât been in your pants.â Dylan lets out a mocking scoff, rolling his eyes dismissively as his hand extends, grasping your sleeve with sticky fingers. âCâmon, babe.âÂ
âGet your dirty hands off her,â Clark growls, wrenching Dylanâs arm away from you with an irontight grip. Clarkâs fingers wrap around his wrist, twisting it around until it's pinned behind the other manâs body. âDonât touch her.â
âOr what?âÂ
âStop it, you two,â you snap, stepping in to push them apart before it can get any worse. âThis isnât a fucking dick-measusing competition or whatever you boys like to do in your free time. You can either show Clark some respect or you can leave, Dylan.â
Itâs clear, by just your voice alone, that youâre not putting up with their childish argument. âDylanââ you warn, moving closer between them, when you notice that your sonâs father isnât about to back off.Â
âDonât.â Clark cuts in to hold you back.
âSo youâre telling me that you leave our kid with some random fucker, and suddenly, heâs your daddy or something tooâ?âÂ
Clarkâs hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Dylanâs shirt. Dragging him forward until theyâre face to face, Clark growls, âYou disrespect her one more time, you touch her one more time⊠and I wonât be this gentle. Do you see me breaking anything? Because I could.â
He leans in closer, his grip on Dylanâs shirt sliding up to wrap around his neck. Clark isnât violentâor at least, the Clark you know isnât violent, so the sudden display of anger rubs you the wrong way. The Clark you know is gentle, holds you with loving hands, and he murmurs sweet nothings into your ear late at night.Â
Dylan opens his mouth to protest.Â
Wrong choice.Â
Clark surges forward, slamming Dylan against the wall opposite your apartment, so hard you can hear the doors rattle in their frames. But before he makes another move, Clark finds you standing behind him with the tiniest tilt of his head and his stance relaxes instantly. The moment is short-lived though, when he immediately turns back to look at Dylan, who looks like heâs about to piss himself out of fear.
âGet inside,â Clark tells you lowly.
âButââ
âGet inside.â
Youâve never heard him speak like that, or look at anyoneâlet alone youâthe way heâs looking at Dylan now. Like thereâs something about Dylanâs presence that sets off something inside him. But you trust him, donât even hesitate. The door shuts with a quiet click when you slip back into your apartment.Â
The moment it closes, you hear it.Â
Bone meets bone. Flesh splitting flesh. Just once.
Dylan lets out a groan, high-pitched as he begins to plead. No, no, noâyou hear.Â
You wait one⊠two⊠three seconds before a low growl splits the silence. It sounds fuzzy though, and you know itâs Clark speaking but you canât tell what heâs saying. A threat, you reckon. Something that makes Dylan blabber out, âOkay, yes, I willââ.
Then a thud asâyouâre safe to assumeâClark throws Dylan to the ground. He lands with an oof, beforeâ
âOpen the door.â
Clarkâs voice floats through the wood, gruff and deep in a way that sends a chill running down your spine. Hurriedly, you unlatch the door and yank him in before Dylan can think about forcing his own way inâthough at this point, heâd be out of his mind to even try. With a weary sigh, you slump against the wall, squeezing your eyes shut as if to block out the stress and tension of the argument.Â
âWhat the hell was that, Clark?âÂ
You donât mean to snap, but it comes out sharp, like youâre scolding a reckless ten-year-old boy, not a fully grown man. Youâve never seen him lose his temper so easily, never seen him get so violent so quicklyâa moment ago, you didnât even know he was capable of packing a punch like that.
âHe was an ass.â
Clark says it like itâs explanation enough, all the reason he needs. The TV is on, playing a movie youâd put on before Dylan had disrupted your evening. There's a box of takeout sitting on the coffee table in front of where youâd been sitting and itâs clear you hadnât been expecting any visitors at all. He recognises the actor in the movieâsome dark hair, blue-eyed dude called Henry Cavill. Itâs background noise to him as he moves through your apartment, heading straight for the kitchen to set the bottle of wine down on the countertop.Â
Thatâs when you notice it.
âYou brought wine.â
He doesnât respond. Just opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it. âI wanted to treat you.â
You follow Clark into the kitchen, catching his hand and flipping it over to examine both sides. His knuckles are slightly red and swollen, his fingers tense in your hold, flexing to relieve the strain in his bones. Oddly enough, it already looks like itâs getting better, like packing a punch barely hurts him. âYou didnât have to do that.â
You donât know whether you mean the wine or beating up your ex. Both feel like something to thank him for.Â
âI wanted to,â he responds, matter-of-factly. No hesitation, no justification. Just that. He finally faces you, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. Itâs clear that he found the whole ordeal amusing, but deliberately held himself back for your sake. And then, softer, more consoling, âI didnât hurt myself that bad, sweetheart. I promise, itâs okay.â
âHeâs harmlessââ you start to insist, but you cut yourself off when itâs clear that heâs not listening to you. He just gives you a look, one that says, Too late, sweetheart.
Clark reaches for the wine, popping the cork open with a twist of his hand. You hadnât even known something like that was possible, to open a bottle without a corkscrew. But before you can address it, his hand finds your cheek, cradling your jaw as his thumb brushes the tender skin under your eye. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss, and for a second, the anger burning in your chest stuttersânot because heâs right, but because heâs him.Â
When he pulls away, he murmurs again, firmer this time, like a vow. âI wanted to.â
He wraps his arm around your waist, the bottle of wine still in hand, as he leads you to the living room. He takes a seat on your couch, and drags you down with him. Tucks you close to his body, until your head is resting on his chest, hair soft beneath his chin. âTalk to me, sweetheart.â
He doesnât push you. Simply waits in silence until youâre ready to talk. When you speak, your voice is low. As if youâre not keen to talk but, for him, youâll open up.Â
âDylan⊠he left the day I told him I was pregnant. Didnât even look back, that fucker. Just walked out like I was some inconvenience he couldnât be bothered with.â You tilt your head, looking at him from the corner of your eye. âYou know, we were prom king and queen. We were supposed to be together foreverâthatâs just how it is when youâre young and in senior year. Highschool sweethearts stay sweethearts and he justâhe left, Clark.â
A bitter laugh slips past your lips, like the weight of his abandonment still sits heavy on your chest after all these years. âItâs not as if Iâm still in love with him or anythingâheâs a complete asshole, trust me. And a little part of me is glad that you beat him up, but Iââ
You cut yourself off with a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief as the memory of Dylan leaving plays through your head. âItâs justâhonestly. How can he ditch his pregnant girlfriend and then have the audacity to rock up to my place years later, pretending like everything is okay?â
He holds out the bottle to you, and you take a deep swig, the smooth liquid travelling down your throat like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. The taste is sweet and unfamiliar, but you welcome it freelyâanything to distract you.Â
Clark doesnât say a single word. He gives you room to talk freely. Without judgement, without fear. Just a sturdy shoulder to rest your head on and an ear heâs willing to get yapped off.Â
âI was right out of high school when he got me pregnant,â you murmur. âI ended up staying with my parents, went to college closer to home. It wasnât ideal but we made it work.â
âJesus,â Clark mutters finally, giving you a concerned look. âYou were a babyââ
âI was old enough to know how to use protection,â you correct, âand I paid the price for not using it. But⊠I donât regret it.â
Your gaze flicks to Calumâs bedroom door, carefully painted blue and redâSupermanâs colour. And despite the fact that your landlord had explicitly mentioned you couldnât change any of the interior, youâd still done it. Making your son happy far outweighs the consequences of a few fees. His door has the Superman logo on it, that iconic yellow âSâ painted with the brushstroke of a motherâs dedicated hand.Â
Calum was two the first time either of you had ever seen Superman in person, flying high above the Metropolis skyline. Everyone had marvelled at the sight, but no one had been more entranced than your baby as he watched, wide eyed, as Superman swooped down to save a man falling from an office building. From that day, heâd been obsessed.Â
Truthfully, you havenât taken much to your sonâs interestsâgod only knows where you could find the time to. But thatâs not to deny the fact that you love to indulge him, anything to make him happyâSuperman themed bedsheets, plates and clothes. Heâs dressed up as Metropolisâs hero for two Halloweens in a row now, and his smile only gets bigger each time he wears that costume.Â
âHeâs my blessing. I wouldnât change him for the world.â
âYouâre a good mother.â His lips brush over your temple, featherlight. But it grounds you, reminds you that heâs hereâalways has been.Â
âI couldnât have done it without you,â you concede, and before he can protest, you say, âCalum loves you. Youâre⊠more of a father figure than Dylan has ever been.â
Itâs a heavy truth. But, in the grand scheme of things, Clark has been more present in the past months than Dylan has in Calâs whole life.Â
Clark takes the bottle from you, placing it onto the coffee table before draping his arm over your thighs. He just holds you like that, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek.
âItâs been hard,â you say quietly.Â
He just nods. âI know.â
âAnd⊠at first, theâŠâ you trail off, unsure of how to continue, but he just squeezes you.
Iâm here, it says, itâs okay.
You take a deep, shuddering breath, leaning further into his hold. âAfter giving birth, I hated myself. So much. I didnât⊠I didnât feel like me; I didnât feel like a mother. I just⊠felt like a fraud. But you⊠Clark, youâre the first person whoâs made me feel normal in the last four years. Like Iâm not alone in this, and IâI couldnât be more grateful.âÂ
âYouâre worth it,â he rasps, nose nudging your hairline, his soft breaths teasing the baby hairs. âYou and Calum, both.â
For the first time in a long time, you believe him.Â
â
Itâs a quiet morning when Clark steps through your front door without so much as a knock. Youâd given him a key to your apartment a few days ago, and itâs safe to say that heâs enjoying the privilege. Very much so.Â
The smell of raisin toastâyour favourite go-to breakfastâdrifts through the air as you nurse a cup of tea in your hands. Youâre sitting on one of the stools on the kitchen island and you just call out, âIn here!â the moment you hear the doorknob turn.Â
He doesnât announce himself, but you immediately know itâs him. Not just because youâve already given him a key, but because a small part of you knows his body better than your own at this pointâevery curve, every scar, every blemish on his skin. Itâs engraved in your memory, a permanent fixation in the back of your mind.Â
âMorning, sweetheart,â he murmurs, coming up behind you. A soft kiss lands on your cheek and you lean into his touch, the curve of your face moulding perfectly against his. You can feel him frown, cheeks turning down in the way it does whenever heâs unimpressed with something. âYou made your own tea.â
âYou took ages to get here,â you say.Â
He just scoffs. You know he hates it when you do things for yourselfâhe much prefers doing it for you. A favour, he calls it but you know itâs really just princess treatment. âHowâd you sleep?â
âThe bed was cold,â you tease. âI was, unfortunately, missing a six-foot-four giant. He hogs all the blankets despite always running hot and he never sleeps with a shirt on. Oh, and heâs like, super sexyâhave you seen him?â
He just rolls his eyes, swivelling the chair to turn you around in his arms. Clarkâs mouth finds yours almost instantly, an eager kiss that speaks volumes about his desire for you, as his hand palms your ass through your pyjama pants. Itâs far too early in the morning for this, so you let him control the pace and the movement. You havenât brushed your teeth yet, but if heâs realised, he doesnât seem to mind. His hand cups your cheek, steadying you beneath him before he pulls awayâalbeit a little reluctantly.
âI do not hog all the blankets,â he grumbles, resting his forehead against yours.Â
âLiar.â You stick your tongue out playfully.
He just rolls his eyes with a suppressed grin, muttering, âBrat.â
The toaster dings and, before you can head for it, Clark is handling it for you. He pulls away from you, making his way around your kitchen with easeâhe finds your favourite breakfast dish, plates the toast, then slathers it with butter, just the way you like it. A flash of fondness lights up your gaze, softening the moment altogether. The thoughtfulness of the actâeven though itâs just fucking toast and butterâwarms your heart, and it makes your chest ache with something dangerously close to love.
â
âHe thinks youâre Superman,â you tell Clark with an eye roll. Chinese takeout is spread out on the dining table in front of you. Clark had gotten it on his way home, where youâd already been waiting in his apartment with Calum. Itâs become a daily occurrence for you to rock up to each otherâs apartments nowadays, and you eat at his place more often than not. Clark still takes care of Calum when youâve got work, but lately, youâve been spending more time together as a couple than anything else.Â
Clark freezes, a split second where his whole body tenses up and his heart just stops. You donât noticeâof course you donât. Heâs too good at masking his emotions and youâre preoccupied with keeping an eye on Calum as he rolls around on the floor with Krypto.Â
So he just laughs, wanting to come off as nonchalant, but it sounds slightly strained. âWhat? No way, sweetheart. Me? Superman? Seriously?âÂ
You can only grin, his shock only adding to your entertainment. âHonestly, I donât know who he gets it from. I sure as hell wasnât as imaginative as him at this ageââ Thatâs when you turn to him with a smirk. âAre you brainwashing my son or something?â
He grins, leaning forward. His arm rests on the table, other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. âThe only thing Iâm teaching him are some manners.â He frowns jokingly. âHavenât you realised, sweetheart? Iâve got him pushing chairs in after dinner and everything.â
âAh,â you play along, âof course. He even offered to clear up the table the other day! I was so surprised.â
Clarkâs pretend-frown deepens. âHe only offered to clean up? I had him mopping and vacuuming when you dropped him off the other week. Maybe he just likes to help me more.â
You burst into giggles at the thought of your four-year-old son holding a mop twice his height, dragging it across Clarkâs living room floor. âGod, you wish you had a servant. You need to start paying him for his labour.â
âHey,â you say, resting your head on his shoulder. âYouâre real good with my kid, Superman.â
Itâs only a joke, but Clarkâs heart clenches at the truth behind the name. âHe makes it easy.â He pauses, before murmuring, âYou both do.â
You keep your head on his shoulder, but you tip your gaze up just enough to watch him. Thereâs something careful in his expression, like heâs weighing what not to say.Â
âOkay, but⊠seriously,â you murmur, your voice laced with something akin to amusement laced with curiosity. âAre you like⊠friends with Superman, or something?âÂ
He doesnât say a word, just presses a soft kiss to your hair, so gentle it almost distracts you. Almost.
Calum must have been listening in because, at the mention of Superman, he abandons Krypto and the floor and comes clambering onto your lap. You brush his hair away from his face with a smile. Clarkâs still silent so you continue speaking. âI know you interview him a lot, right? For work.â
âMhm.â
Thereâs something odd about the way he avoids eye contact and it throws you off a bitâ âSo do you, like⊠bring him around and stuff? To play with Calum?â
âHe does!â Calum giggles, but the older man doesnât answer right away. You can feel him tense again, like a rope stretched taut.Â
âI guess you could say that.â
âSay what?â you raise a questioning brow.
âI suppose that Superman isâŠ. my friend,â he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, but he disguises his hesitation with a casual shrug. âStarted calling in a favour with him after that first day you asked me to look after Cal. When I found out he likes Superman, I just thought itâd be a nice thing to do.â
Thatâs the thing: it is. Itâs the sweetest gesture, one you never would've expected him to do for a child that he, at the time, barely knew.Â
âDoes he visit often?â
Clark shrugs. âItâs on an⊠availability basis.â
âThatâs nice of him,â you hum before grinning up at him mischievously, as you nudge him with your elbow. âYou should introduce me to him one day.â
âAbsolutely not,â Clark interjects before you can entertain that thought any longer. He glances at Calumâthe little kid is notorious for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. So Clark throws him a look of warning that screams âDonât you dare say a wordâ, and to his relief, Calum just runs his fingers over his lips in the universal âshut your mouth and throw away the keyâ motion. Clark exhales in relief, slumping back in his chair.Â
âWhy?â Your lips purse in a tight frown, just as a knowing look crosses your face and your eyes light up. âIs someone jealous?â
Clarkâs neck flushes pink, his cheeks warming up as a wave of embarrassment crashes over him. âI⊠thatâs not whyââ
You donât think much of his stammering. If anything, you find his supposed âjealousyâ endearing.Â
âDonât worry, baby,â you murmur, leaning up to peck his lips. âSupermanâs just a guy in spandex. I already have you.â
â
Metropolis, for the first time in a long time, is quiet.Â
A peaceful Tuesday morning, something you havenât had in months. For once, there are no aliens terrorising the streets, the Justice League isnât flying around flaunting their powers, and Superman is nowhere to be seen. With a matcha in hand, handbag slung over one shoulder, and the knowledge that Calum is safe at daycare, this is what you would call a perfect day.Â
Of course, youâre nothing if not unlucky.Â
Itâs not long before a stranger breaks the peaceful bubble youâve been trapped in for the last odd hour or so as they rush past you, a blur in the busy city street. Their shoulder knocks against you, shoving you forward, and your matcha tumbles to the ground, a puddle of green pooling at your feet.Â
âShit,â you snap lowly, turning around to give the person a piece of your mind.
But itâs then that you notice the stampede of people heading straight towards youâand in the distance, a large brown ugly thing with bulging eyes stomps through the city square.Â
A low curse leaves your lips when you realise what it is. Fucking aliens. Always disturbing your peace in this goddamn city.
âWhat are you doing?â Some lady yells at you when she catches you staring at the monster, transfixed. âRun!â
You donât hesitate.
The years spent living in Metropolis have shaped your reaction timeâyouâre fast now, faster than youâve ever been, at responding to threats like itâs second natur. An act that is now as familiar to you as feeding or cleaning Calum. It feels like a stampede more than anything elseâthe quiet Tuesday morning atmosphere is shattered by the shouts of corporate assholes who shove their way to the front so they can be as far away from the danger as possible.
It takes a short while, but eventually, thereâs a whoosh in the skyâa telltale sign that Superman is here. A flash of blue and red streaks through the sky, and despite yourself, you stop to marvel at it. You all do, because when Superman comes in, he demands attentionâthe âSâ on his chest is like a homing beacon, reminding people of hope and happiness and a life without hardship here in Metropolis.
Everyone lets out a whoop as they watch him fly overhead, raising their hands in a loud cheer. Still, you canât bring yourself to celebrate, not with the monster still looming closer and closer with every passing. And especially not with the way thatâ
Oddly enough, it seems like heâs getting bigger and bigger, until it feels like heâs heading straight for you.
Terror seeps through your bone like marrow, weighing you down so that youâre frozen in place as Superman reaches for you in front of everyone. A strong arm of steel bands around your waist, yanking you away from the danger and suddenly, youâre flying.
A loud, panicked yelp leaves your lips as the gravity of what is happening finally hits youâSuperman just flew in and saved you. You, of all people. His breath ruffles the hair at your temple, and beneath the rush of blood in your ears, you can make out his voice reassuring you... itâs gonna be okay. Iâm getting you to safety.
Floating above the Metropolis skyline, the sea of skyscrapers stretching out in front of you before melting into the vast distance. You can see the monster-alien-thing rampaging down below, its tail swinging into trees. But Superman doesnât pay it much attention.
It takes two... three... four seconds of flying before he approaches a familiar looking building. He gently lowers you down to the balcony, like youâre precious cargoâthereâs a rug pushed up against the the doorstep, and it reminds you of the same one you keep outside. Blue with white floral patterns bordering the edges. The fake potted plants that... Clark Kent gave you a few weeks ago. Your underwear, hanging on the line, dry and waiting to be collected.
Home. Heâs taken you home.
You turn to face him where heâs still hovering, just a few metres above the floor. In any other circumstance, youâre sure he would have gone back by now, to help the rest of the Justice League. But now, he just stays there, watching you intently with his arms crossed over his chest and an expectant look in his eyesâhis stare doesnât put you off though. If anything, it warms your heart, a familiarity in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe beneath his scrutinising stare. Perhaps, thatâs the most unsettling part of it all.
âHowâŠâ Thereâs a thick lump in your throat, unease churning in your stomach as you step away from him. âHow do you know where I live?âÂ
His eyes dart to the balcony right above yours before meeting your eyes again, and thereâs a tiny, knowing smile on his faceâone youâve seen aimed at you for months now.
Thatâs when it all clicks.Â
âClark.â
His name is a whisper on your tongue, strained and hesitant. A small part of you is afraid that, if you speak too loud, youâre going to say something youâll regret.
That single curly strand of hair flops over his forehead and you remember the first time you saw it up closeâat his place, when heâd answered the door, sweaty and slightly out of breath. âA work call,â heâd said then, and now you want to laugh. How stupid had you been to trust him? Even stupider, youâre sure, considering that Calum has literally been telling you the truth for months now.Â
SupermanâClark, you correct yourself mentallyâfloats down to the ground, landing with a light step right in front of you. âSweetheartâŠâ
He doesnât deny it.
âYou shouldâve told me,â you say quietly, almost accusatorily.Â
âI wanted toââ he tries to defend himself, but he doesnât look all that remorseful for lying.
âBut you didnât,â you interrupt. âYou made the choice toâŠâ âLieâ feels wrong. Too strong a word. âYou made the choice to continuously pretend that Superman was just your âfriendâ. âYou let me humiliate myself in front of you while my four-year-old son knew all along. You just⊠you lied to me.â
âThat wasnât my intention, sweetheart,â he murmurs, but you step back, a pained look crossing your face. Anger simmers in your blood, hardly daring to boil over lest you say something you regret.Â
âI think your friends are looking for you,â you say quietly when you spot the Justice League flying around in the background. They look lost without him, ducklings wandering aimlessly without their mother. Green Lanternâs got some contraption in place, and it pokes the monsterâs eye repetitively. You wince at the sight of it. Hakwgirl is a tiny speck in the sky as she flies in circles around its head in an attempt to disorient. Any bystander could tell that, without Superman by their side, theyâre not exactly doing the best job at taking down the alien.
Clark follows your gaze and he recoils when he sees Green Lantern get swatted out of the sky.
âTheyâre not my friendsââ He starts to protest, but he falters off once he realises how stupid that sounds when he says it out loud. âI mean, they are, but theyâre notâŠâ
Important? Special?
You?
You shake the thought off before it can fester. Lowly, you tel him, âThey need you, Clark. Go⊠save the city, or whatever it is that you do.â
âPleaseââ Clarkâs face contorts with a desperation of sorts as he reaches out for you, gripping your hand tightly. His hold loosens just as quickly when he notices the blank look on your face. Spaced out, like youâre not fully there. At least, not in the way he wishes you were.
âOkay,â he concedes with a nod, swallowing thickly. âOkay, but this isnât over. Weâre talking about this later.â
All you can do is nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watch him step back, shooting off into the sky in a blur of red and blue. Tonight, then. Though, youâre not quite sure if itâs a conversation youâre looking forward to.Â
â
That night, you find yourself sitting at Clarkâs dining table.Â
The kitchen light is dim, casting a shadow over you as Clark busies himself with making hot chocolate for the two of you. His back is to you, muscles rippling beneath the tight fabric of his sleep tee. On any other occasion, you wouldâve been by his side, running a hand down his spine, teasing the skin just above the waistband of his pants. Heâd turn, that familiar smile etched on his beautiful faceâhalf fondness, half amusedâand pull you in for a kiss. Two, if you were lucky.
Now, you can hardly stomach the thought of touching him.Â
Nothing about him has changed though, since you found out the truth this morning. If you were to touch him now, his skin would be as soft as it always is, calloused hands just as strong and comforting, eyes still as bright as the sun. The same hands that held you so tenderly every day are the same ones that come home battered and bruised by villains and extraterrestrials beings and evil metahumans. The same lips you kissed are the same ones that lied to you.Â
It hits you then, the weight of it.Â
Clark Kent is Superman and your son has known all along. And somehow, through all the late nights and stolen kisses and whispered promises, he still chose not to tell you. He still chose to lie.Â
Eventually, the noise in the kitchen quietens down as he approaches, two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He sets a cup in front of you before taking a seat opposite you. For a while, neither of you say anything. The only movement in his small apartment is the rustle of the curtains by the open window, and cold air drafts in. The hot chocolate is a small reprieve from the awkwardness, but it does little to ease the cold distance thatâs settled between you. Â
Clark hesitates, before reaching up and taking his glasses off his face. With a precision and calmness that belies the tension in the room, he folds the arms of the frame, setting it down on the table between you.
âYou look different,â you say quietly. Handsome, like a veil has lifted between you and youâre finally seeing him.
The real Clark.
Somehow, without the glasses, he looks far more muscular, his body filling out his tee in a way that makes the average gym goer look small. His eyes are bluer, clearer like you can see the world he comes from within them. Krypton. Youâd once read about it in a paper that Clark had written about Supermanâhimself. The irony isnât lost on you.Â
All he does is nod. He never breaks eye contact onceâsky blue eyes hold your gaze, an air of confidence that rattles your bones. You want to reach over the table and grab his neck, throttle him a little.Â
Show some emotion, you have half a mind to yell. Tell me youâre sorry, tell me that I meant something to you, tell me that what we had wasnât just a lie.
âIâm sorry,â is all he murmurs.
âNo, youâre not.âÂ
He exhales sharply, looking away momentarily as his fingers tighten around his mug. âNo, Iâm not.â
Silence stretches between you before he clears his throat. âI just⊠I just wanted to protect you.â
âI let you around my sonââ I loved you, you want to say, but that would be admitting that, despite everything thatâs happenedâthe danger heâs put Calum in, time and time againâyou still love him.
Youâve never said it out loud. Saying it now feels like a lie, no matter how much your heart wants it to be trueâpossible. It feels like a betrayal of sorts. To yourself, to your son and to the part of you that knows love shouldnât have to come with this kind of cost.
âI would never do anything to harm him,â he pleads. âI care about Calum, I swear I do.â
âItâs not about harming him, Clark,â you snap, âitâs about the fact that you lied to me! Itâs about the fact that, when I asked you if you were Supermanâregardless of if it was a joke or notâyou told me ânoâ.â
âSweetheartâŠâ He falters, unsure of what to say. His voice is a rasp when he settles, âI love that kid, okay? I didnât plan to, but I do, just like I love yoââ
âDonât.âÂ
The chair squeals against the hardwood floor when you stand up, the hot chocolate heâd made you untouched. âIâd prefer it if you just⊠stay away from us. Please.â
Clark doesnât listen to you. The thing about him is, he never doesâtoo stubborn for his own good and too in love to think straight. He stands up, stepping closer to you. âYouâre the reason I come back home everyday. You and Calum. The reason I keep fighting, the reason I want to be better, to make the world betterâbecause the two of you deserve a world thatâs good, and kind, and safe. And if I can be the one to give that to you, then why shouldnât I try?âÂ
âBecause you can put us in dangerââ
âAnd I can protect you!â The words end in a crack, like itâs taking everything to just keep himself together. âI will protect you! Always. Canât you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if youâd just let me in. Iâm not here to hurt you. Iâm not himââ
His words are like a gunshot to your already wounded heart. Count on him to bring Dylan up when he knows youâre vulnerableâa bullet that had been waiting to meet its mark.
âI know,â you respond firmlyâyou refuse to let yourself waver. âI know youâre not him but that doesnât mean you wonât break me the same way.â
Your voice is steady, but your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curled and digging crescents into your palms. âIt doesnât mean you wonât leave pieces of me behind when you go. I wonât put myself through that again.â
His face crumples, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming slightly, like a candle flickering in the wind. âBut I wonât go. Iâm not going anywhere.â
âBut you could get hurt, Clark!â You burst out, and this time, you canât hide the tears that threaten to spill over. âYou could get hurt, you could bring enemies home, you could put my son in danger! One day, you might not come home at all and I donât know if I can handle that.â
âI saved your life today!âÂ
âYou broke my trust today!âÂ
âSweetheartââ he starts to protest, faltering when you hold a hand up to stop him. His face crumples, resignation dampening the light in his eyes. His voice is almost a croak, weak and accepting, as he nods. âOkay. Okay, Iâll⊠keep my distance. I promise.âÂ
He pauses, head hung low as though instinctively leaning into a touch that isnât thereâresting his forehead against your is his favourite act of intimacy. Sharing a single breath with you, both your eyes closed, noses brushing. Itâs a feeling he will never get enough of, a peace he yearns for after long days and longer nightsâa quiet only you could give. Well⊠gave.
âIâm sorry,â he says again, lower this time, like he knows itâs not enough. Like it never has been.
You donât look at him. Canât. Because if you do, youâll see that stupid, sorry hope in his eyesâthe one he wears like a wound when he looks like you, so painfully raw and open. It makes you want to hold him together, stitch the pieces of his heart with the loose threads of your own soul.Â
Krypto whines when you turn away, darting between your feet as if to make you stay. He nips at the hem of your pants, insistent and tempting, almost like he could drag you back inside with his teeth alone. You canât bear to acknowledge him, knowing damn well that heâs more than capable of having you turn around, back into Clarkâs waiting arms.
When he realises that Krypto isnât leaving your side anytime soon, Clark lets out a low, sharp whistle that has the puppyâs ears perking upâalmost Pavlovian in the act. Thatâs when you look down at him, a small apologetic smile on your lipsâthe kind people give when theyâve already made up their mindâand he backs away. Then quietly, he whimpers, before scampering off to Clarkâs side.
âYou donât need to go,â Clark says hoarsely as you reach for the handle. Itâs not a plea, not quite. But it hangs between you like one, hope and resignation twisted together in an unbreakable promise.
You finally glance at him. A mistake.
Heâs standing there, right where you left him, looking at you like youâre his salvation and his ruination. Like if you took one step forward, heâd welcome you home with open armsâwhere, deep down, you know you belong. But if you took a step back, heâd let you, because he cherishes you too much to beg for a love youâre not ready to give.Â
And dear God, but thatâs worse.
âI do, Clark,â you whisper. âI really do.â
â
Dinner is a simple affairâitâs been the same meal every night for the past couple weeks. Calum is starting to get sick of it, you can see it in the way he slumps over the table, head in his hand as he pushes the rice around the plate.Â
âBaby,â you start, âyou need to eat itââ
âI am eating,â he grumbles, shovelling a spoonful in his mouth. Heâs gotten grumpier since the whole ordeal with Clark and his sour mood only makes your heart ache. He hardly plays anymore. Barely even talks to you. Just sits by the window day and night, his Superman figurine by his side as he waits for a blur in the skyâa glimpse of his favourite person.Â
âCalum.â
Your tone is stern, brooking no argument. The meaning behind it is clear: you wonât tolerate his attitude.
A thought pops into your head then, unwarranted and unexpectedâClark. You can imagine him sitting beside Calum, that serious look softening into something patient yet firm as he says, âCal, listen to your mother.â His voiceâquiet but unshakableâwould cut through the tension because thatâs what Clarkâs always been best at. Stepping in when you needed a break, when the âbad copâ act wore thin and your patience ran dry. Â
You swallow hard, pushing down the ache his absence has left behind as it blooms quietly in your chest. Calum still hasnât looked at you, muttering quietly to himself. His angerâand his painâis clear in the way he hides away from you, and the guilt hits you all at once. Heâs struggling as much as you are. Nowâs not the time to be selfish.
âHey,â you say, moving from your spot on the opposite side of the table to crouch down beside him. Shifting his chair, you force him to meet your gaze. âLook at me, Calum. Whatâs wrong?â
Heâs still silent, but he looks at you almost hesitantly, as if itâs somehow a scary ordeal. You know exactly what this is aboutâyou just want to hear it from his own lips.Â
âLook, Iâm sorry about Clark. I am. I swear I am. I miss him too, more than you know, buddyââÂ
âHe said⊠he said he loves you,â Calum murmurs, glancing away, focusing his attention on a spot somewhere over your shoulder.Â
âI know, baby,â you whisper back, âI love him too.â
Youâve never said those words out loudânot to yourself, not to Clark. But saying them to Calum feels like a confession, a truth you canât deny or take back, and a promise thatâll never be fulfilled, all at once.
âThen why canât he come over?â His bottom lip trembles, baby blues welling with tears. âYou said that people who love each other are nice to each other. And youâre being mean to himââ
âThatâs different, Calum. Youâre my sonââ
âAnd heâs Mr Clark!âÂ
It doesnât slip past you, the fact that he says âMr Clarkâ. Over the past couple of months, as the three of you had grown closer, forming a small family in the purest sense of the word, Calum had dropped the âMrâ, and Clark had simply become âClarkâ.Â
Now, Calum just says Mr Clark like it means something. It did once. You just donât know what it means anymore.Â
âHoneyâŠâ you say softly, cupping his cheek tenderly. âMr Clark⊠he broke Mamaâs trust. You remember what I taught you about trust, right?âÂ
Calum doesnât respond as stubborn tears begin to fall down his face. Your throat closes up, a choked emotion you canât show Calum, lest your own sadness affect his even more. So you force a smileâhe canât tell the difference between that and the usual twinkle in your eyes, but that doesnât make faking it any easier. The curve of your mouth trembles and the sheer effort of pretending that everything is fine when itâs not forces a heavy weight on your shoulders. Itâs a pain you havenât felt in a long, long timeânot since Clark Kent offered to bear it for you.Â
âMr Clark broke Mamaâs trust,â you continue, and your voice is barely above a whisper, threatening to crack at any given moment. âAnd⊠I only want people I trust around you, Calum. Because I want you to be safe, okay? I want to protect you and I canât do that if Mr Clark lied to me.â
Calum bursts into tears then, collapsing off his chair and into your arms. The sob he lets out is heartwrenching.âBut I want him!âÂ
âI know, baby,â you hush softly, running over hand up and down his back. Tucking his head against your chest, his tears soak your shirt as he hiccups between sobs. âI miss him too.â
You hold Calum there, close to your chest with your cheek pressed to his head. Itâs hard to soothe a child whoâs hurting, and much harder to soothe a child who doesnât want you, no matter how fleeting his anger is. The ache in your heart only grows, until youâre terrified youâll bleed out on the ground, without a single person capable of stitching you back together.Â
â
Clark Kent is, by nature, one of the most caring men youâve met. And his absence leaves a gaping hole in your life.Â
There was something so right about having him around, his presence like a blanket of security that wrapped you in safety and securityâaround him, you didnât have to worry. You didnât even have to lift a finger.
For the longest time, Clark had been the one holding you together. Heâd been the one to make sure you ate and showered when your mind wandered too far to remind yourself. The one to answer your call in the middle of the night when you needed helpâor when you were just lonely. He was the person who plated your dinner, washed the dishes after youâd spent the evening cooking for him, a labour of love born out of kindness. Now the dishes remain untouched, piling up high until you force yourself to get up and wash them yourself.Â
Youâre not a lazy mother, not by a long shot. Youâve spent the last five years dedicating your life, and all your time, and energy to a little boy whoâs become the center of your world. But a small part of you had gotten used to being treasured and treated like someone worth being cared for, the way he cared for you.Â
Before Clark had ripped it away from you.
The resentment still coils in your chest every time you pass him in the apartment lobby, or see his name under an article on the front page of the newspaper. And sometimes, you want to curse at the sky, in hopes that Superman might just hear you.Â
But most times, you just sit in bed, pretending that your blanket around your shoulders is half as comforting as Clarkâs arms. Itâs a dangerous thingâimaginationâand it has you wondering what would happen if you were to call him up now.Â
A little part of you knows that heâd answer without hesitation. His voice would be soft on the other side, patient and understanding. Itâd be the balm to your weary soul, an antidote that you know will work wonders the moment you get your hands on it. The larger part of you thoughâthe one that thinks with logic and common sense and everything that is painfully pessimisticâhopes that he wouldnât. Because answering means he still cares. It means that heâs not angry and, in a worst case scenario, it means that he doesnât feel guilty about breaking your trust.Â
Itâs late Sunday night when you hear a knock on your apartment door. Calum is already asleep, has been for hours now. Youâve been rotting on the couch since you put him to bed, some crappy Netflix original series playing on the TV screen but youâre not really paying attention. Your thoughts are somewhere in the past, stuck in sunny skies and yellow suns and baby blue eyes.Â
Thatâs when you hear it.Â
Two heavy knocks on your door.Â
Standing up with a heavy sigh, you pause the TV. The soles of your pink fluffy slippers squeak against the floorboards as you shuffle down the hallway. âComing!â
The latches come undone, chains falling with a soft clink and the door creaks in that familiar way it always does. You recognise his shoes first, worn loafers that have become scuffed from months of use.
Clark.Â
Heâs the last person you expected to see, especially not so close to midnight.Â
Heâs not wearing his glasses.Â
He looks different without them, youâd realised this the night you left. Handsomer. The thought crosses your mind like last time, unbidden.Â
 The second thing you notice is that heâs tiredâhis eyes are sunken, dark bags circled below them, with his brows furrowed tightly as he squints down at you.Â
The third thing you spot is the bouquet of flowers in his hands. White lilies and white peonies, bunched together at the stem with a cream-coloured wrapping paper. Itâs a gorgeous assortment, not bright enough to be an eyesore, but so not dull that it feels lazy. Simple, not understated.
Your favourite kind.Â
âI⊠I got these for you,â he says quietly, holding out the bouquet. No âhiâ. No âI missed youâ. Just âhereâ. As if he has a right to come out of nowhere and bring you flowers, like a boyfriend making it up to his girl after a fight.Â
As if it hasnât been weeks since youâve seen him, let alone spoken to him.Â
Still, you reach for it almost instinctively before reconsidering, drawing your hand back to your side. âWhy?â
âYou saidâŠâ he pauses, clearing his throat. His gaze flicks up to meet your eyes before he looks away, bashful. âYou told me that day⊠youâd want flowers every Sunday.â
Your eyes widen imperceptibly, something fleeting passing through your chest before itâs tamped down. That was the last thing youâd expected him to say. Hell, you didnât even think heâd remember that conversation, let alone act on it.Â
âBy the man I love.â It comes out flat, blunt in a way you donât recognise. Unimpressed, like the fact that he came over to bring you flowers means nothing at all.Â
âAnd I love you,â he rasps softly. âThatâs excuse enough for me.â
 âYou donât have a right to say that.â Not anymore.
The venom in your words makes Clarkâs heart clench. There was a time, not too long ago, when you looked at him with stars in your eyes, spoke to him with a honey-sweet voice that sent fire rushing through his veins. Heâs certain it still wouldâyou always seemed to have that effect on him, the way you make his head spin with the possibilities of what he could do to you, body and soul. And beneath that, a shining awe at the fact that, even if for just a little while, you were his.Â
And now this is what youâve becomeâwhat heâs done to you. Lost to a distance and drift that he couldâve held together on his own if heâd just given himself the chance. Â
âYouâre right,â he rectifies hurriedly, worried that a momentâs pause would seem too much like hesitationâor worse, ignorance. His gaze softens. âIâm sorry.â
His hand comes up to hover at your cheek to reach out and touch you. It wavers midair, a split second of hesitation before it cups your face. Clarkâs palm is bigâalways has been, in a way that makes you feel small and protectedâwarm against your cheek and you lean into his touch, the gesture automatic in nature.Â
Clark pauses for a moment, wallowing over the words he wants to say.
âI never meant to hurt you,â he says lowly. âI never meant to lie to you, or keep secrets from you. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to make sure that, no matter what happens to me, or to Metropolis or any-fucking-one else, you would be safe. Hate me. Yell at me. Hell, hit me. But please⊠donât keep me away. Donât make me spend another day apart from you. I canât survive that. I wonât. Because I meant what I said, sweetheart. Youâre the reason I come home everyday. You give me a reason to want to make this world a better place.â
Those were the words he said to you the night he left, and you remember vividly like a branded mark seared into your mind. The fight replays in your head more often than youâd like, and every time it makes your heart ache a little bit more than before.Â
 âI will protect you! Always. Canât you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if youâd just let me in. Iâm not here to hurt you. Iâm not himââ
You flinch at the memory, the reminder that Clarkâs love, though sorely painful, is nothing like Dylanâs. Quiet and unspoken, but so resolute that it could become a constant in your life to fill in the spaces of an empty void. It had been empty for so long, dry and barren, waiting for a love to bear the hurt on their shoulders for you.
That had been Clark.Â
And some nights, you let your mind wander to that dangerous place, teetering on the edge of rationality and foolish hopeâto wonder if letting him leave was the wrong choice. What if you had decided to hear him out instead? What if you had simply given him a chance?
He notices your flinchâand immediately, his other hand flies up to cradle your face properly now. âHey⊠talk to me. Tell me whatâs wrong. Please.â
Because thatâs Clark for you. Always pouring out of his own cup just to make sure yours is full. Looking back, you hadnât been as grateful as you shouldâve been during your time together. Maybe thatâs where your faults first startedâtiny cracks that quickly, and quietly, Â
âIâm scared,â you admit, and your voice breaks, delicate in a way that you fear makes you seem weak.Â
He doesnât need to ask why. Just a tilt of his head that you can read like a book. Scared of what, he asks you with a look, begging, almost to let him in.
A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from your throat, like you couldnât possibly fathom the idea of not being scared. For the longest time, the world has dealt nothing but blowsârolling punch after punch until youâre bruised and battered and broken.
So you canât help but to blurt out, âWhat if you realise you donât want me and Calum?âÂ
Clark doesnât miss a beat. âThatâs never going to happen,â he insists, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.Â
âHeâs not your son.â
âI love him like one,â he counters.
Thereâs a conviction in his voice that makes your chest constrict, like a snake finding a home in the crevice of your ribs, a makeshift cage that squeezes, tighter and tighter until your breath becomes weak and shaky. Clarkâs arm bands around your waist without warning, pulling you closer until youâre flush against him. His mouth ghosts over yours, and you can practically taste the minty gum that heâs always chewing lingering on his breath. He shakes his head, a pained noise escaping his lips, like he wants to steal away all the hurt that you feelâthat  he inflicted on youâand carry it for you.Â
âStop that,â Clark pleads, and his voice cracks with the sheer effort of holding back. âStop diminishing how much I love you. How much I need you. Donât you see? Sweetheart, youâve made Metropolis home for me.â
Your heart beats in your throat, a slow pain seizing your body as he holds you close, the same reverence in his eyes that heâs always looked at you with.
âClarkâŠâ you breathe out, but when his jaw bumps against your cheek, warm skin on warm skin, youâre a goner. You fist the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like itâs a lifeline. Turning your head, your nose brushes his, closer and closer, until youâre sharing the same breath. You donât let yourself hesitate. âI know.â
âYou know but youâre not believing itââ Clark starts to insist, but a small voice quiets through the blanketed silence of the night.
âMama?â
The sound of Calum calling out your name has you jumping away from Clarkâs hold. Somehow, it feels like youâre sixteen again, caught sneaking out to meet up with a boy you shouldnât be seeing, and a wave of guilt washes over you.
Calumâs bedroom door clicks shut behind him as he waddles towards you, rubbing his eyes to remove the disorientation. Even half-asleep, he seeks out your comfort. âMama, whatâs happening?â
âNothing, baby,â you say softly. Itâs hard to miss the way Clark watches him, with the longing of a father who misses holding his sonâfor years, youâd prayed Dylan would look at Calum like that. It only hurts more now that itâs Clark in his place. Your hand lands on Calumâs shoulder when he finds his place beside you, already redirecting him back to bed. âGo back insideââ
âWhatâs Mr Clark doinâ here?â Calum blinks up at Clark, confused, like heâs not quite if Clark is really there or just a figment of his wild imagination.
âHeâs⊠just dropping by, Cal.â The lie feels unnatural on your tongue, but Calum doesnât quite buy it. Though, to be fair, youâve never been the best liar.
He just stares up at Clark, eyes squinted and hands on his hips as he frowns. âAre you here to make Mama happy again?â
The expression in Clarkâs eyes shatters as his gaze finds yours in the dimly lit corridor. He just shakes his head, and, for once in his lifetime, heâs at a loss for words. His mouth opens, and closes, looking for the perfect answer as if it would automatically slip out of his tongue. Â
âIf your mother wants to be happy, thenâŠâ
Then Iâll stay, is what he doesnât say.
âIn,â you repeat again to your son, sterner this time. Turning into your home, you tell Clark, âIâll see you around.â
But you both know thatâs a lieâyouâve been avoiding him for months now. You even go out of your way just to make sure you donât pass him in the hallways of your apartment building. To you, not seeing him at all is easier than confronting him, even if just for a moment. Itâs simpler to deprive yourself of him entirely than to risk brushing against him in the lobby when youâre both collecting mail, or having to wait for the same elevator thatâll take the both of you to a home that the other is no longer welcome in.
Clark, for all that itâs worth, doesnât seem quite ready to let you go again, especially not so soon. He calls your name, but it falls short on his tongueâtoo painful to say out loud, but not too lost a love to shy away from fighting for it. For you.
For a single moment, you freeze. Then you turn around, angling your body, just so, to be able to hear him.Â
âLet me try again,â Clark pleads, words rushed like heâs worried that taking too long will shatter the momentâor worse, whatever remains of your trust. His hand finds yours in the din, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you close. It forces you look at him, and meet his gaze. âNo secrets, no liesâjust us.â
Itâs tempting. God knows, itâs tempting, but the hurt of his betrayal still lingers, still a fresh wound despite the weeks heâs given you space to put yourself back together. Clark can sense it somehow, because his hand finds your chest, palm flat in the space just above your breasts, and he can feel your heart beating rapidly beneath his touch. âI know I hurt youââ
âStop that,â you echo his earlier sentiment, and an unfamiliar anger simmers at the pits of your stomach, hot and painful. You thought youâd left it in the past, during those first few weeks after you walked out, but here it is, stronger than ever. But this time, maybe the hatred that stirs within you isnât aimed at Clark aloneâyou know that this aching need in your chest is your own doing, more than anything.
âJust⊠stop.â The words come out choked, shaking your head as you blink back tears. âYou made me strong once, Clark. And I needed you more than anything in this world. So fuck you for making me still need you.â
Not an outright rejection, but not an honest acceptance.Â
Clarkâs eyes soften when he realises that youâre offering him a middle groundâa chance to start over again.
He waits for a heartbeat.
Then two.
And on the third, he takes a chance. His hand drifts up, the pad of his thumb wiping away the single tear that slips down your cheek. âCan I come inside?â
You pauseâhesitation clips at the forefront of your mind, before your heart takes over, honest and true. Leaning into his touch with a gentleness that borders on tense, you nod slowly, and a small smile carves your face as you warn, âI havenât washed dishes in three days, though.â
Clark just laughs, warm lips finding your forehead in the dim hallway. âWhy am I not surprised?â
He pulls you close, one large arm banding around your waist that feels equal parts comforting and possessive. He tugs you into your apartment, and the door closes shut behind you with a quiet clickâfor good.
@nightwingblvd â feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist!
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