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elijahhewsonswifelol · 2 days ago

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I think a Bruce and reader meet cute/love at first sight would be cool! Welcome back! I missed your writing ❤️

Away, Away, Away

Bruce Wayne x reader

IN WHICH you accidentally stumble into the one and only Bruce Wayne on your way out of the club for your birthday. To you, it’s a fuzzy conversation with a blurry stranger you can’t even seem to recognize, to Bruce, it’s love at first sight.

WC: 4.3k

Warnings: Reader is shorter than bruce, Bruce lowkey being a perv, mentions of alcohol, reader being drunk, mentions of puke.

Bruce was tired. Exhausted even, if he allowed himself to be the least dramatic. Between being Batman, his hectic relationship with the borderline mentally deranged kids he’d somewhat decided to bring home all these years ago, and his messy on-and-off relationship he had going on with Selina, he was done.

He wasn’t often seen like this, work attire still clad on his broad figure, muscles so tense and rigid under the restraint of the tight fabric. Walking through the dark streets of Gotham where he could be recognized and nagged at any moment. Though he needed a moment alone, and maybe breathing the damned polluted air of Gotham could do him some good.

Albeit complaining, he didn’t want to be here. He craved the falling residues of black eyeshadow, the tight and suffocating kevlar suit. He craved the violence and vengeance, the freedom and enslavement of being the Bat. Though tonight Alfred had forced him into the sidelines because he had been far too distracted, and he’d be damned if he’d even think of crossing the butler.

So instead, here he was, Valentino dress shoes clicking against the concrete sidewalk as he envied those children of his that were currently occupying his favourite nightly pastime in his place. Bruce huffed, rolling his blue eyes like a child. All the most billionaire-like behaviour.

The distant sound of music began resounding in his ears, and as he lifted his head to glance at the direction in which the music came from, the yellowish glow of the overhead sign casted him like an angel caught in the midst of golden hour. Bruce stalled, hands in his pockets as he took in the sight before his very own eyes.

Apparently he had managed to walk his frustrated self all the way to the club, mid city, a whole hour walk away from the mansion. Ever the detective that he was, his sharp eyes fell upon the sight before him. He felt his shoulders stiffen upon the realisation. The sidewalk was bustling with people, and people could only mean nuisance, especially if you were the billionaire playboy that he was.

There was a crowd by the door. Some people drunk, some people high, and some busted off whatever they could get their grimy hands on. Women in tiny sequin dresses, dainty heels that made them swagger with each drunken movement that they took. Men clad in beach shorts and most likely the first shirt they’d found laying in the back of their unorganised closets.

Bruce watched as one of the women doubled over, emptying the entire contents of her stomach, lunch, dinner and probably the many drinks that she’s had before even stepping foot inside the club. He scrunched his nose at the unwanted sight, but his stomach didn’t turn, he’d seen far worse as Batman. These little things couldn’t phase him anymore. He averted his eyes as she doubled over for a second round, her short dress rose up her hips even further as her equally drunk friend attempted to sooth her.

Bruce rolled his eyes for what seemed like the 10th time tonight, rolling his eyes at the infuriating human antics asif he was any better himself. He could remember the last time he’d gotten so drunk to drown his never ending sorrows, but he didn’t want to remember, and maybe a sip of some hennessy could help drown those memories, and make new ones that he would regret once more instead.

Nevertheless, he was ready to leave the site before anyone could catch a glimpse of him and ruin his night furthermore. He turned around, sharp on his heels as he attempted to retrace his route back home, where he could only hope that the butler he considered family would finally agree to release him into the crime-filled alleys that he considered home.

Although his march was quickly interrupted as he felt a sudden weight crash into his chest, a quick yelp, then the feeling of a small palm connecting with his chest in an attempt to chase stability. He barely flinched at the impact, ever so the man that he was, but the suddenness caused him to halt for a second. Frozen in his steps, eyes wide and that frown of his etched impossibly further onto his face.

Bruce always wanted to believe he was a humble man, really, but being ranked so far up above the rest of society could only do so much to a person. He scoffed in offence, disbelief written all over his face at the fact that someone had dared to even stumble into the one and only Bruce Wayne. Sure, he felt like a bratty kid soon enough and his eyebrows unfurrowed from their tense position, but he couldn’t help it.

He gave himself a minute to calm down, before taking a few steps back to glance at his assaulter.

Though the second he glanced down, good lord…

You were looking at him with those eyes that made his breath hitch, palms sweaty in the blazer pockets that they were currently residing in. He just couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, from the way your lashes were long and dark, layers of mascara coating them as you blinked up at him. Black eyeliner, eyeshadow and whatever else that adorned your face, Bruce wasn’t sure he cared at the moment.

You were beautiful, breathtaking, and soon he had to manually remind himself to take in a huff of fresh air. He remained silent for what felt like hours, taking in the way your hands were still very much planted upon his broad torso. Thick silver hoops were dangling off your ears, reflecting the yellow light coming from the club in a way Bruce believed was comically stunning. Everything about you made his heart rate excell the scale, and soon a frown settled itself back upon his lips, unaware that it had ever left in the first place, as he felt your hands retracting back to you.

“God these heels are killing me…” you muttered to yourself, and Bruce watched you with amusement. You bent down to fix the strap of the shoe that seemed like it was apparently ‘killing you’, stumbling a few steps back as you allowed yourself the space from whatever you’d just collided with. The thought crossed the billionaire’s mind that you had not even discerned that you had in fact collided into another human's chest, and not whatever inanimate object you believed you had walked into.

“I don’t even know where my friends are…” his interest peaks as you speak again, but when he glances down, you’re still bent in half trying to fix your shoe strap. ‘You’re talking to yourself, unable to even acknowledge that there’s another person standing before you’ he thinks, that’s how drunk you were.

He was going to huff, really, but before he could disrupt your peace, or at least whatever peace was left, he couldn’t help himself from the way his eyes strayed upon your figure. The way the seam of your long, black backless dress seemed to dip so low felt sinful, and Bruce felt disgusted with the way he allowed himself to glance at you in such a way. The drunk past her mind woman who had just fucking crashed into him.

He heard murmured curses coming frown below, forcing his eyes to snap back towards your still facing-the-floor face and he cleared his throat, making his presence known. In a split second, you were back up straight, as straight as the alcohol coursing through your veins currently allowed you to, but straight nevertheless. Bruce couldn’t help the tiny grin that lifted upon his lips as he watched you, wild hair from the bend, eyes wide as you stared at him like some mad woman.

Your dress was scrunched in the middle from the position you were previously in, and despite everything, you were still the most beautiful woman that Bruce had ever seen in his entire life. All thoughts of Selina, Talia, Vicki or whichever one of the hundreds of women he’d involved himself with in his years of living, vanished from his head completely. Stuffed at the back of his mind to never be found again, he felt his cold heart beating for you, and it scared him.

If only you knew that you had managed to spread fear into the one and only Batman’s heart, you’d never believe yourself. Because he didn’t even know you, and yet he burned stronger for you than he’d ever gone with anyone else.

Suddenly, the sound of a warm giggle enveloped all of his senses, and Bruce felt like he was dying. He’d never felt like this, never even for Selina, the woman he once thought he could leave the Batman life behind for, the woman who’d left him at the altar and broke his heart like she’d done just about every few months.

“What’re you made of? you feel like a brick wall.” slurring up on your words, you sent him an apologetic smile as you stuttered on your sentences.

“I just work out a lot.” he responded lamely. Watching as you rolled your eyes playfully at him, clutching onto your purse that looked like it had seen more fights than he had. And that said a lot coming from The Batman. The fake leather material was beginning to peel off, and he had a single thought at the back of his mind.

He wanted to give you a better life, he craved it in fact. A life where you’d get the highest quality purses, endless choices of Birkins, and probably shoes comfortable enough that you wouldn’t feel the need to stumble into every neighbouring stranger in search of stability.

Talking about stumbling, you seemed like you could barely stand straight for the life of you. He didn’t think twice as he saw you slightly lose balance, reaching a hand out with the help of his Bat reflexes, before you could hit the ground. But that was heavily exaggerated, the worst that could happen would be your purse slipping off your shoulder, but maybe all that Bruce needed was an excuse to have his hands on you.

He felt somewhat disgusting all over again, yet he couldn’t help himself. The skin of your arm felt so smooth under his rough, calloused palm. He could feel the heavenly feeling of your lotion under his palm, and now he definitely felt creep-ish.

“You can barely even stand straight.” he blurts out and watches as your lips contort into a smile, before that laugh of yours escapes your lips and Bruce feels like flying. Like a real bat.

“I know, it’s my birthday today and my girls took me out. It didn’t help that we drank just about the amount at the bar at home before coming here..”

Bruce hums, muttering a small ‘happy birthday’ that he’s pretty sure you haven’t heard.

He’s blurry to your eyes, just like the rest of the world currently was, but it didn’t escape you that he was covered in an attire that didn’t seem to quite fit the aesthetic of everybody else, especially not clubbing or walking around the city at this time.

“What are you doing here? You don’t seem just as drunk as any of us, and trust me, in no offence do i say but you look like you’ve just ran away from a business meeting.” you laugh again, and he can’t find it in himself to be offended. He almost chuckles, but he saves it and gives you a tiny grin instead.

“Just needed to get away for a minute.”

“Trouble in paradise?” you ask, and he shrugs, uninterested in talking about his issues with Selina. She was in the past now, and Bruce knew that he needed to move on, to think about the future.

For a split second, Bruce believes he’s messed up as he watches your face contort slightly under his words. He mentally cursed himself as he tried to rack his brain to find where he’d messed up. But honestly, he can’t quite understand why he’s putting so much effort into a stranger.

“I wish I could help you with your wife but I'm not quite sure I'm qualified for this, especially not in this state.” you mumble, shrugging your shoulders like he’d done so just a moment ago.

Bruce is more than aware of everything at the moment. From the way you try to hide your disappointment, to the way you try to avoid his eyes as you glance down at the floor before you. Hell, he’s not even sure that you’re thinking straight, but he’s hurt at you being hurt, and everything overwhelms him. He’s not used to caring like this, not this fast at least.

He’d cared this deeply for one woman in his life, and it’d taken them years to get where they were, yet she’d left him standing there all alone like a fool, and Bruce wasn’t sure he could forgive anymore.

“I’m not married.” He doesn't know why he’s blurred it out so quickly, but something inside of him felt the need to defend himself all of a sudden. He shrugs before continuing. “Things got messy, but I ended it after all.”

“Sorry for bringing it up,” you can't help but trail off, feeling guilty for making something that seemed to hurt him resurface in the span of your drunken stupidity.

“Nothing to be sorry for, I actually feel lighter now that it’s over.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence that fell upon the both of you as you stared into the void, and Bruce could see that you obviously didn’t consider his words as true, and the guilt still gnawed at you like a vulture.

Tho before he could even get a work out, a sudden swoosh of breeze rushes over the both of you, and Bruce observes as goosebumps come rising up your delicate skin. The hairs of your arms raising as you shivered upon impact. He was quick to make a work of it, shrugging his blazer and offering it to you in a quick, silent and almost nonchalant movement.

“Please, I'm really not that cold.’ You smiled sheepishly as you tried to fight the way you’re all up and shivering all of a sudden. You’re drunk and not the least worried about the fact that you’re wearing nothing but a pair of black, lace panties under the long skin tight dress, but a certain playboy took notice of it.

It’s sinful, he is aware. He’s aware that you aren’t aware, and it makes him swallow in self loathing. Still, it was a miracle that you’d managed to have this effect on the billionaire playboy. Same guy who’d had a different woman hanging at his arm just about every gala he attended. Still, he averted his eyes back to the floor as he shrugged once more, silently ushering you to take on his jacket so he doesn’t have to glance at you again. He wasn’t sure for how much longer he could remain civilised, at least not when you were standing before himself

Soon, he feels the expensive fabric of his suit jacket slip off his fingers, and onto yours. When he allowed himself to glance back at you, he’s marvelled by the way you swam in his clothing. His eyes were quickly back on the floor, feigning interest in the cracks along the sidewalk. So much for being civilised.

The conversation lasted for what felt like a minute, but in reality you had strayed from your ground and had ended up talking to Bruce for about 45 minutes, and soon you became aware of it. From the distance, the sound of your name resounded from a female voice, one that you recognized very well.

You peeped behind Bruce’s broad shoulders, and he too turned his head around at the sound of the name being called. He turned around to glimpse at you at the revelation, such a pretty name for such a pretty woman, he thought.

It didn’t take long for the taller woman to reach you, and it was obvious that even with her heels off, she was still about a head taller than you were. She must’ve been your best friend, from the way she hurried by your side, and the glare that she threw towards Bruce’s way was lethal.

The Wayne distanced himself a few steps back, if anything to show to the intruding woman that he meant no threat. She didn’t seem as drunk as you did, but he could still smell the vodka that clung to her pretty orange floral dress. Bruce watched as she clung two hand to each sides of your arms, rubbing them comfortably in and up and down motion over the fabric of his jacket. He couldn’t hear what she was hushing to you, but he made out a few ‘are you okay’s and a stray ‘do you even know who you’re talking to?’

You shrugged, not finding anything serious in the situation. When you’d wake up tomorrow morning with that imminent pounding headache, then you’d truly realise how stupid you really had been in that situation, and if Bruce hadn’t ever been the gentleman that he was, at least you thought so, then it could have ended bad for you.

A couple more minutes of conversation with your friend later and an awkwardly standing-there Bruce later and she was gone, walking back to the group of women that Bruce had deducted as your friends. He didn’t miss the way your friend had thrown him a last deadly glare on her way out, and he found it somewhat amusing.

“Sorry about that, she’s kinda the mom of the group you know…?” you shrugged, sounding confused about it yourself. The more the night gave in, the more you were starting to feel like you couldn’t understand what was going on. Nevertheless you continued. “She came to tell me that the uber would be here soon enough, soooo…” you trailed off again, staring off into the distance where your friend had walked back to.

“I don’t want this night to end, I don’t want to go back,” you whisper the last part like a hushed secret between the two of you, and if you could hear yourself talking clearly, you would’ve thought that you were really in love with this stranger you had just spent nearly a whole hour speaking to. You could’ve dreamt it but you swore that you heard a grumbled ‘me neither’ coming from the brick wall of a man standing in front of you.

“I could always drop you back home if you want to.” he’s not really sure why he’s offering, because it’s sketchy coming from a random guy you’d just met off the streets, drunk off your mind, and a part of him prayed that you declined for the sake of yourself and a near future where you’d meet another stranger, drunk off your mind again. Plus it wasn’t like he had anything to drop you off with, he had walked his frustrated self here while stomping on the concrete sidewalk like a bratty toddler. But Bruce was always one to keep his words, and if he had to find a way then he would. He was Bruce Wayne after all.

“Hey I really appreciate you and all but my mom would really smack me up the head if I accepted a ride from a stranger so..” your giggles trailed off the end of your sentence, not necessarily apologetic as you rejected his last minute offer. Maybe for the best, you could never know in Gotham.

For the first time in the entire night, Bruce allowed himself to laugh for real. Allowed himself to show the side of Bruce Wayne that he showed to the public, except that it wasn’t a public act this time, it was all real. Real for you.

The vulnerability that he displayed for you would’ve made your heart swag in all sorts of directions if you even knew who was standing before you. Though you were quite sure that in the moment, you wouldn’t have been able to spout out even a single word if you were well aware that Bruce Wayne was talking to you, of all people.

There was another call for your name, and this time as Bruce and yourself turned to glance at the caller, you were met with the sight of your girlfriends trying to usher you into the car now waiting beside them. At this moment, Bruce understood that this could be the last time he’d ever see you, and with the way you were glancing up at him, he could tell that you were thinking just about the same.

Bruce could still hear your girlfriends calling for you endlessly inside the uber, and he could see the reflection of one of them half-in and half-out the car trying to lure your drunken self inside. Though he didn’t care, he wanted to keep you here as long as he could for the night. He was selfish, he knew, but he dedicated his whole life to this city, to hell if he decided to be selfish for once in his damned life.

His eyes observed carefully as you fished your cellphone from your purse, the device crammed between what seemed to be like a keychain which was absolutely suffocated by an unnecessary amount of keys, and a few tubes of what he believed was lipgloss or lipstick. Probably the ones you were wearing right now. He made a mental note to give you an endless array of those someday, just the best he could find, not any of that cheap shit you had stuffed in your bag.

Next thing he knew, the frontal camera of your phone was stuffed in his face, and you stood so close to him that he could smell the perfume you were wearing just fine. He gave you a confused glance, and a curious raise of his eyebrow.

“Just need to know tomorrow when i wake up if you were really this handsome, or if I was just really this drunk.” you shrugged your shoulders like it was the most normal thing to spill, and Bruce felt his heart speed up the pace. Though it didn’t show on his face, ever.

You smiled at the phone, and Bruce managed to pull a slither of a grin just at the thought of the situation. He adjusted himself to meet your height so he could at least fit in the frame of your camera.

Your phone is too much of an old model for it to have the frontal flash, so instead you’d have to do with an extremely low quality, dark picture of yourself and this stranger.

You couldn’t deal with the proximity anymore, and you’re sure that this exotic smell that was enveloping your senses was that sweet cologne of his. It was hard to resist the way he was glancing down at you once you retracted the phone back at your side, waiting for you to say something as you tighten the jacket around your shoulders.

He doesn’t really expect it when you regain your position in front of him, and even less when you scurry into your top toes to press a kiss against his slightly pink cheek, the effect of the cold making itself evident on his features. He’s tall, and aware, yet he doesn’t understand why he meets you halfway when you raise yourself high off your toes and bends down to help you offer him your little token of appreciation.

The kiss is quick, and it leaves a warm and tingling feeling along his skin. He’s almost sure that there’s a large, red kiss mark on his cheek, but he’d be more than pleased to acknowledge it especially if it came from you.

Once you’re back on your feet, you lose all the confidence you’ve had before. And by now your hands are hidden behind your back as you stare up at him with that look that makes Bruce want to offer you the whole world.

“Thanks again Mr…” you hesitate, and it suddenly dawns on you that you don’t even know his name, and yet you’ve just called him handsome, bumped into him, talked his ear off for a good hour now and even kissed him. Even if it was the most innocent kiss on the cheek.

“Wayne.” Bruce replies simply. Your moment is cut short once he feels the presence of your girlfriends besides him, and soon she’s grabbing onto your wrist and pulling her towards the car as you struggle to balance off of your heels.

He watches, a smile on his face as you’re pulled off. You manage a little smile and an off-balanced wave as you’re pushed into the car. Soon all he’s left with is himself, the music in the background shifting from one song to another as everyone outside rushes back in. A summer hit, he thinks. Nothing for him.

Bruce falters for a second, before turning on his heels and dragging himself back home. Though this time, he leaves with the distant memory of the strange woman that was talking to herself, and the lipstick mark burning into his skin in a way he thought he could die for.

All he could think about at this instant was that he wanted to take you away, far away from Gotham, from the life you were both living, because he could see that it wasn't enough. He wanted to give you the best, and even if it’s miles away, then that’s where he’d take you.

A/N: Thank you so much anon for your request, this was originally supposed to be a short 1.5k words drabble but oh well… Enjoy🫶🏽

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elijahhewsonswifelol · 4 days ago

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username applies yall!!!!

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elijahhewsonswifelol · 4 days ago

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god he is stunning

Behind Inhaler’s cover of Kavinsky’s ‘Nightcall’ for Like A Version (Interview)

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elijahhewsonswifelol · 4 days ago

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big fan of men who call you spoiled and roll their eyes at you but continue to give into your every whim

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elijahhewsonswifelol · 4 days ago

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IM SAT IM SAT IM SAT IM SAT

a cozy interview - clark kent

summary: when superman is married to an award winning actress and filmmaker, it's no surprise to see him crashing her interviews, and despite keeping his identity a secret, he doesn't keep his affection for his wife a secret. if anything, he flaunts it. wc: 5.5k+ cw: FLUFF!! pregnant!reader, pretty dialogue heavy, italics are flashbacks!!

Clark Kent didn’t believe in the so called art of broadcast journalism. Standing in front of a camera while reading something off a screen to deliver news was lazy and took away from the hard preparation and editing process that made journalism so rewarding. Similarly, he found the rise of interviews posted on online media to be boring. Sure, it was nice to see the interviewee actually speaking, but what about the rest of the story? The rest of the article in a fresh newspaper, still smelling of ink and warm to the touch?

Again, he thought it was lazy. The interview was only one step in a very long process to end up with a satisfying story — one that would make a journalist’s chest swell with pride at the sight of it on the front page of a newspaper. Sure, Clark Kent wasn’t exactly the most thorough or orthodox journalist on the planet. He too had taken shortcuts to produce the best articles possible; after all, when had he properly sat down with Superman for an interview?

But at the end of the day, when it was your face on the screen he was watching, smiling warmly and speaking professionally to a nervous interviewer, Clark had to say that he was a very big fan. Not the type of fan who stood outside of your film sets in hopes of catching a glimpse of your face, or those who shyly interrupted your grocery runs for a photo.

No, he was the type of fan to watch with a fond smile as you pressed yourself onto your tippy toes in the kitchen, pouting as you tried to reach a glass cup that was just a little too high. He was the type of fan to help you change into your pyjamas when you were exhausted and carry you to bed after falling asleep on the couch. He was the type of fan to love you with his entire being — to have seen you grow for many years. He was the fan who had gotten on one knee for you, put a ring around your finger, called you his wife, and put a baby in your womb.

Clark Kent was the best husband you could ever ask for, so of course he turned the volume up to watch every single one of your interviews — despite the fact that he was still broadcast journalism’s number one hater — and show up to all your premieres with a supportive smile on his face.

At first, he didn’t want to attend the premieres with you, insisting that it was your night, and he didn’t need people recognising Superman on the red carpet and turning their focus to him. But after the first premiere, and then the second and third premiere, Clark noticed that you were perhaps even more famous than him. That not a single person cared that Superman was even present, unless he was hanging off your arm.

And so Clark Kent continued to show up for his wife every single time, including this morning when he dropped you off on an interview set. He hadn’t felt the need to walk you inside despite how overprotective he had grown throughout your pregnancy, because you knew you were safe in this particular interviewer’s company. You felt safe, even as the intimidating studio lights flashed on and you observed the entire film crew standing before you with poorly hidden excitement.

"Hello everyone, I am your host Brittany, and I am so glad to be welcoming our favourite guest back on the show!"

The camera panned over to you as Brittany announced your name, leaving you to smile and shrug your shoulders excitedly as you waved towards the camera. "I am so unbelievably excited to be here!" You exclaimed, matching Brittany’s energy. The blonde tapped her long nails onto the table next to her, dramatically crossing one leg over the other.

"So today I’m going to be asking you some questions about your relationship with Superman and how that’s sort of affected your career-" Brittany sharply turned to the camera, pointing an accusatory finger straight towards the lens. "Before any of you haters try to cancel me for asking about her relationship instead of her career, she agreed to this! We’re friends, we’ve-"

Brittany was cut off by your ecstatic laughs, clapping your hands together as you leaned forward, lips stretched wide into a smile. "We agreed to this guys!" You told the camera, wiping your hands down on your trousers. "No, Brittany knows all of this stuff anyway, we’re good friends. And if you want to see the really juicy career questions, check out the other interview we just filmed!"

"Damn, you’re trained for this! As she said, guys, go check it out! But yeah, I made sure she approved of all my questions when we were having pizza last night." Brittany’s words brought another laugh out of you, and you nodded.

Safe.

That’s what you felt with Brittany around. Your friend who had not only been there for you for years, but who’d been to your wedding and lived ten minutes away from you.

"Alright, should we try to be professional now?" She asked with a deadpan stare and you nodded, clearing your throat and shutting your eyes momentarily to get yourself in a more professional mindset. Brittany cackled loudly before getting herself into character too, a shaky breath escaping her as she attempted to regain control over herself.

Somewhere, you heard someone snap a clapperboard, and you opened your eyes just in time for Brittany to smile widely, saying "Hello everyone, I am your host Brittany, and I am so happy to welcome everyone’s favourite guest back on the show!"

"Thank you so much for having me, Brittany, I am absolutely thrilled to answer your questions today."

You and Brittany stared at each other for a couple of long seconds, and you shut your eyes softly at the sight of her lips tugging up into a smile. "We’re doing so good, come on." You encouraged, and Brittany nodded in agreement.

"I’m actually impressed at the difference in your voice.” She clapped her hands together twice, then put on a fancy British accent. “Alright, onto the questions! Firstly, you’re married to Superman," You nodded at Brittany’s statement, a hand coming up to rest on your swollen stomach. "But you only launched your relationship to the public by posting your wedding photos on instagram! Do you want to tell us a bit about how long you’ve been together and how you’ve managed to keep your relationship private for so long?"

"So, my husband and I have been married for just over a year and a half now, and I think I posted those photos… maybe six months ago?"

"Eight months ago." Brittany corrected, and your eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Wow, you came prepared." Brittany grinned, pulling up a screenshot of your instagram page, highlighting the wedding post, captioned ’22.02.2024’. "You posted this on the 3rd of November, 2024."

"Yeah, and by then we had been married for almost a year. Before marriage, we were together for five years, but we knew each other a little longer than that."

Brittany knew that though, of course. You had been fresh out of university, working on your first film. It was a risky project. After all, no one had ever managed to interview so many metahumans in such a serious manner. A documentary highlighting war crimes and these brilliant superheroes’s stances on the government. How they try to help, who they want to help.

You had attempted contacting Superman, but after months on end of chasing him, you had still gotten no reply from him. So when a disgusting beast attacked the city, just outside your apartment building, you hadn’t run to safety. No, you ran towards the danger, towards Superman. But of course, he was too busy saving the rest of the city to notice you. It didn’t annoy you, only fuelled your fire. You were determined, tracking down every mention of Superman in the newspapers. Who could get you to him?

And in the end, one name kept appearing, over and over and over again in the Daily Planet. Clark Kent. How the hell did he get so many interviews with this Superman?

"Hi, I’m looking for Clark Kent, please."

From the other side of the communal working space, Clark’s head perked up at the sound of his name, instinctively reaching up to arrange the glasses perched on his nose. He felt his jaw go slack at the sight of a beautiful woman standing near the front desk, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, contrasting widely with her otherwise fashionable outfit. Clark ducked his head down again, pretending to search something up on his computer as you approached, footsteps creating immeasurable suspense for the metahuman.

"Excuse me, is this Clark Kent?"

Clark glanced up quickly, nodding his head. He tried disguising the way his breath hitched at the sight of you up close. God, you were so much more beautiful up close. "That’s me. How can I help you?" You cleared your throat nervously, eyes glued to the handsome man in front of you. You were not expecting some random journalist to be so attractive. And so you did what you always do when nervous — you ranted, going on a tangent about the project you were working on and the impossibility of tracking down Superman. Telling him about how instead, you tracked down someone who knew Superman. Your eyes widened at the realisation that you’d essentially confessed to stalking the poor man.

But if not now, then when?

"Do you have an email or something I could contact? I think his insight in particular would be enlightening for my project. The way he works is so different than other heroes, you know? He seems to really care." Clark straightened up, nodding along at your words. He did work differently to the others. The entire justice squad was so ignorant to causing casualties alongside their work, and stayed on good terms with governments, but all Clark cared about was saving lives. People were not going to die under his watch.

But how would he..? "Hold on, let me ask him if he minds me sharing his contact."

You straightened up, unable to help the wide smile from making its way onto your face. Clark felt his face go hot as he pretended to text Superman, instead sending Jimmy an image of a meme from his phone. He glanced up at you, smiling softly at the hopeful look in your eyes. "Hey, how about I send you-Oh, hold on," Clark glanced down at his phone, which had just buzzed loudly with a message that said 'dude what.’

Grateful for Jimmy’s chronically onlineness, Clark returned his eyes towards you. "He said it’s alright."

"Seriously!? God, if I knew it would be so easy, I’d have found you ages ago." Clark chuckled politely, writing down his own phone number onto a piece of paper. "Don’t share this with anyone though."

"Okay. Alright. Thank you Mr. Kent!"

"Um, let me know how it goes!" His voice hit an embarrassingly high octave, and Clark flushed darkly as you spun around to face him, smiling widely at him and shooting him two thumbs up.

"And how did you manage to keep things private for so long?"

"Mhm, I’m not sure if he’s okay with me saying this, but at the beginning of our relationship, we saw each other a lot during work. Like, when I worked on my very first project, he was quite involved in it, and so because we saw each other so much in private and professional settings, we didn’t go out as much. And back then, I didn’t have the fame I have now, so people weren’t looking for the clues. And by the time I did gain this fame, we were already committed and had built a lifestyle we grew used to."

"Okay, and speak to me about how difficult or easy it was being in a relationship with Superman between your private life and work."

You shrugged at Brittany’s question, thinking back to the beginning of your relationship.

"Hey! Documentary girl!" You squinted your eyes suspiciously, swallowing thickly at the sight of a familiar figure making his way through the busy streets of Metropolis to reach you. You clutched your bag tightly, smiling shyly at the sight of him. "Documentary girl? Seriously?"

Clark Kent stopped in front of you, cheeks pink with humiliation. He thought it would be weirder if he knew your name from the supposed single conversation you’d had at his office. "Sorry, I was- I wasn’t sure if I remembered your name right. I just, I wanted to ask how your interview went? With Superman? If you already had it."

You felt your shoulders relax slightly, and nodded your head slowly, recalling how nervous you’d felt with the superhero in front of you. "Yeah, it was good. He was passionate, you know? I filmed some really great stuff, but you’ll have to wait for the premiere to see it."

"Oh, I see. A man helps you get the best interview of your life and he can’t even catch a glimpse of it?" You shrugged your shoulders teasingly, cheeks aching with the smile you couldn’t suppress. "Would you let me hear raw footage of your interviews with him?" Clark stiffened up.

Well, definitely not.

"I see what you’re doing, Mr. Kent." Your words were only meant to tease him as you spun on your heels, beginning to walk away from him. You gasped when a large hand gently gripped your bicep, tugging you back softly. "No, please!" Clark cried, surprising himself with the desperation in his voice. Slowly, you turned back around to look at his shocked face, a matching expression on yours.

"I just wanted an excuse to see you again."

"Our relationship started with work," You started, smiling softly at the memory of Clark at the beginning of your relationship. He had always been a man who led with his heart. "I already mentioned that he worked on my first project, but I didn’t meet him as Superman. I met him as his real identity, and he was the sweetest man I had ever met. And then, things sort of started to tangle. It actually became easier when I found out about the whole Superman thing, because then we could be fully open with each other."

Your phone buzzed on the table in front of you, and without checking, you knew who it was. Brittany followed your gaze, but you continued speaking. "Him being Superman doesn’t affect my career whatsoever. I have my job like he has his. The difference is that his job as Superman sometimes harms him and my job changes all the time. Sometimes I’m making my own film, others I’m playing a character. Sometimes my working hours are absolutely ridiculous, but sometimes the only thing I’m doing is press. And, you know, he works his day job — the one he actually makes money from, and somehow balances his job as Superman too."

Brittany nodded, reaching on the table between you to grab another printed sheet of paper. She turned it towards the camera, and you instantly laughed at the photo of you and Clark last Halloween. Clark was in full Superman gear whilst you wore your Poison Ivy outfit.

"You just finished press tour for the role you recently played of Poison Ivy in the movie Poison Ivy: Better off Dead. What’s it like to play a supervillain while being married to earth’s favourite superhero?"

You brought a hand up to rub your forehead, thinking deeply. "It was certainly something. The physical training I did for the role was more intense than anything I’d ever done in my life. My husband tried helping at some point, but I hated him for it. He eventually gave up with that and we returned to our preferred form of exercise." You pointedly glanced down at your swollen belly before glancing at the camera. You caught the eye of the camera operator, and broke into a grin at the scattered laughs that came from the crew.

"They know what I mean."

"Babe, we all know what you mean. But thank you for changing the topic for me. You’re having Superman’s child. Are you worried?" Your eyes widened at Brittany’s bluntness and you laughed nervously.

"Okay, um, let’s make things clear. Number 1, Superman is basically a giant and I’m going to birth his child. Number 2, Superman has crazy superpowers that my child may inherit. Number 3, Superman is actually a little piece of shit," You were interrupted by more laughter from behind the camera, and laughed quietly with them. "So yeah, I am a little worried. Mostly to actually give birth - a little less nervous about the rest. Because, you know, if this baby does have his powers and gets his personality, I’m going to get double of my favourite person in the whole word, right? And, at least my husband will be able to help with the power stuff - I don’t really want our house to burn down. And, you know - ouch!"

The entire studio fell silent as you pressed a hand to the side of your belly, eyes going wide in surprise. Then, a smile tugged at your lips and you stared at Brittany expectantly, waving her over to you. "Oh my god, Brittany, get over here."

Brittany immediately stood up, rushing over to your side, and you took her hand in yours then pressed it to your belly. And there it was again, a soft kick against your skin, coming from inside your womb. "He’s kicking." You whispered to your friend, giggling loudly when he did it again. "He knows we’re talking about him," muttered Brittany cautiously, a wide smile on her face. You winced at one particularly sharp kick, jokingly huffing "Okay, that’s enough." But you didn’t want him to stop, not when he was kicking for the first time.

"Do you think Superman’s gonna be a good dad?" Brittany asked, still crouching down next to you. You chewed on your bottom lip, vision going bleary from the tears in your eyes that had suddenly formed. "He’s going to be the best dad in the world."

Brittany removed her hand from your stomach, moving to caress your arm with it. She extended her other arm towards someone behind the camera, mouthing 'tissues' at them. The person rushed around the set for a moment before walking towards Brittany with a box of tissues, which she offered you.

"You said you weren’t gonna made me cry, you liar." You accused, folding the tissue up to carefully dab away your tears so your makeup would stay perfect. Brittany jerked away from you with an offended look on her face and she broke into a loud laugh, saying "You made yourself cry with that one!"

"Oh, shut it."

"Okay, do you want to talk about your career as a distraction for how much you love your husband?"

"Sure, but I wouldn’t mind just talking about him either."

Brittany stood up, returning to her seat with a smile lingering on her features. "Okay, right before this, we filmed a video discussing everything about your career, from university to your future projects. If-"

Brittany’s gaze was caught by a movement in the corner of the room; a door gently opening, welcoming a large figure into the studio. You followed her line of sight, grinning widely when your husband’s broad shadow moved across the set to settle into an empty chair at the back of the room. With or without his glasses, dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans, Clark’s sheepish smile would be recognisable to you anywhere.

"Okay, Mr. Superman, you have everyone in the room’s attention, why don’t you join us down here?" Clark froze at Brittany’s words, unsure exactly what to do, but once he spotted the way you waved him over, he was on his feet, beelining towards his wife. Clark settled a hand on the back of your chair, his other carefully resting on your baby bump as he leaned down, lips capturing yours in a kiss less than appropriate for a professional set. When he pulled back from the kiss, the obscene sound made by your lips was caught by your microphone, and in a corner of the room, the sound technician’s face flushed darkly.

"Hey Brittany," Clark said, leaning over to dap her up. Brittany broke into a wheezy laugh, slapping one of her hands onto her knee, the other tightly clutching a question card. "I didn’t mean to steal the spotlight or anything."

Brittany scoffed with a smile before turning to stare directly into the camera and announcing "Off topic, but last week I was at Mr. and Mrs. Superman’s place for a little gathering they were hosting, and when Clark saw that his precious wife’s attention was off him for ten minutes, he picked her up off her chair, sat on it, and placed her in his lap."

Clark grinned, and you smiled widely, giggling as you recalled your husband’s attention seeking actions. "And I’ll do it again." He announced, bending down to scoop you up and placing you in his lap as he sat in the cushiony armchair. You didn’t even react to the movement, so unfazed by Clark’s mundane displays of strength. You leaned back against your husband’s chest, humming in satisfaction as his hands curled around your waist to rest on your bump. You placed your hands right atop his, then turned to Brittany with a sweet, innocent smile.

Your friend sighed, leaning against her throne and lolling her head to the side. Then, with a voice full of amusement, she turned to look at her crew and asked "Can you guys believe that I’m actually friends with this Award Winning Actress and Filmmaker and goddamn Superman?"

"Hell nah." Someone responded, and you laughed softly, looking over your shoulder to find Clark’s amused smile.

"Oh give yourself some credit. You’ve know everything there is to know about us and yet the two of us—" You nodded your head towards Clark and back in your direction "—Are probably more likely to make a slip up about our private life than you are."

"I mean, it’s enough that you were at our wedding to know how much you mean to us." Clark added, his voice deep. Brittany pouted in appreciation, tilting her head to the side. "Don’t you guys start making me emotional."

"Yeah, well that’s what you get for making me cry." Despite your tone being full of entertainment, Clark straightened up behind you, a frown forming on his face. "She made you cry?" You twisted on Clark’s lap, bringing a hand up to squeeze his cheeks together as you leaned forward to quickly press your lips against his. "Just being a little hormonal." Clark melted back into the chair, nodding in understanding, but his thumb began caressing your skin where it lay over your belly.

"Okay guys, plot twist: this is where I reveal Superman’s identity because he and his wife upset me."

"Upset you!?" You challenged, "I think we made your day, right baby?"

Clark nodded silently, and Brittany dramatically rolled her eyes and waved a hand up dismissively. "Fine, let them do what they want. Superman, is there anything you’d like to say about what it’s like to date such a successful and busy woman? Dave, is the mic catching his voice?"

Clark paused for a moment, looking around at the crew to be prompted on whether to answer the question or not. Dave, the sound technician, stood up, walking into the camera frame to fix the mic above your heads, pulling it back a little so Clark’s voice would be clearer on video. "Speak again please?" Dave asked with his earphones on again, giving a thumbs up when Clark shyly said "Hello?” and then, a few seconds later, “Um, I forgot what the question was."

"So you’ve spent hours begging me to see raw clips of my documentary and you can’t even remember what it’s about!?" Clark shrugged his blazer off, carefully draping it over the back of your couch. The mock anger on your face crumbled at the sight of Clark’s innocent eyes. He shrugged meekly, brushing a hand through his messy hair. You followed the movement with your eyes, blinking quickly to tear your eyes away from him when you caught yourself staring.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Just - remind me? Please?" You huffed pettily, dragging your computer across the couch and onto your lap and searching for the folder you had named 'From the eyes of our protectors'. Clark wordlessly moved to sit next to you, glancing over your shoulder to watch you pull up a video you had taken of Superman a couple of weeks prior.

Clark was almost surprised to discover you had already pulled the videos from your camera and onto your computer. After all, he remembered how long you’d been filming for, and how many things he had explained to your camera.

It had all been done in this very room, in front of your bookcase, but of course, Clark pretended he didn’t know that.

"Okay, let me see a Superman one. See if he’s better in your interviews than mine." You laughed at Clark’s words, and he smiled to himself, crossing his arms over his chest. God, Clark had tried to be as good for you as possible in that interview, and it better be worth it. "Alright, but I have to see some of your stuff too, right? A deal is a deal."

"Yeah, of course honey." You felt your face heat up at the nickname, chewing on your bottom lip as you loaded the video. Clark stared at the side of your face, feeling barely confident enough to brush some of your hair back. He cleared his throat, amused by the way he heard your heartbeat pump faster at the slight touch from him. "You also don’t have to show me anything if you don’t want to." He whispered, causing you to turn to look at him.

"You don’t wanna see?" You asked, voice suddenly quiet. Clark turned his body to fully face you, tilting his head to the side. "I’d love to see the work you have, but I don’t want you to show me because you feel pressured."

Sure, Clark had been pretty much begging you to see your work, but as he’d said, he was just looking for an excuse to see you. And see you he did, for coffee during his lunch break, for library runs to help with your research, and even to go grocery shopping together because you wanted company. But you only recently invited him to take a glimpse of your unfinished documentary, and he was sure it was just your excuse to get him over.

"You’re a really sweet guy Clark, you know that?" You shut your laptop, placing it on your coffee table before turning your body to face him, tucking your legs underneath you. "Uh, I try to be." You reached out to him, humming softly when your fingers came in contact with his hair, intertwining between his dark locks.

“I do want to show you my work. But I want to do this more.” Clark made a confused noise, chewing on the inside of his cheek until it became tender, stinging slightly as a taste of iron met his tongue. But it didn’t matter — not when you were looking at him with kind eyes, flickering down to his lips and were suddenly leaning forward to kiss him.

Clark’s hands immediately travelled to rest on your hips as he returned the kiss, his lips moving against yours in a way that had butterflies fluttering in your stomach in a bundle of excited nerves. Clark’s lips separated from yours with a soft pop, and you both smiled shyly. You leaned back, giggling to yourself and reaching over to straighten Clark’s glasses. He began laughing with you, leaning over to peck your lips quickly, emitting a delighted gasp from you.

“Show me your Superman interview?” He asked, and you nodded, lips parting in surprise. You rushed to find your laptop, but tripped over your feet as you stood up. Luckily, Clark steadied you with his firm but gentle hands, guiding you to sit back down next to him. With trembling fingers, you opened your computer again, cursing under your breath when you typed your password wrong.

“It’s horrible, actually, being married to such a busy and successful woman. Because I come home from work and she’ll still be working, and by the time she gets home from set, I’m probably off taking care of some things in the city. You know, crime doesn’t sleep in Metropolis. But, uh, it’s become even worse now.” Clark said, looking at you with an expression one could only describe as filled with love. He smiled to himself, dimples exposed as he leaned forward slightly to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“Because my wife is pregnant, and the only thing I can imagine doing is staying home with her and our baby boy.”

Brittany pouted, looking towards the camera then back at you both. “You guys are disgustingly adorable, oh my god.”

You laughed softly at Brittany’s words, but your gaze was still glued to your husband, a fond smile playing on your lips. One of your hands cradled Clark’s jaw, thumb brushing the soft skin of his face. “Yeah, I think when the baby comes, we’re going to take a little break.”

“Yeah, I think - let’s just take a break from now.” You laughed at Clark’s words, leaning back into your husband’s chest. “Well, I was going to start working on that new project, but I haven’t pitched the idea yet.”

“Pitch it later? If you can?”

“After he comes?”

“After he comes. And I’ll work from home in the meantime.”

“Okay, well, ladies and gentlemen, I guess this is an official announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Superman are officially going on break from work to raise their baby boy! I think we’re going to wrap things up before things become any more intimate between these two and the video becomes demonitised by Youtube, but make sure to subscribe to the Patreon where you can find exclusive videos, including a lie detector test with our one and only!”

Clark stood up, picking you up with him, and he wrapped his arms around you, swaying you from side to side as he desperately asked “Home time?”

“Mhm, home time.”

BONUS:

“So when can I get that number of yours, Clark?”

Clark froze in the middle of your doorway, a pinch forming between his eyebrows. “My number?” “Mhm, we’ve been seeing each other for a pretty long while, haven’t we? When do we stop randomly showing up at each other’s jobs and houses and begin texting each other first? Or what if I want to call you before I go to bed?”

You approached Clark, placing both your hands on his chest, and he leaned down, nudging the side of your nose with his, silently asking for a kiss. You pressed a slow one to his lips, sighing when he pulled away, but Clark could still see the question linger in your eyes. He didn’t have time to come up with a response before you were pulling his blazer away from his chest and digging your hand into its inner pocket, quickly extracting his phone.

Clark stood with his mouth agape, watching as you went into his contacts and typed your phone number under your name with kissy emojis. He swallowed thickly, eyes widening in horror as you pressed your own number, watching the screen light up as it began ringing. You hummed as your phone began buzzing in your pocket, and fished it out, eyebrows furrowing when you saw a familiar name on your screen instead of an unsaved number.

Both you and Clark stared at the word ‘Superman(??)’ on your phone, and you quickly glanced up at your boyfriend, then down at his phone in your other hand, which was clearly calling you. Your finger hovered over it for a moment before you hung up, watching as the superhero’s name disappeared on your screen, then put your phone away.

Shrugging, you rocked onto the balls of your feet, mumbling “Well, I guess I already have your number saved, then.”

“Um, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Oh, Clark, I can’t believe you made me show you an interview of yourself!”

“I recorded an interview between me and myself just so I could show it to you. Having you show me my own interview was nowhere near the most embarrassing thing I’ve done.”

Clark stumbled back as you threw yourself at him, arms wrapping around his neck as you dug your face into his chest. He hesitantly secured his arms around you waist, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “That’s so embarrassing!” You whined, words coming out muffled. “But it means you like me.” You continued, sighing deeply.

“Yeah, honey, I do like you.” Clark promised, “I like you so much, you know?”

“Okay, call me when you get home, Superman.”

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elijahhewsonswifelol · 4 days ago

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haha im so totally normal about regulus black btw!

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elijahhewsonswifelol · 4 days ago

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god if you hear me

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elijahhewsonswifelol · 5 days ago

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𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him.

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short.

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach.

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.”

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.

“Here, sweetheart,” he says.

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.”

“Can I make it for you?” he asks.

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.”

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Are you sharing?”

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.”

“That explains why it’s still warm.”

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?”

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.”

“Why not?”

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.”

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says.

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it.

“I’ll bring you some if it does.”

“I’d like that.”

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?”

“I can be punctual,” he promises.

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?”

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet.

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days.

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties.

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.

“That smells amazing.”

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?”

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.”

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask.

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.”

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.”

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell.

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks.

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath.

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says.

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say.

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave.

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment.

“It’s a little brave,” you say.

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.”

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control.

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says.

“I’m not worried about the sun.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon.

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.”

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm.

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that.

“Do you worry about that a lot?”

“Hm?”

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?”

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.”

“Or what?”

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”

He makes everything sound so satiny.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds.

“Promise?”

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.”

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him.

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.”

“And?”

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says.

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.

“What’s amazing?”

You remember where you are urgently.

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?”

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.

“Morning,” Clark says.

“Hi. Good morning.”

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?”

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.”

“You look good.”

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.”

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite.

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.

“You do look good,” he says again.

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.”

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice.

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?”

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.”

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.

“Don’t.”

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?”

“Take me somewhere else.”

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.

He hits the button for the basement as you step in.

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.

“Clark!” you say.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.

You raise your hand to wipe it away.

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly.

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be.

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”

“Really?”

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?”

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh.

His eyebrows pinch. “What?”

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.”

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.”

His neck goes all shades of rose.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?”

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble.

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit.

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.”

The elevator chugs back to life.

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?”

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out.

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.”

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.”

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.”

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.”

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.”

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.”

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly.

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

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