summary: Clark is the perfect boyfriend. He sends your work flowers, is always on time, and genuinely listens to whatever you have to say. Until he's late by forty-five minutes and cracks begin to show.
word count: 17.4k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: my man on willpower might be my favorite song off of man's best friend... okay i lied, i can't pick my favorite song. anyways, it got me thinking, clark would obviously be the best boyfriend, but at some point things would start to crack because he can't possibly be the bestest boyfriend ever AND superman
*edit* - this has been in the drafts since like... september? october? i hope people are still reading this lovely goofball :)
warnings/tags: fluff, angst, clark is a little secretive, but he's trying his best guys, implied smut (but it's a fade to black scene, nothing explicit), it's also implied that clark has a big dick lol, drinking alcohol, getting drunk, clark isn't the greatest liar, you don't know clark is superman
Your desk was already crowded with half-finished drafts, a stack of sticky notes you swore you’d sort later, and the empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since nine a.m. So when the delivery guy stopped at your cubicle holding a glass vase filled with a ridiculously perfect bouquet of pink lilies and yellow roses, you almost thought he’d gotten the wrong floor.
“Delivery for… you,” the man said, squinting at the tag before pronouncing your name. He placed the vase down amid your mess of papers, the flowers instantly outshining everything else on your desk. Around you, the newsroom erupted into a mix of whistles and knowing laughter. A few of your coworkers leaned over their monitors to get a better look.
“Wow,” someone muttered. “Somebody’s got a keeper.”
You could feel the heat creep up your cheeks as you plucked the little card tucked into the blooms. Sorry I couldn’t walk them over myself. Don’t work too hard today. —C.
Clark.
The silly grin broke across your face before you could stop it. You slid the card back into the arrangement and tried to refocus on your monitor, but the words blurred. A coworker nudged your shoulder. “Is this, like, the third time this month? Flowers at the office? You sure he’s real and not, like, some romance novel you manifested?”
You laughed softly, ducking your head. “He’s real. Trust me.”
And he was. Clark Kent. Sweet, impossibly polite Clark, who had held the door open for you the first day you’d met, who walked you home after dinner even though his apartment was in the opposite direction, who never forgot to ask about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was the kind of guy who remembered that you liked sugar in your coffee but hated cream, who called his mom once a week without fail, who looked you in the eyes like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
It felt absurdly… easy with him. No guessing games, no disappearing acts, none of the constant anxiety you’d carried from relationships past. Just Clark, steady and warm as the Kansas summer he came from.
That night, he showed up at your apartment door holding a bag that smelled like takeout pad thai. “Dinner,” he said with a sheepish grin, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten yet.”
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Flowers at my office and pad thai at my door? You know you’re setting the bar way too high, right?”
Clark tilted his head, his smile spreading slow and easy. “Then I’ll just have to keep meeting it.”
It wasn’t the grand words that melted you. It was the way he said them, simple and honest, as though they were the most obvious thing in the world. You let him in, taking the bag from his hands as he shrugged off his coat. “One day, my coworkers are going to make a betting pool about you,” you teased, placing the food on the counter. “Half of them are convinced you’re secretly a model.”
Clark actually laughed at that, low and warm. “A model? That’s new. Usually people just assume I’ve got hay stuck to my boots.”
“Don’t tempt me, Kent. I’d pay to see you in a cowboy hat.”
He shot you a mock-stern look over his glasses, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward anyway.
You were used to sweet gestures from Clark now—flowers, food, the way he carried your groceries as though they weighed nothing. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he never seemed to be playing a part, never doing it for show. His kindness wasn’t performative. It was him.
And that, more than the lilies and roses sitting on your desk, terrified you in the best possible way. Because for the first time in a long time, you believed you’d found someone who really was too good to be true.
---
The rain had started sometime around eight, soft at first and then pounding against the windows in steady sheets. You were curled on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the faint glow of the TV screen painting the living room in flickering light. The scent of popcorn filled the air, warm and buttery, though you hadn’t touched it yet because Clark had insisted on being the one to make it.
You watched him in the kitchen as he moved about with an almost comical level of focus, peering down at the stovetop pan like it held the secrets of the universe. The sound of kernels popping filled the silence, punctuated every so often by his quiet hum—something you had noticed he did when he was comfortable. A little tune, off-key but charming, that made the apartment feel more like home than it ever had before. “Clark,” you called, smiling when he glanced over his shoulder at you with that earnest look that always knocked the air right out of your lungs. “You know we could’ve just microwaved a bag, right?”
He blinked, adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. “But this way’s better.”
“Better, or just an excuse to hover over a pan like a mad scientist?”
His grin broke through, bright and boyish. “Maybe both.”
By the time he brought the bowl over, full to the brim, you’d already queued up the movie. He sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, the couch dipping under his weight. You pulled the blanket over both of your laps, and his hand slipped under it almost instantly, warm and calloused against your own. He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze without even looking, eyes fixed on the opening credits. “You always do that,” you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“Do what?”
“Hold my hand like you’ve been waiting all day just to do it.”
Clark was quiet for a moment, then angled his head to glance at you. His blue eyes caught the light of the TV, clear and startling even in shadow. “Maybe I have been.”
You rolled your eyes, though your chest tightened in the best way. “Dangerously close to cheesy, Kent.”
“Mm. But you like cheesy.”
You couldn’t argue with that, so you only smiled, turning back to the movie as you dug a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. Clark let you, though you noticed he hadn’t touched any yet.
Half an hour in, you caught yourself watching him more than the screen. He was invested in the film, brows furrowed slightly, mouth parted just enough to show he was completely drawn in. You’d seen that expression before—whether you were talking about your day, whether he was leafing through a book at your apartment, whether he was holding a conversation with a stranger on the subway. He paid attention. Real attention. The kind that was so rare it felt almost like a miracle. When he caught you staring, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “What?” he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the movie’s dialogue.
“Nothing.” You shook your head, settling back against him. “Just… you’re kind of perfect, you know that?”
He chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was second nature. “I don’t know about perfect.”
“Well, I do,” you murmured, and you meant it. Every silly, sappy word. You stayed like that for the rest of the night, tangled under the blanket, Clark’s arm warm around you. The rain kept on against the windows, the popcorn slowly dwindled, and you thought—not for the first time—that if this was all there ever was, it would be enough.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something of a tradition, though you couldn’t remember when exactly it started. Maybe it was the first time he’d shown up outside your building with two coffees in hand and said, “come on, there’s a farmer’s market a few blocks over,” like it was the most obvious idea in the world. Since then, it had become your ritual: wake up late, wander through the market together, buy things you didn’t really need, and eat pastries that were too sweet for breakfast but somehow perfect anyway.
That morning was no different, except that the sun was shining in the kind of way that made the city look alive—golden light glancing off windows, air already warm but softened by a breeze that carried with it the smell of bread, flowers, and fruit.
Clark walked beside you with the easy confidence of someone who seemed made for sidewalks and crowded streets, though he still had that Kansas farm-boy way of greeting everyone. A smile here, a nod there, the occasional “good morning” to a vendor who looked half-asleep. You carried a tote bag slung over your shoulder, already heavy with apples and a jar of honey Clark had insisted you try because “the bees here are different, you can taste it.”
He reached over to lightly brush the back of your neck as you stopped at a stall bursting with sunflowers. “These look like you,” he said, just as casually as if he’d said these are yellow.
You raised a brow, half teasing, half flustered. “Tall and prone to wilting in the heat?”
Clark laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and shook his head. “Bright. You make people stop and smile.”
You didn’t have a good comeback for that, so you busied yourself pretending to examine the flowers. The vendor, an older woman with silver hair pulled into a bun, caught the exchange and grinned knowingly. “You’ve got yourself a sweet one,” she said to you, as though Clark wasn’t standing right there.
“He’s alright,” you replied, fighting your smile as you glanced up at him. Clark ducked his head, clearly embarrassed, and you felt a rush of affection for the way his ears turned pink when someone complimented him.
Eventually, you moved on, weaving through stalls filled with homemade jams and colorful scarves. Clark stopped to taste every sample offered to him—bits of cheese on toothpicks, slices of peach, small cups of cider—and made thoughtful little comments to each vendor. You teased him for it, whispering, “you know you don’t have to write a review for every single one, right?”
“I just think they should know their work’s appreciated,” he said earnestly, handing a few dollars over for a small loaf of bread you weren’t sure you needed. “It’s not easy, making something with your own hands and putting it out here for people to judge.”
The sincerity in his voice made your heart twist in that way it always did when you realized, again, that this was who he was. Not an act. Not something he put on to impress you. Just Clark—kind in ways that were almost disarming. At one point, you both stopped at a stand selling handmade candles. The vendor had arranged them in neat little rows: lavender, vanilla, cinnamon, pine. Clark picked one up and held it under your nose, his hand brushing against your cheek as he said, “this one smells like Christmas.”
You inhaled, smiling. “You’re right. We should get it.”
“You sure? You already have three candles on your coffee table.”
“And now I’ll have four.”
He chuckled and set the jar in your tote bag without further argument. As you made your way back toward the end of the market, your bag now heavier with bread, fruit, honey, and candles, Clark reached over and laced his fingers through yours. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture; he just did it in that simple, steady way of his, like holding your hand was as natural as breathing.
And you thought about how easy it was, walking with him. How different it felt from every other relationship you’d had—no guessing, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just warmth, laughter, little touches, and the steady certainty that he wanted to be there, with you, exactly in that moment. You let yourself believe, just for a little longer, that maybe he really was too good to be true.
---
You checked your watch for the third time in ten minutes, the ticking second hand making you more aware of the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. The host had already come by twice, asking gently if you were still waiting on someone. You’d smiled politely, insisting your date would be there any minute. But you couldn’t ignore the way the waiter glanced at your empty water glass, or the way a couple at the next table whispered, eyes darting in your direction.
Clark was late. Not a little late, either—forty-five minutes.
You shifted in your seat, trying not to let the disappointment settle too heavily in your chest. Up until now, Clark had been impeccable. The kind of boyfriend who texted if he thought he’d be five minutes behind, who apologized for sneezing too loudly during a movie. It wasn’t like him to leave you sitting alone at a table while the evening dimmed outside and strangers quietly wondered if you’d been stood up.
Finally, just when you were considering asking for the check and slipping out before you embarrassed yourself further, the front door swung open. Clark stumbled in with his hair windblown and his tie loosened like he’d sprinted the last few blocks. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he looked both breathless and guilty as his gaze found you immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying over to the table. His large frame seemed awkward as he tried to shrink into the small space, sliding into the seat across from you. “I—Perry kept me late. He wanted edits on an article and I couldn’t leave until I turned it in.”
You raised an eyebrow, masking the sting with practiced calm. “An hour late?”
Clark winced, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “I know. I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”
You studied him across the table. He looked tired, yes, but not in the way you’d seen him before after a long day at the Planet. There was something else in his eyes—something sharp, like adrenaline fading, like he’d just been somewhere else entirely. Still, you told yourself not to overanalyze. You weren’t going to be that person, the one who jumped on the first misstep. “It’s fine,” you said finally, your voice softer than you felt. “Just… next time, a text would be nice.”
Relief washed across his face, his shoulders sagging as though you’d lifted a weight off of them. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”
The waiter came by to take your order, and you tried to settle back into the rhythm of the evening. Clark smiled, made jokes, asked about your day. He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, that warm, steady touch that usually melted every trace of frustration from you.
But even as you laughed at one of his self-deprecating stories, you couldn’t shake the image of him rushing in with his hair askew, looking like he’d just stepped out of a storm. Perry White might have been demanding, sure—but you’d never seen editing an article leave someone looking like they’d run through a war zone.
You pushed the thought aside. One late night didn’t erase the flowers, the movie nights, the mornings at the farmer’s market. Everyone slipped up eventually. Everyone had flaws. Still, as you lifted your wine glass and forced another smile, a whisper curled in the back of your mind.
Maybe he isn’t as perfect as I thought.
---
By Tuesday afternoon, you had almost managed to let the sting of Friday’s date fade. Almost. The office was loud enough to distract you—phones ringing, printers whining, keyboards clattering—but every now and then, your mind circled back to that long hour you’d spent alone at the restaurant table, pretending you weren’t being pitied by strangers.
That was when one of the interns appeared at your desk, a little nervous and balancing a cardboard tray in both hands. “Uh—delivery for you,” he said, carefully setting it down beside your computer.
You blinked, surprised. Nestled in the tray was a perfectly iced cup from your favorite café across town. Not just your favorite café, but your favorite order—the one so specific and overly complicated you barely asked for it unless you were in a mood brave enough to risk the barista’s side-eye. And next to the drink, a small paper bag with the café’s logo stamped on the front. You opened it to find a sandwich wrapped neatly in parchment, exactly the way you liked it.
A folded napkin slipped out, and tucked into it was a note, written in Clark’s careful handwriting: Sorry for Friday. Thought lunch might buy me forgiveness. —C
You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your mouth, even as you tried to shake your head at the audacity of him. He hadn’t just sent flowers this time. He’d remembered the drink you always rambled about, the sandwich you’d ordered once when you dragged him across town, swearing it was worth the hike. He hadn’t teased you for your oddly specific preferences, hadn’t forgotten. He’d remembered.
“Wow,” one of your coworkers muttered, leaning against your cubicle wall. “The flower guy’s leveling up.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the warm flutter in your chest. “It’s just lunch.”
“Mm-hm.” The coworker raised a brow. “He’s spoiling you. Admit it.”
You didn’t answer, instead sipping your drink and savoring how perfectly made it was. Later that evening, Clark showed up at your apartment, looking sheepish as he shifted from one foot to the other in your doorway. He carried a small, battered notebook in his hand, though he quickly tucked it into his coat pocket when he saw your curious glance. “Did the bribe work?” he asked lightly, but there was an edge to his tone—a carefulness, like he wasn’t sure if he’d been forgiven yet.
You crossed your arms, pretending to deliberate. “Well, the sandwich was a strong move. And the drink didn’t hurt.”
His smile softened, relief flickering across his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
You stepped aside to let him in. He shrugged out of his coat, but instead of settling onto the couch like he usually did, he came right up to you and cupped your cheek with one broad, warm hand. The earnestness in his expression made it hard to hold onto even a thread of irritation. “I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “Leaving you waiting like that—there’s no excuse.”
You wanted to ask again about Perry, about why exactly editing an article had left him looking like he’d run a marathon, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you let yourself lean into his touch, the steady strength of him grounding you. “You could’ve just texted me,” you murmured. “That’s all I needed.”
“I know,” he admitted, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “I’ll do better.”
And maybe it was the way he said it—soft but so utterly sure—that made you believe him. Clark wasn’t like the others. He didn’t forget birthdays, didn’t leave you guessing, didn’t brush things off with half-hearted excuses. When he said he’d do better, you thought maybe he actually would.
The two of you ended up eating takeout on your couch that night, watching a rerun of a show neither of you particularly liked, just because it was background noise to your laughter. Clark insisted on carrying your empty cartons to the trash, then washed the few dishes in your sink like he lived there. And as you watched him hum off-key while rinsing a mug, you wondered how anyone could ever doubt he was everything he seemed.
But later, when he kissed you goodnight at your door and left just before midnight, you found yourself lingering in the quiet, staring at the empty hallway. The sandwich, the drink, the apology—they’d smoothed over the rough patch. For now. And yet, a small, nagging thought twisted at the back of your mind: Why does he always leave before midnight?
---
By Wednesday afternoon, the office was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and too many spreadsheets. You sat hunched over your keyboard, trying to make sense of your notes, but your brain kept circling back to one thought: Clark always left before midnight. Always.
It wasn’t just the restaurant, or the way he’d duck out of your apartment after movie nights. Even on weekends, when neither of you had to be up early, he’d kiss you softly, make some excuse about getting rest, and disappear into the night like Cinderella running from a ball.
“Alright,” your friend and coworker Marcy said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with her second coffee of the day, “spill it. You’ve had that scrunched-up forehead look for an hour. And don’t even try to tell me it’s about your work. You get that look when it’s about a guy.”
You gave her a flat look, but she only smirked. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s nothing,” you tried.
“Mm-hm. Nothing. Which is why you’re staring at your monitor like it insulted your mother.” She took a loud sip of her coffee. “It’s Clark, isn’t it?”
You sighed, setting your pen down. “It’s just… he’s perfect. Like, actually perfect. Which is why this is starting to drive me crazy.”
Marcy perked up immediately. “Go on.”
“He always leaves before midnight,” you admitted in a low voice, glancing around as though confessing a crime. “No matter what we’re doing, no matter how late the night is already, he’ll kiss me, say goodnight, and go. Like clockwork.”
Marcy leaned back, considering. “And you’ve asked him about it?”
“Not directly.” You fiddled with your pen, spinning it between your fingers. “I don’t want to be clingy. I just… I don’t get it. It’s like he turns into a pumpkin if he stays past twelve.”
Marcy snorted. “Maybe he’s got some weird sleep schedule. Or maybe—” she lowered her voice dramatically “—he’s secretly Batman.”
You laughed, tension easing for a moment. “Clark? Please. He apologizes when he bumps into strangers on the subway. He’d last two seconds in Gotham.”
“Fair point.” She tilted her head, smirking again. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know,” you muttered. “Part of me thinks I should just let it go. The other part wants to… I don’t know. Test him.”
Marcy’s grin widened like she’d been waiting for that. “Oh, I have ideas.”
You groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”
“Because you’re a coward when it comes to confrontation, and I’m not.” She tapped her nails against her cup. “Okay. Scenario one, you straight-up ask him why he keeps bailing before midnight. Direct, efficient, no games.”
You raised a brow. “And scenario two?”
She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “You lure him into staying. Cute pajamas. Or better yet—slutty pajamas. Make it hard for him to walk away.”
Your face went hot instantly. “Marcy!”
“What? I’m just saying! If he still bolts after that, then something’s definitely up.”
You buried your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, I’m brilliant.” She patted your shoulder before standing, her coffee already half gone. “Think about it. Cute pajamas or straight-up honesty. Either way, you’ll get your answer.”
As she walked off, you sat staring at your blank screen, trying not to imagine Clark’s face if you ever actually tried Marcy’s suggestion. Still, the thought of him leaving you at your door again, just before midnight, with that soft smile and some vague excuse—
It made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to lose him. But you couldn’t help wondering: was there something he wasn’t telling you?
---
It was a Thursday night, nothing special. Clark had shown up at your door with his usual soft smile and a grocery bag in hand. Inside were the makings of pasta—fresh basil, tomatoes, a loaf of bread from the corner bakery. He’d insisted on cooking, which really meant you sat on the counter with a glass of wine while he did most of the work, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but not quite discarded.
Dinner was easy, the kind of rhythm you’d slipped into months ago. You teased him for chopping garlic too slowly, he teased you for drinking more wine than you ate pasta. Afterwards, he helped you wash the dishes, humming under his breath as he scrubbed a pot, bubbles clinging to his forearms. The domesticity of it all made your chest ache in the best possible way.
But the entire time, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—Marcy’s voice echoing, sing-song and mischievous: Cute pajamas. Or slutty pajamas.
By the time the two of you moved into the living room, the weight of it was almost unbearable. You sat with him on the couch, his arm slung around you, the low murmur of a late-night talk show filling the space. It was perfect, comfortable… but you knew what would happen soon. He’d check his watch, give you that apologetic look, and head out into the night before the clock hit midnight.
Not tonight, you told yourself. Tonight, you were going to see if he’d stay. You stretched, feigning a yawn, and stood. “I’m gonna go change. These jeans are killing me.”
Clark looked up at you with that gentle concern that was so him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said quickly, heart hammering a little too fast. “Just… more comfortable clothes.”
You slipped into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. Your pulse roared in your ears as you opened your dresser drawer and pulled out the pajamas Marcy had planted in your head all week. Not quite slutty—but close enough. The soft silk clung in ways your usual oversized t-shirt didn’t, the hem riding a little higher on your thighs than you were used to. You checked yourself in the mirror, cheeks warm. This was either going to work spectacularly… or blow up in your face.
When you opened the door, Clark was standing in the hallway, one hand tugging at his tie like he’d been debating loosening it further. His other hand held the hem of his button-up, as if he’d been considering changing into something more relaxed. He froze when he saw you. “Oh,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. His eyes widened, and for once, he didn’t immediately mask his reaction.
You bit your lip, pretending nonchalance as you crossed the short distance between you. “Thought I’d get comfortable,” you said, fingers brushing against the knot of his tie.
Clark swallowed hard. “You look… uh—” His voice trailed off, his usual eloquence deserting him. His gaze flickered away, then back again, like he couldn’t quite decide where to rest his eyes.
The corner of your mouth curved as you caught the edge of his tie and gave it a playful tug, guiding him a step closer. “Cat got your tongue, Kent?”
His laugh was nervous, breathless. “Just wasn’t expecting—”
“Me?” you teased, leaning up slightly so your faces were closer.
Clark’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should. You tugged lightly on his tie again, coaxing him toward the bed. “You can change later,” you murmured.
That did it. His ears turned bright red, and the tips of them peeked through his dark hair. His flustered expression was so achingly adorable you almost laughed. But he didn’t pull away. Not this time.
Instead, he let you guide him, his tie slipping through your fingers as he leaned down. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then with a hunger he usually kept tightly reined in. His hand came up to your waist, steady and warm, the other bracing against the doorframe as though he needed something solid to keep himself grounded.
You smiled against his mouth, relief and satisfaction curling through you. For once, he wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t glancing at the clock, wasn’t making excuses. He was here—with you.
And when you tugged him down to the bed, his flustered laugh turned into something deeper, something that made your pulse skip. Whatever midnight rule he’d been living by, it didn’t matter tonight. Because tonight, Clark stayed.
---
The first thing you registered was warmth. The second was weight—the solid, steady press of an arm curled around your waist, pulling you against a chest that rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. Your sheets smelled faintly of detergent and basil, a reminder of last night’s pasta dinner. And underneath it all, the more distinct, grounding scent of Clark.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the thin morning light spilling through your curtains. It took you a moment to realize the full reality: your bare skin against his, tangled legs, the soft mess of clothes scattered across the floor.
You turned your head slightly. Clark was still asleep, or something close to it. His face was relaxed, mouth parted slightly, hair mussed in a way you’d never seen before—wild and unpolished, no trace of the neat reporter who always seemed so put-together. His glasses, of course, weren’t on. They lay folded on your nightstand, lenses glinting faintly in the sun.
Without them, there was something startling about his face. You couldn’t put your finger on it—just that the edges of him looked… sharper. His eyes, though closed, seemed framed differently, as though the glasses softened more than just his appearance. For a strange, fleeting second, you almost didn’t recognize him. Then he shifted, tightening his arm around you, his breath brushing against the back of your neck. And he was Clark again—your Clark, warm and steady and achingly gentle even in sleep.
You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into the moment. For weeks you’d watched him slip away at the stroke of midnight, offering excuses that never quite added up. But last night had been different. Last night he stayed. Not just for dinner, not just for movies and laughter—he stayed all the way through. Stayed long enough that now you were wrapped in his arms, your heartbeat syncing with his.
“Mm,” he hummed softly, the vibration in his chest making you shiver. “You awake?”
You turned slightly, enough to catch the half-lidded way he looked at you. His voice was rough with sleep, lower than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, slow and drowsy. “Morning.”
You couldn’t help laughing. “That’s all you’ve got? Just morning?”
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment, then pressed a lazy kiss to your skin. “Sorry. Not exactly awake yet. You… you’re distracting.”
Your cheeks flushed, though you tried to keep your tone light. “Pretty sure you’re the distracting one, Kent.”
He chuckled, but his hand skimmed softly across your side, drawing absent patterns against your skin. The tenderness of it made your throat tighten. It was almost unfair, how he could make something so casual feel so intimate.
For a long while, you lay there like that—no rush, no ticking clock, no excuse waiting at the edge of his tongue. Just him, his heartbeat under your palm, his breath warm against your hair. At last, Clark shifted, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His hand brushed the edge of his glasses, and in a practiced motion, he slid them back onto his face.
The change was subtle but immediate. It was as if the air between you shifted slightly. The Clark without glasses—the one who looked like a stranger and yet more himself than ever—was gone. In his place was the Clark you knew, mild and unassuming, the gentle reporter who said sorry when he sneezed too loud. “Better,” he said softly, like the glasses anchored him somehow.
You tilted your head, curious. “You don’t need those in bed, you know.”
He hesitated just a fraction too long before chuckling. “Force of habit.”
You hummed, letting it slide, though the little pause tucked itself away in the back of your mind. Instead, you pressed a kiss to his jaw and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you stayed.”
His arms tightened around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. “So am I.”
And maybe he meant it. Maybe he wanted to mean it. But as you felt him hold you, you couldn’t shake the faint, lingering thought: what was it, exactly, that had kept him away every other night until now?
You fell asleep again until the smell of coffee coaxed you out of bed more than the alarm on your phone ever could. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging his button-up shirt—the one that had landed on your floor the night before—over your shoulders like a robe. The sleeves were too long, brushing your wrists, and the fabric still held the faint warmth of his skin.
Clark was already there, moving quietly as though he belonged in your space. His tie was draped over a chair, his white undershirt soft and clinging, his glasses fogged slightly from leaning over the steaming coffee pot. He hummed under his breath, the same little tune you’d noticed he always carried when he was content. When he noticed you, his face lit up, boyish and unguarded. “Morning again,” he said, like he’d been waiting for you.
“Morning,” you echoed, fighting back a smile as you leaned against the counter. “You’re entirely too chipper for someone who didn’t get much sleep.”
His ears went pink immediately, and he turned back to the mugs. “I, uh—sleep better here.”
That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and genuine. “You’re such a terrible liar.”
“I’m serious,” he said, handing you a mug. His big hands dwarfed the ceramic, and you noticed the way his thumb lingered against the rim as he passed it to you. “You don’t believe me?”
You took a slow sip, watching him over the edge. “I believe you slept well. I just don’t think it had much to do with the bed.” Clark coughed into his own cup, so flustered you almost felt bad for him. Almost.
You sat together at your small kitchen table, the morning light spilling through the blinds in golden stripes across his face. He buttered a piece of toast like it was the most important task in the world, then slid it onto your plate before making another for himself. That was Clark in a nutshell: always making sure you were fed first.
As you ate, you realized how easy it felt. No clock watching, no excuses lined up in his throat. Just breakfast, quiet conversation, and the clink of silverware against mismatched plates. It was so normal you almost forgot last night had been the first time he’d ever stayed. “You’re going to work today, right?” you asked between bites.
He nodded, sipping his coffee. “Perry’s probably got three assignments waiting for me already.”
“Does he always ride you that hard?”
Clark shrugged, unbothered. “That’s just Perry. He pushes because he knows we can handle it. And I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”
You studied him for a moment, the curve of his mouth around the rim of his mug, the way his tie still sat neglected on the chair instead of knotted neatly at his throat. There was something softer about him this morning—unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stayed, or maybe it was just the quiet light of a weekday morning shared over burnt toast and coffee. Either way, you liked it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” you said suddenly.
Clark frowned, startled. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah.” You nudged his foot under the table. “You make this look way too easy. Breakfast, coffee, staying the night… it’s like you’ve been doing this with me for years.”
His expression softened, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Maybe I’ve been waiting years to do this.”
Heat crept into your cheeks at the honesty in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t joking. He meant it. And that—that was more dangerous than anything. You stood finally, setting your mug in the sink. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”
Clark followed suit, slipping his tie back over his neck and knotting it with practiced ease. You watched him, amused at how he went from flustered and boyish to polished reporter in the span of a few minutes. Glasses in place, tie tightened, hair smoothed back—your Clark, the one the world saw, stood in your kitchen. But when he looked at you, his gaze softened again, as though none of the armor mattered here. He stepped close, kissed your forehead, then your lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For last night. For this morning. For… all of it.”
Your chest squeezed, and you touched his tie lightly, smoothing it against his chest. “You don’t have to thank me for staying, Clark.”
“I know,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “But I want to.”
And as you walked out the door together, hand in hand, you thought maybe Marcy had been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve, no midnight secret pulling him away. Maybe it had just been nerves, bad timing, work stress. Because for the first time, he’d stayed. And that had to mean something.
By the time you made it into the office, the elevator ride up had already convinced you of two things: one, coffee was the only thing keeping you upright, and two, walking in heels after last night was not your smartest decision. Every step carried just the faintest reminder of Clark’s strength, a dull ache hidden in your thighs that no amount of stretching on the commute had shaken off.
You slid into your cubicle as quietly as possible, hoping to disappear behind your monitor. But of course, Marcy had radar for these things. She popped up in your doorway like a jack-in-the-box, her coffee in hand, one brow raised. “Well, well, well,” she said, drawing the words out as though savoring them. “Look who’s late and walking funny.”
You froze mid-shuffle with your bag, glaring at her. “I’m not walking funny.”
She leaned on the frame of your cubicle, smirk widening. “Sweetheart, I could spot that limp from the elevator. Guess it worked.”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. “Marcy—”
“I told you,” she interrupted gleefully, wagging her coffee cup at you like it was proof. “Slutty pajamas. Works every time.”
You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “You are the worst.”
“The worst, but right.” She perched on the edge of your desk like she owned it. “So? Spill. Did our boy wonder finally stay past midnight?”
You dropped your hands and glared, though you couldn’t quite wipe the reluctant smile off your lips. “Maybe.”
“That’s a yes.” She grinned like the cat that got the cream. “And?”
“And what?”
Marcy tilted her head. “And how was it? Come on, you can’t dangle that limp around the office and not share at least one detail.”
You picked up the nearest stack of papers and swatted lightly at her knee. “Get out of my cubicle.”
She laughed, unbothered, sipping her coffee as though she had all the time in the world. “Fine, fine. You don’t have to give me details. But let me just say, I’m very proud. About time Mr. Perfect dropped the Cinderella act.”
Her words hit a little closer than she realized. You forced a light smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice the hesitation. “Yeah. About time.”
Marcy hopped off your desk, smoothing her skirt. “See you at lunch. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone about the limp. Your secret’s safe with me.”
You rolled your eyes, but as she sauntered away, you exhaled slowly. Yes, Clark had stayed. Yes, it had been everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving. But the whisper lingered in your mind even as you logged into your computer: what had changed? What made last night different from every other night before it? And more importantly—would he stay again?
By the time work let out, the city was drenched in that golden hour glow that made everything softer—warm light spilling between buildings, the sidewalks humming with people headed home. You were halfway through debating if you had the energy to cook or if you’d end up with takeout again when your phone buzzed. Clark: Dinner? My treat. Don’t make other plans.
You couldn’t help but smile, typing back a quick bossy before slipping the phone into your bag.
When he knocked on your door later, he was balancing a pizza box in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Figured we’d save the fancy restaurants for when I’m not keeping you waiting,” he said sheepishly, lifting the box like an offering.
The sight of him—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, that impossibly earnest smile—made your heart skip the way it always did. “You’re forgiven,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.
Dinner was simple, pizza, a salad he insisted on making because “we can’t live on bread and cheese alone,” and the bottle of wine you’d been saving for some hypothetical occasion. Clark poured carefully, like the stemware might shatter under his touch, and you teased him for being overcautious until he laughed and handed you your glass.
You ate cross-legged on the couch, the box open between you, your knees brushing every time you reached for a slice. Clark told you about the chaos at the Planet that day—how Perry barked at poor Jimmy until his ears turned pink, how Lois had nearly thrown her coffee at a malfunctioning printer. You laughed, picturing it, though you knew you’d never quite see the world the way he did.
At some point, the conversation shifted into softer things. He asked about your day, not just the broad strokes but the details—the coworker who’d stolen your stapler, the headline you’d been proud of writing, the way you’d stopped to buy a pretzel from the vendor outside your building. He listened to every word, nodding, eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.
By the time the pizza box was nearly empty, you had your legs tucked against his, the warmth of him seeping into you. You swirled the last of your wine in your glass and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You know, I could get used to this,” you murmured.
Clark glanced down at you, his expression unreadable for a beat before softening into that small, crooked smile you loved. “Me too.”
You set your glass aside and turned slightly, catching the end of his tie between your fingers. “Not running off tonight?”
The question hung in the air, casual on the surface but heavier underneath. Clark’s eyes flickered, something you couldn’t quite name passing through them, but then he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, voice low, steady.
Relief washed through you. You tugged lightly on his tie, pulling him down for a kiss that started slow but deepened quickly, his hand finding its way to your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he’d been waiting all day for it, like he’d been holding his breath until this exact moment.
Later, when the two of you ended up stretched out together on the couch, your head on his chest and his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, you realized the clock had already ticked past midnight. And he was still there. No excuses, no half-smile apologies. Just Clark, warm and solid and exactly where you wanted him.
For once, you let yourself believe that maybe the cracks you’d seen weren’t cracks at all—just shadows you’d mistaken for flaws. Maybe this was who he was, who he’d always be: steady, kind, and here. And as you drifted half-asleep against him, the hum of his heartbeat under your ear, you let yourself forget every question you’d been carrying. Because for tonight, at least, Clark stayed.
---
It started as an offhand suggestion, tossed out near the end of the day when the office was finally quieting down. One of your coworkers—Janine, the type who wore three-inch heels like they were sneakers—popped her head over your cubicle wall and said, “Drinks after work? Come on, it’s been a week.”
A few of the others perked up, including Marcy, who swiveled her chair toward you with a grin. “You in?”
Normally, you would have hesitated, mentally juggling the idea of a late night out with your usual plans with Clark. But something in you wanted to prove, if only to yourself, that you didn’t have to orbit your life entirely around him. He was wonderful—perfect, even—but you still had your own friends, your own world. “Yeah,” you said finally, surprising even yourself. “Count me in.”
The group cheered, already gathering purses and coats. On the walk to the bar, neon signs flickering against the dusky sky, you pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Clark’s name for a moment. With guys before, this was always the part that made your stomach twist—the texts that came after you said I’m going out with friends, passive-aggressive replies, thinly veiled jealousy, endless check-ins like you were sneaking around instead of living your life.
You typed quickly: Going out for drinks with the girls from work. Don’t wait up tonight. Your finger hovered before hitting send, the tiniest tremor of nerves sparking. And then you sent it.
The reply came faster than you expected, the little typing dots barely lasting three seconds. Clark: That sounds great. Hope you have fun. Be safe.
That was it. No follow-up questions, no “who’s going?” No guilt, no tugging on a leash you weren’t wearing. Just have fun. You stared at the screen for a moment, warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a simple thing, but the kind of simple you weren’t used to.
Marcy peeked over your shoulder as you slipped the phone back into your bag. “That from Clark?” You nodded, trying not to smile too hard. “What’d he say? ‘Don’t get too drunk’? ‘Remember you’ve got a boyfriend’?”
“No,” you said softly. “He said have fun.”
Marcy slowed her stride for a second, blinking at you. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A slow grin spread across her face. “Damn. Keep him. Seriously. If a man can handle his girlfriend having her own life without making it about his ego? That’s rare, babe. Hold onto that one.”
By the time you slid into a booth at the bar with the other girls, the dim lights catching on glasses of wine and cocktails, you couldn’t stop thinking about that little text. About how easy he made it to breathe. How different it felt not to brace yourself for a fight over something as harmless as a night out. Your friends laughed and gossiped, trading stories about bosses and boyfriends, but every so often you caught yourself smiling down at your phone, rereading his simple message. Hope you have fun. Four words. And yet, they felt like a promise, he trusted you. He respected you.
And for someone like you—someone who had spent too long with people who made affection feel like a trap—that was more intoxicating than anything in your glass.
The bar was louder than you realized. It wasn’t until you slipped off your stool and nearly tipped into Marcy’s shoulder that it hit you just how much you’d had to drink. Two glasses of wine had somehow become three… then a shared round of shots you’d been peer-pressured into. Now everything had that soft, slightly tilting glow to it, like the world was wrapped in cotton.
“Okay, lightweight,” Marcy teased, steadying you with a hand. “Time to get you a cab.”
You waved her off, fumbling for your bag. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”
“You’re weaving like a sailor,” she said flatly. “You want me to call Clark?”
Your head snapped up, indignation rising even through the haze. “No! I don’t need—” But your tongue tangled itself, and the protest dissolved into a laugh. “Okay, maybe. Just don’t tell him about the shots.”
Marcy rolled her eyes but pulled out her phone anyway. “You’re lucky he’s cute and clearly obsessed with you.”
Fifteen minutes later, the bar door swung open, and there he was—tie gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses catching the glow of the neon beer sign. Clark scanned the room, found you instantly, and the crease in his brow softened with relief. “Hey,” he murmured as he reached you, his voice low and warm like you might spook if he spoke too loudly. “Rough night?”
“Fun night,” you corrected, though your words slurred just enough to make Marcy snort.
Clark slipped an arm around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you upright. “Thanks,” he said to Marcy, his smile polite but grateful.
“She’s all yours,” Marcy said, giving you a wink before gathering her things. “Text me tomorrow, babe.”
You leaned heavily into Clark as he steered you outside. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered instinctively. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, tucking it close like he was wrapping you in something more solid than fabric. “You didn’t have to come get me,” you mumbled, the words half-buried against his chest.
“Of course I did,” he said simply. “I’d come anywhere for you.”
The sincerity in his voice, even filtered through the fog in your head, made your chest ache. You tilted your face up at him, squinting like you could see straight through him. “You’re too good to be true, you know that?”
His mouth quirked in that small, self-conscious smile you adored. “Or maybe you’re just too hard on the guys you dated before me.”
“You don’t leave when I go out,” you said suddenly, the thought bubbling up unfiltered. “They used to. They’d get mad. But you’re not mad.”
“I’d never be mad at you for having friends.” He guided you to his car, opening the door carefully before helping you in. His hand lingered at your elbow, steadying you until you were settled. “You deserve to have fun. You deserve everything.”
Your vision blurred for a moment—not from the alcohol, but from the sheer, overwhelming tenderness of him. By the time he pulled up outside your apartment, your head was lolling against the window. Clark circled to your side and scooped you up effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, looping your arms around his neck. “Clark!” you hissed, though you couldn’t stop laughing. “What if someone sees?”
He smiled down at you, utterly unbothered. “Then they’ll just think I didn’t want you to trip on the stairs.”
He carried you all the way up, setting you gently on the edge of your bed before kneeling to slip off your shoes. The care in every movement undid you completely. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, too drowsy to form anything sharper.
“Maybe,” he agreed softly, tugging the blanket over you once you’d curled on your side. “But you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”
As he brushed your cheek lightly, you caught his wrist weakly, blinking up at him. “Stay?”
His expression softened, the faintest crack of something unspoken in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.” And when you drifted off, his arm was around you, steady as ever—no excuses, no vanishing. Just Clark.
---
The first thing you felt when you opened your eyes was regret. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry, and the sunlight streaming through the blinds was at least three shades too bright. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, dragging the blanket over your head in a futile attempt to block out the world.
Unfortunately, the world smelled like coffee. Fresh, rich, dark coffee. And—was that bacon?
You froze, brain sluggishly catching up. Clark. Sure enough, when you dared to peek out from under the blanket, there he was in your kitchen. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie nowhere in sight, his hair an adorably messy halo. He moved with quiet purpose, flipping pancakes on your stovetop while humming under his breath. The sight was so painfully domestic it made your heart ache even through the pounding in your skull.
Of course, he noticed you before you could duck back under the covers. His head turned, that impossibly soft smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he said gently, as though his voice might shatter you if he wasn’t careful. “How’re you feeling?”
You buried your face back in the pillow with a muffled groan. “Like I fought a truck.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “No truck. Just tequila, apparently.”
Heat crept up your neck even as you hid. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”
“Like what?” His voice was teasing but not unkind. “Having fun with your friends? Laughing? Smiling so much your cheeks hurt?”
You peeked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “Like a mess.”
Clark shook his head, flipping a pancake with ease. “You weren’t a mess. You were—” he paused, searching for the word, “—adorable.”
You groaned louder this time, shoving the pillow over your face. “Don’t call drunk-me adorable. She’s chaos.”
He laughed outright now, that deep, earnest sound that always made your chest loosen. “Chaos, maybe. But still adorable.”
A few minutes later, he set a tray down on the edge of the bed: coffee, pancakes stacked high, bacon crisped just the way you liked. You blinked at it, then up at him, suspicion warring with gratitude. “You did all this while I looked like death?”
“Seemed like a fair trade,” he said with a shrug, sitting down beside you. “You had your fun last night, and I get to make sure you don’t regret it too much today.”
You sipped the coffee cautiously, sighing as the warmth slid through you. “You’re too nice. Most guys would’ve teased me mercilessly.”
“Oh, I plan to tease you,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But not until you’ve had at least two cups of coffee.”
You laughed, even though it made your head throb, and nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But I like taking care of you.”
You froze for half a second at the honesty in his voice. No games, no performative chivalry—he just meant it. And somehow, that was more dangerous than any hangover. You sighed, sinking against him with your plate balanced in your lap. “You know, Clark, you’re making it very hard for me to remember you’re human. People aren’t supposed to be this perfect.”
For the briefest flicker of a second, something unreadable passed across his face. Then he smiled again, soft and sure. “I’m not perfect. But I promise, I’ll always try to be good to you.”
And as you sat there eating pancakes in his shirt, head pounding and cheeks hot, you thought maybe you’d never felt so cared for in your life.
---
The cramps had hit mid-afternoon, the kind that made you curl up under a blanket and declare war on your own body. By the time Clark arrived, you were a blanket burrito on the couch with zero intention of moving for the rest of the night.
He took one look at you, eyebrows knitting with concern, and immediately shifted into caretaker mode. Within minutes he’d dug your heating pad out of the closet, plugged it in, and settled it across your stomach with the same care he used for handling glassware. Then he adjusted your pillows, made you tea, and queued up your comfort show—the one you’d seen a hundred times but always came back to when you were feeling low.
Now, you were half-curled against him, your head on his shoulder, his arm looped around you. His tie was gone, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and the warm, steady weight of him made everything ache a little less. “I hate this week,” you muttered into his chest.
“I know,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles against your back. “But I’ve got you. Heating pad, tea, bad sitcom reruns… we’ll survive.”
You managed a small smile, keeping your eyes on the flickering TV. A character tripped over a sofa in an over-the-top gag, and normally you’d laugh, but right now all you could think about was how badly you wanted—no, needed—something sweet. “God, I’d kill for a pint of cookie dough ice cream right now,” you murmured without thinking, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “Or those pretzel bites from the vendor down the street. Or both.”
It was meant to be idle complaining, not a request. You didn’t even glance away from the TV. But Clark, who had been quiet beside you, shifted slightly. His head tilted toward the window, like he’d heard something outside you couldn’t. Then, just as quickly, he was on his feet. You blinked, sitting up a little. “Clark?”
He smiled, smoothing his shirt like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll be right back.”
Confused, you frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Just… don’t move.” His grin widened—adorable, boyish, but with that same cryptic glint you’d started to notice sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. “I’ll be back before the commercial break.”
And with that, he slipped out your door, leaving you on the couch in your blanket cocoon, heating pad humming softly.
You shook your head, baffled, turning back to the TV. He was probably running down to the corner store. Still, the way he’d said before the commercial break stuck with you. Because Clark might’ve been perfect, but no one was that fast.
You kept your eyes on the TV, half-expecting to hear the familiar creak of the hallway stairs or the low rumble of the elevator. Instead, there was silence—except for the laugh track blaring from your comfort show.
You adjusted the heating pad against your stomach, cocooned deeper in your blanket, and told yourself not to overthink it. Clark was just… thoughtful. Probably sprinted to the bodega on the corner because he couldn’t stand to see you suffer through a craving. That was all.
Still, when the first commercial break hit only five minutes later, you frowned. No way. Not even with the fastest cashier alive could anyone make it down, grab ice cream and pretzels, pay, and get back up the stairs in that time.
The front door clicked open just as you were starting to sit up. Clark stepped inside, balancing a paper bag in one hand and a sweating pint of ice cream in the other. His smile was sheepish but triumphant. “Got both,” he said, a little out of breath, holding up the bag like a prize.
You blinked at him. His dark hair—usually neat even after a full day at the Planet—was tousled, like he’d been caught in a wind tunnel. And his shirt… your eyes narrowed. His buttons were misaligned, the fabric tugging unevenly across his chest. “You…” You tilted your head, suspicion stirring even through the dull ache of cramps. “You were gone for five minutes.”
He froze for a fraction of a second before flashing that disarming smile, the one that usually made your heart somersault. “Guess I got lucky with the line.”
“And your shirt?” you pressed, pointing with a lazy wave of your hand. “It’s buttoned wrong.”
Clark glanced down, startled, then chuckled, fumbling to undo the buttons and redo them correctly. “I must’ve rushed. Sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I notice everything,” you mumbled, though you couldn’t help smiling as he set the ice cream and bag down on the coffee table. Inside were still-warm pretzel bites, the exact ones you’d mentioned offhand. The smell of butter and salt filled the room, making your stomach grumble despite the discomfort.
Clark handed you the pint first, already armed with a spoon. “Cookie dough,” he said softly, as if the name alone might soothe you. “Your favorite.”
You looked at the ice cream, then up at him. He was sitting beside you again, calmer now, his hair still slightly wild but his hand steady as it rested over yours. “Clark,” you said carefully, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing. “If you’re hurting, and I can make it even a little better… why wouldn’t I?”
Your chest squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. You scooped a bite of ice cream, shoving down the dozen little questions buzzing in your head. He’d been gone five minutes. His hair looked like he’d flown through a storm. His shirt had been wrong. None of it made sense.
But then he reached over, breaking a pretzel bite in half and offering you the bigger piece without a second thought, and your doubts slipped under the weight of his sweetness. You took the bite from his hand, chewing slowly as your show returned from commercials. He wrapped his arm around you again, settling you against his chest like nothing was unusual at all.
And for now, you let yourself melt into him, the mystery pushed aside by the taste of butter and cookie dough on your tongue. Because if Clark wanted to be the man who brought you ice cream and pretzels in five minutes flat, who were you to complain?
---
You’d picked out your outfit hours ago, set your hair the way you liked it, even spritzed that perfume you saved for special occasions. Tonight was supposed to be date night—just you and Clark, dinner reservations at that little Italian place you’d been dying to try. But the clock kept ticking. First fifteen minutes. Then thirty. Then forty-five.
Your wineglass sat untouched on the counter. You checked your phone every couple of minutes, the empty notification bar mocking you. Not even a running late text. By the time your apartment clock chimed the hour, disappointment curled into your chest, heavy and sour. You tried to keep the doubts at bay—maybe he was stuck at work, maybe Perry was being impossible again. But a small voice whispered the same fear you’d carried for weeks: Maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.
Just when you were ready to blow out the candle you’d lit on the table, there was a hurried knock at the door. You opened it to find Clark standing there, chest rising and falling like he’d jogged all the way over. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his tie askew, and a scrape marred the corner of his jaw. His glasses sat crooked on his face, and in his hand—cracked down the middle—was his phone. “Clark,” you breathed, all your irritation collapsing into worry.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice low and earnest. “I should’ve called—I wanted to call—but…” He held up the phone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, completely dead. “It’s useless.”
Your eyes widened. “What happened?”
“There was an attack downtown,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “Some kind of—well, I don’t even know what they were. But Superman showed up, and the whole street went into chaos. Cars overturned, glass everywhere. I got caught in the middle of it trying to get out, and my phone—” He gestured helplessly. “Smashed. I barely made it through without worse.”
The frustration you’d been nursing all evening evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold rush of fear. You grabbed his wrist, tugging him inside, eyes scanning him up and down. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Just the scrape,” he said softly, touched by your urgency. “I swear, I’m fine.”
You reached up, fingertips brushing the bruise forming along his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes shifted—like he was both grateful and guilty under your touch.
“God, Clark,” you whispered, throat tight. “You scared me. I thought you’d just… forgotten. Or—” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I was worried.”
His big hand closed gently over yours, grounding. “I’d never forget you,” he said firmly. “Never.”
You swallowed, meeting his eyes. Blue, steady, so full of sincerity it almost hurt. “Promise me,” you said quietly. “If something like that happens again, if you’re ever caught in the middle of something dangerous—you’ll tell me. Just so I don’t sit here imagining the worst.”
“I promise,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll always come back to you.”
And you believed him. Still, as you rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, another thought pressed at the edge of your mind: How did Clark always seem to walk away from disasters barely touched, when others weren’t so lucky?
The server returned with menus, giving Clark a once-over that said she, too, had noticed the rumpled hair and the broken phone on the table. But she didn’t comment—just refilled your water glasses and left you to settle back into the night.
You expected the awkward silence to linger, for the ruined start to sour everything. Instead, Clark leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, and looked at you like you were the only person in the room. “I really am sorry,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “You shouldn’t have been sitting here, wondering if I was going to show up.”
The sincerity in his tone unraveled some of the tightness in your chest. You sighed softly. “Just… next time, Clark, please. Even if it’s two words—I’m alive. I need that.”
He winced, guilt flickering across his features, and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll figure out something—even if my phone’s in pieces. I promise.”
And then, almost like he’d flipped a switch, he set himself to making you smile again. He cracked self-deprecating jokes about being the guy who could ruin two phones in as many months. He teased you for picking the salad section first when he knew you’d end up ordering pasta. He even convinced the server to bring you a complimentary glass of wine, telling her—loud enough for you to hear—that you deserved it for putting up with a boyfriend who ran late.
Slowly, the tension melted. Dinner was… normal. Almost idyllic. He listened, asked questions, leaned in with that intent expression he wore when you spoke, like every word mattered. When you told him a story about Marcy’s latest antics at the office, he laughed so hard his glasses slid down his nose, and you reached across the table to push them back up, both of you smiling too wide.
By the time dessert arrived—two spoons and one slice of cheesecake you hadn’t planned on ordering—your earlier panic felt like it belonged to another night. He fed you a bite across the table, eyes warm with affection, and you thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the man you’d been waiting for without even realizing it.
Later, when he walked you home, the city was quieter, the chaos of earlier contained to distant sirens. His hand was steady in yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself you were there. At your door, he hesitated, the broken phone still in his pocket, his shirt still slightly creased from whatever he’d run through. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for not giving up on me tonight.”
Your throat tightened. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble under your palm. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
He kissed you then—gentle, lingering, like the whole world outside the two of you could collapse and he’d still be rooted right there. And as you pulled him inside, the broken phone and the strange details of his night faded to the background, drowned out by the way his arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing he’d been fighting for.
---
It was the kind of sleep you only ever fell into when Clark was beside you—deep, warm, cocooned. His arm had been wrapped firmly around your waist when you drifted off, the weight of him at your back like an anchor against the rest of the world. You remembered mumbling something incoherent, felt him kiss your shoulder, and then nothing.
When you woke again, it was to cool sheets. Your hand stretched automatically across the bed, expecting the familiar slope of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing. Instead, your fingers met rumpled fabric and empty space.
Blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights seeping through your curtains, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The apartment was quiet—eerily so. No humming, no clatter in the kitchen, no off-key singing from the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. Just silence. “Clark?” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. Nothing.
You sat up fully, pulling the blanket around you as if it could soften the strange pang forming in your chest. His glasses weren’t on the nightstand. Neither was his tie or his watch. Even his shoes, which he’d left by the door hours earlier, were gone.
The ache sharpened into something that felt an awful lot like déjà vu. How many times had he slipped away before midnight, murmuring excuses about early mornings, work, needing to get back? And now, after a night that had felt whole—after cheesecake and laughter and whispered promises in the dark—you were alone again.
Your phone sat on the nightstand. You reached for it, thumb hovering over his contact. But what would you even write? Where are you? Why did you leave? Why do you keep doing this?
Instead, you set it back down and curled into the sheets, pressing your face into the pillow where his scent still lingered. It shouldn’t have hurt this much. You weren’t naïve—you knew couples didn’t spend every night tangled together. But the emptiness of that bed, the silence of your apartment, made it feel less like space and more like abandonment.
As sleep threatened to pull you under again, one thought echoed, heavier than the rest: What is it you’re not telling me, Clark?
---
The morning sunlight pulled you awake, sharp and insistent. You blinked blearily, half-expecting to find Clark in the kitchen again—hair mussed, glasses perched on his nose, humming while he made coffee like last time.
But the apartment was silent. The bed was still empty. You sat up slowly, the ache of disappointment settling in your chest. His absence felt sharper today, maybe because last night had been so good—because you’d thought, for once, he’d let himself stay. The knock on your door startled you. For a wild second, you thought maybe it was him. You pulled on your robe and padded across the floor, heart thumping as you opened the door. It was Clark.
He stood there with two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. His hair was neatly combed again, though you could see it had been wet recently, like he’d showered elsewhere. His shirt was fresh, his glasses polished, and his smile—soft, apologetic—hit you right in the chest. “Morning,” he said gently. “Thought you might need fuel before work.”
You stepped back automatically, letting him in even as you searched his face. “Clark… you left.”
His smile faltered. He set the coffees down on your table, careful, precise, like stalling for time. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I, uh… couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d go grab coffee, maybe breakfast.” He held up the paper bag—bagels from that little shop two blocks away. “Your favorite.”
It was a good excuse. Believable, even. But you knew the truth of his rhythms by now—the way he slipped away in the middle of the night, the way his shirts came back rumpled, his hair windblown. Something in your gut whispered that he hadn’t just gone for bagels. You crossed your arms. “You could’ve left a note. Or texted. I woke up and—” You swallowed, voice thinner than you meant. “I didn’t know where you were.”
His face softened, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I should’ve left something. I wasn’t thinking.”
The sincerity in his voice made it hard to hold onto your frustration. He looked so… earnest, standing there with bagels and coffee, like all he wanted was to take care of you. Still, the question pressed against your chest: Where were you, Clark?
Instead, you sank onto the couch, pulling a bagel from the bag. “One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
He sat beside you, his thigh warm against yours, and passed you your coffee. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
You shot him a look over the rim of your cup. “Big words for a guy who disappears in the middle of the night.”
He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Fair. I’ll try harder. Promise.” The heat of his lips lingered, but so did the empty space you’d woken to.
And as you bit into your bagel, chewing slowly, you couldn’t help wondering if you’d ever get the real answer about where Clark Kent went when he left you behind.
By lunchtime, you’d almost convinced yourself not to mention it. Almost. But then Marcy slid into the booth across from you at your favorite café, setting her latte down with a thud, and gave you that look—the one that said she knew you were holding something back. “You’ve got that face,” she said before you could even unwrap your sandwich.
“What face?” you asked, feigning innocence.
“The one that says, ‘my perfect boyfriend did something less-than-perfect, and now I don’t know if I should be worried or if I’m just being neurotic.’” She sipped her drink. “So. Out with it.”
You sighed, picking at the corner of your napkin. “He left. Again.”
Marcy leaned forward instantly, eyes sharp. “Left? As in, middle of the night left?”
“Yeah. I woke up and he was gone. No note, no text, nothing. Just—” You shook your head. “Empty bed.”
“Okay, that’s strike… what, three? Four?”
You bit your lip. “He came back in the morning. With coffee. And bagels.”
Marcy rolled her eyes so hard you swore she saw the inside of her skull. “Classic male deflection. Disappear mysteriously, then show up with food. Works every time.”
“It’s not like that,” you protested quickly, though your voice wavered. “He looked guilty. He said he couldn’t sleep and went out. And he remembered my exact order.”
“Sweetheart, remembering your bagel order doesn’t erase the fact that he Houdini’d out of your apartment while you were asleep.”
You pressed your hands around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms. “I don’t think he’s… cheating or anything. That’s not him. But…” You hesitated, the words tasting heavy on your tongue. “I feel like he’s hiding something.”
Marcy tilted her head, considering you. “Do you want to know what it is?”
“Of course I do,” you said, frustration bubbling in your chest. “But every time I get close to asking, he looks at me like—like he’s carrying the weight of the world, and I can’t bring myself to pile more on him.”
Marcy reached across the table, resting her hand over yours. Her usual sarcasm softened for once. “Listen. Maybe he is hiding something big. Maybe it’s not even about you. But you deserve honesty. You can’t keep waking up to an empty bed, wondering if he’s coming back.” You nodded slowly, her words hitting deeper than you wanted to admit. Marcy pulled her hand back, smirking again to cut the tension. “Also, for the record? If he’s sneaking out to do something boring like karaoke practice, I expect full disclosure when you find out.”
You laughed weakly, though the sound didn’t quite reach your chest. “Yeah. Deal.”
But as you sipped your coffee, the unease lingered. Because no matter how sweet Clark was—no matter how many bagels or bouquets or apologies he offered—the truth was still there, just out of reach.
And sooner or later, you were going to need to know it.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something you looked forward to all week. You’d woken early without even needing your alarm, already planning which stalls you’d drag him to first—the bakery for croissants, the honey vendor who always slipped you a free sample, the flower stand where Clark always insisted on buying something “because you look like you belong in a field of sunflowers.”
The tote bag was already folded in your purse when you left your apartment, humming with quiet anticipation. You got there ten minutes early, half-expecting him to already be waiting. That was his thing—early, with two coffees, one exactly the way you liked it. But when the clock hit the top of the hour, there was no sign of him. You lingered near the entrance, checking your phone. No texts. You typed a quick one—Here! Where are you?—and waited. The bubbles never appeared.
Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. You pretended to browse a stand of homemade candles, pretending not to notice couples walking hand in hand past you, laughing and carrying bags of produce. You tried calling. Straight to voicemail. By the half-hour mark, your stomach wasn’t just empty—it was twisted.
You sat down on a bench at the edge of the market, clutching your tote bag like it might anchor you. The sun was warm, the air smelled like bread and basil, but all you could feel was the pit forming in your chest. He hadn’t just texted. He hadn’t said I’m late or I’ll be there soon. He was just… gone.
You tried not to think about the last time. The broken phone. The story about being caught up in the chaos while Superman fought whoever it was off. You tried not to wonder what excuse he would bring this time, what little gesture he’d use to smooth over the sharp edge of your worry. But more than anything, you tried not to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.
Because sitting there, alone in a crowd of people bustling through their weekend routines, you realized something painful, Clark made you feel safer than anyone ever had… until the moments when he didn’t show up at all. And those moments were starting to come more often.
You held out for almost an hour. Long enough that the croissant stand sold out. Long enough that the flowers wilted a little in the heat. Long enough that the ache of disappointment settled bone-deep. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You folded your empty tote back into your bag, stood from the bench, and walked home with your phone silent in your pocket.
By the time you got back to your apartment, your chest felt tight in a way that no heating pad or Clark Kent smile could soften. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn’t just that he’d missed the date. It was that he hadn’t told you. Not a text, not a call. Just… silence. The knock on your door didn’t come until late afternoon. When you opened it, there he was, hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, glasses smudged again. He had that look—guilty, apologetic, sheepish. In one hand he held a paper bag, the familiar bakery logo printed on the side. “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, words tumbling out before you could even decide if you wanted to let him in. “I got caught up—there was this fire on 8th, and the street was shut down, and it all got so—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I should’ve called. I know.”
You crossed your arms, the sting of waiting in the sun still sharp. “Clark, we were supposed to meet at ten. You didn’t text. You didn’t pick up when I called. I just… I sat there.”
He winced, stepping closer, holding the bag out like a peace offering. “I know. I hate that I left you waiting like that. I grabbed croissants—they had some left at the bakery, somehow.”
You took the bag automatically, though it felt heavier than just pastries. “That’s not the point.”
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. His eyes were earnest, wide behind his crooked glasses. “You matter more than anything, I swear. I just—” He faltered, his jaw tightening, something unspoken hanging there. “Sometimes things happen and I can’t… I can’t explain them right away.”
Your heart squeezed, anger and worry warring inside you. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Clark. I just need you to show up. Or at least let me know why you can’t.”
He nodded quickly, stepping closer until his hands hovered near your arms, not quite touching. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I will. Please don’t think this means I don’t want to be there. Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
And God help you, you believed him. Even as your doubt gnawed, even as the silence between texts stretched longer each time, the way he said it—raw, pleading—made you want to forgive him. You let him pull you into his arms, let him tuck his chin over your head like he could shield you from the very pain he’d caused. But later, as you sat together on the couch sharing croissants gone a little stale, you couldn’t stop the thought from circling back: What keeps pulling you away from me, Clark?
Clark stayed. Not just through dinner—which he insisted on cooking from whatever was in your fridge, humming off-key while he stirred pasta sauce—but through the soft, quiet hours afterwards, when the city’s glow seeped in through the curtains and the apartment settled into stillness.
He was attentive, almost overly so. He poured your wine before you asked, fetched your blanket before you reached for it, queued up your comfort show without needing a reminder. Every small gesture felt like a peace offering, like he was trying to stitch over the morning’s absence with warmth and familiarity.
You sat curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his, your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart filled your ear, grounding you. And yet, you couldn’t shake the memory of waiting at the market, of the empty bench, of your phone silent in your hand.
Clark shifted slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“Just tired,” you lied.
He hummed, like he half-believed you. His hand rubbed slow circles over your arm, his touch gentle, patient. The kind of touch that usually melted every sharp edge inside you. Tonight, though, it made your throat tighten. You tilted your head up, studying him in the low light. His glasses caught a glint from the TV, hiding his eyes, but the rest of his face was open, soft, like he belonged nowhere else but here. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you,” you said quietly.
He blinked, surprised. “I never think that.”
“I just…” Your words tangled, heavy with the truth you weren’t ready to spill. I just need to know where you go. Why you leave. Why I can’t always count on you. Instead, you swallowed it back. “I don’t want us to end up resenting each other.”
His hand stilled for a beat before he cupped your face, turning you gently so you were looking right at him. “I could never resent you. Not for anything.” His voice was low, steady, full of something that felt too big for the space between you.
The sincerity in his eyes broke down whatever was left of your defenses. You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes as his thumb brushed your cheek. “Stay tonight,” you whispered. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” he promised without hesitation. And this time, he didn’t. He stayed through the credits, through the late-night reruns, through the drift of your eyelids. You fell asleep with him holding you, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. When you woke in the middle of the night, just for a moment, you reached across the bed—and he was still there. Warm, solid, his arm heavy around your waist.
Relief flooded you, soft and fragile. For now, at least, he’d kept his word. But even as you closed your eyes again, drifting back into sleep, you knew one night couldn’t erase the questions piling up inside you. Soon, you’d have to ask.
---
Sunlight warmed the edges of the curtains, spilling across the floor in slow gold. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of waking where your body resisted because it was too comfortable, too cocooned. Clark was still there.
For a beat you didn’t move, just listened to his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His arm was still around your waist, heavy but secure, anchoring you in place. He always held you like he thought you might slip away if he loosened his grip.
You turned your head slightly, watching him in the half-light. His glasses sat on the nightstand, forgotten, and without them his features looked sharper, somehow more striking. There was something in the lines of his face that always seemed just a little… different when he wasn’t wearing them. You shook the thought away, tucking it back where all your other quiet questions about him lived.
Clark stirred, eyelids fluttering, and a lazy smile curved across his mouth when he saw you awake. “Morning,” he rumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” you echoed, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your own lips.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then sat up slightly, stretching one arm. “Don’t move. I’ll get breakfast.”
You propped yourself on your elbow, watching as he padded into the kitchen in his undershirt, the lines of his back broad and solid. It should’ve felt strange, this kind of domesticity. It was still new, still fragile. But instead it felt inevitable—like waking up to Clark in your kitchen was how mornings were supposed to be. By the time you wandered in, he had eggs sizzling in the pan and coffee brewing. He turned at the sound of your steps, his smile soft. “Perfect timing. Sit.”
You obeyed, sliding into a chair as he set a plate in front of you. Toast, eggs, and coffee fixed exactly the way you liked it. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart wasn’t in it.
“Ridiculously good at breakfast,” he countered, sliding into the chair across from you with his own plate.
You ate in easy silence for a while, the clink of silverware filling the space. But as you sipped your coffee, your eyes kept straying to him—his neatness, the way his glasses were back on, the way he smiled at you like you were the best part of his day.
And under it all, the memory of yesterday tugged at you. The empty market bench. The broken promises. The cracks he kept smoothing over with bagels, with croissants, with coffee and warmth.
You set your mug down, the words on the tip of your tongue. Clark, where do you go? Why do you leave? What aren’t you telling me?
But then he reached across the table, his large hand curling over yours, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “I like this,” he said quietly. “Just us. Starting the day together.”
Your chest tightened. You wanted to ask, wanted to demand answers. Instead, you let his warmth soften you again, let yourself smile back even as the questions burrowed deeper. Because for now, Clark was here. And you weren’t ready to risk losing that—not yet.
---
The night had started like any other. Takeout cartons stacked on the coffee table, an old movie playing in the background, Clark sprawled comfortably beside you with his long legs taking up half the couch. He’d stayed late all week—he’d made you breakfast, walked you to work twice, even surprised you at your office with your favorite drink. For a moment, you’d started to believe the cracks were sealing themselves.
But belief wasn’t the same as certainty. And certainty was what you needed. So when the movie ended and you excused yourself to change, you didn’t reach for your oversized T-shirt or soft flannel pants. You reached for the pajamas—the silk ones Marcy had teased you about, the ones that had made Clark’s ears turn scarlet the first time you’d worn them.
You checked your reflection once in the mirror, nerves buzzing in your stomach. It wasn’t about seduction—not really. It was about proof. If he stayed tonight, maybe you could stop worrying. Maybe you could stop imagining all the shadows in the spaces he left behind. You stepped back into the living room, heart hammering.
Clark was loosening his tie, standing near the couch. He turned when he heard you, and just like before, his reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his breath caught, and his hands stilled on the knot of fabric at his throat. “Oh.”
You leaned casually against the doorframe, forcing a smile. “Thought I’d get comfortable.”
He swallowed hard, his ears already pink. “You… you look—” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, tugging at his collar like the air had gone thin.
You crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing the tie still loose at his chest. “Stay tonight,” you said softly, tilting your head up at him. “With me.”
For a moment, you thought it had worked. His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze flickering down to your mouth, every line of his body taut with want. You tugged lightly on his tie, urging him closer, and his breath stuttered.
Then his head snapped toward the window. You barely had time to register the sudden change in his posture before he stepped back, stumbling slightly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. His expression shifted—alarm, urgency—something you’d never seen cut so sharply across his face. “Clark?” you asked, your stomach dropping.
“I—I have to go,” he blurted, already reaching for his coat. His voice was rushed, uneven, almost panicked. “I’m sorry, I—”
“What? Why?” You took a step after him, confusion and hurt rising in your throat.
“I just—” He glanced at you, eyes wide, torn, like he wanted to explain but couldn’t. “I’ll call you. I promise.”
And then he was gone—half-stumbling into his shoes, out the door before you could take another step. The echo of it rattled through the apartment, leaving you standing barefoot in silk, the air still humming with the ghost of his almost-touch.
You stared at the closed door, your pulse pounding in your ears. This time, there had been no excuse. No broken phone, no croissants, no story about Superman. Just raw urgency in his eyes, the kind that left you cold. And for the first time, you couldn’t convince yourself it didn’t mean something.
By the time you made it into the office the next morning, you’d barely slept. You’d lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, Clark’s hurried exit replaying again and again in your head—the way his eyes had darted toward the window, the almost-panicked way he’d stumbled over himself getting out the door. So when Marcy appeared at your cubicle, steaming latte in hand, you didn’t even bother with small talk. “He left again,” you said flatly, before she could open her mouth.
Her eyes went wide, and she perched herself on the edge of your desk like she was settling in for a story. “Again? When?”
“Last night.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He was there. He was staying. And then… I don’t know, he just—heard something? Looked out the window? And bolted. Like I didn’t even exist.”
Marcy whistled low. “Oof. Not good.” She sipped her latte thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s brainstorm worst-case scenarios. Cheating. Secret family. Double life. Serial killer.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Marcy—”
“No, think about it!” She ticked off her fingers. “Cheater? Bad, but common. Secret family? Messy, but at least he’s not wasting all his emotional energy on you. Serial killer? Well…” She tilted her head dramatically. “What’s worse, a cheater or a serial killer?”
Despite yourself, you barked out a laugh, muffled behind your palms. “That is not funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she countered, smug. “I’d take a serial killer over a cheater any day. At least with a killer, you’re not competing with Susan from accounting.”
You dropped your hands, glaring at her through the exhaustion. “You’re insane.”
“I’m realistic,” she shot back, grinning. Then, softer, “but seriously, babe. If he’s running out like that? If he can’t even give you a reason? That’s not nothing.”
You sighed, slumping in your chair. “I know. But it doesn’t feel like cheating. When he looks at me—Marcy, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. I can’t explain it. But then he vanishes, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it all.”
Her expression softened, the teasing edge fading. “Then maybe he’s not a cheater. Maybe he’s not even a serial killer.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I’m just saying.” She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe he’s hiding something else. Something big. You’ve got to decide if you want to push him on it—or if you’re okay being in the dark.”
The words sat heavy in your chest. Because deep down, you already knew the answer: you weren’t okay in the dark. Not anymore. But the thought of shining a light on whatever Clark was hiding scared you more than you wanted to admit.
---
The knock came just after sunset. You weren’t surprised—it was almost a pattern now, Clark showing up late, carrying the weight of an apology in his posture. When you opened the door, there he was, hair neat but glasses slightly askew, a paper bag dangling from one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. He smiled, soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him in. “I brought dinner,” he said gently. “And flowers. To say I’m sorry.”
You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him enter. He set the bag on the table, laid the flowers carefully in a vase like they were something fragile. Then he turned back to you, his expression earnest, pleading. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said, voice low. “I know it hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
Your throat tightened. “Then why do you keep doing it?”
He flinched, just slightly, but recovered with that same soft steadiness. “Sometimes… things come up. Things I can’t explain right away. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here. With you.”
You pressed your hands into your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “Clark, I waited for you. At the farmer’s market. At dinner. In bed. Over and over again, I wait. And you leave.”
He took a step closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I come back. Every time, I come back.”
“But I don’t know if you will!” The words burst out, sharper than you intended. Your chest ached, eyes burning as you forced yourself to look at him. “I can’t keep doing this—wondering where you are, why you left, if you’re okay. I can’t keep waking up to an empty bed and convincing myself it doesn’t mean anything.”
His face crumpled, like the ground had shifted under him. “Don’t say that.”
“Clark…” Your voice broke, tears slipping free. “You’re everything I want. You’re kind, and sweet, and you make me feel like I matter. But then you vanish, and it’s like I don’t know you at all. And I can’t—” You shook your head, sobbing quietly. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this.”
He stared at you, stricken, words caught in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he had the right. “I wish I could tell you,” he whispered finally, voice rough. “I wish I could tell you everything. You don’t know how much I want to. But—” He stopped himself, biting the words back. His chest rose and fell with a shudder.
You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheeks. “Then tell me. Please. Because if you can’t… I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep going.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. And for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if his sweetness, his apologies, his flowers, could make this right. Clark stood there, chest rising and falling, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as though even they were weary of carrying this lie. His hand flexed at his side, and then, with a shaky breath, he spoke. “Close your eyes,” he said softly.
You blinked at him, stunned. “Clark, this isn’t—”
“Please.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Just… if you trust me, close your eyes.” The tremor in his tone stilled your protests. Your heart pounded, but slowly—hesitantly—you let your eyes fall shut. “Do you trust me?” he asked, closer now.
You swallowed hard. “Yes.”
For a moment, there was only the silence of your apartment—the hum of the fridge, the faint city noise beyond the window. Then Clark’s hands were at your waist, warm and steady, and he drew you gently against him. “Hold on to me,” he murmured.
Before you could ask why, the ground shifted. Your stomach swooped, your hair lifted in a rush of wind. Instinctively, you clung to him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Air whipped around you, cool and rushing, and a gasp tore from your throat. “Clark!”
“Shh,” he soothed, his voice steady even through the roar of wind. “I’ve got you.”
You cracked your eyes open—and your breath caught. The city stretched out below you in a wash of lights and motion, sprawling farther than you’d ever seen it. Streets glimmered like veins of gold, buildings pierced the sky around you, and the river shone silver in the moonlight. You weren’t in your apartment anymore. You were flying.
And Clark—Clark was the one holding you. Your gaze snapped to him, the wind tousling his hair, his glasses gone, his eyes impossibly blue, sharp and unhidden in the night. The face you knew, but different—clearer, bolder, his. Realization crashed into you like a tidal wave. “You…” Your voice shook. “You’re—”
“Superman.” He said it quietly, the word almost reverent, as if he were confessing a sin instead of revealing himself. “It’s me.”
Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes. All the absences, the broken phones, the midnight disappearances—suddenly they made sense. Not cheating. Not lies. Not betrayal. He hadn’t been leaving you for someone else. He’d been leaving you for everyone else.
“I should have told you sooner,” he continued, guilt threading every word. “But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean for you. For us. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
You shook your head, still clutching him tightly as the city rushed below. “Clark, I—God, I thought you were cheating, or hiding some secret family, or—I don’t even know.” Your voice cracked. “But this? You were out saving people while I was sitting at home wondering why you didn’t text me back.”
His expression broke, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “I wanted to protect you. I thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe. But it hurt you, and I hate that. I never wanted to hurt you.”
You stared at him, at the impossible truth in front of you, at the man who was both the sweetest, gentlest soul you’d ever known and the most powerful being on Earth. And against all reason, you laughed, shaky and breathless. “Marcy’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out I was worried you were a serial killer.”
Clark blinked, startled, then let out a stunned, nervous laugh of his own. Relief softened his features, even as his arms tightened protectively around you. “I don’t care if you’re Superman,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears on your cheeks. “I just need you to be honest with me. I just need you.”
He looked at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “You have me. Always.” The descent was so smooth you barely felt it, the city tilting back into place as Clark slowed, wind softening against your skin until your feet touched down on your balcony. His arms didn’t leave you right away; instead, he held you steady, like he wasn’t sure if your legs would trust the ground again.
You weren’t sure they would either. Heart still hammering, you clutched at his shirt for a moment before finally forcing yourself to loosen your grip. The apartment behind you looked painfully ordinary—blanket draped over the couch, empty mug still on the table. And yet, everything had shifted.
Clark set you down fully, then stepped back just enough to give you space. Without his glasses, he looked both impossibly familiar and startlingly new. His eyes, unshielded, searched your face with something raw in them—hope tangled with fear.
You let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You’re Superman. My boyfriend is Superman.”
His mouth curved into a small, almost self-conscious smile. “That’s… yeah. That’s me.”
You dropped your hand, meeting his gaze again. “All those nights you left. The phone. The farmer’s market. You were—”
“Saving people,” he finished softly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d always come back. I just… couldn’t tell you where I was going.”
A lump rose in your throat. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting alone, thinking I wasn’t enough? That you didn’t want me?”
His face broke, guilt carved deep in every line. He closed the space between you, carefully, his hands hovering near your arms like he wanted to hold you but was waiting for permission. “I hated it. Every time I left you, I hated it. But I thought if I told you the truth… you’d look at me like the rest of the world does. Like a symbol. Not a man.”
You shook your head, tears threatening again. “Clark, I’ve never wanted Superman. I’ve always wanted you. The guy who brings me bagels, who sings off-key while he cooks, who worries if I’ve had enough coffee before work. That’s the man I’m in love with.”
His breath hitched, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. “I love you too,” he whispered into your hair. “God, I love you.”
You melted against him, arms circling his waist, your cheek pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the tension that had lived in your chest eased. The cracks weren’t cracks at all—they were pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t been allowed to see. When you finally pulled back, you caught his face in your hands, studying him with a small, breathless laugh. “You’re really Superman. And all this time, I thought you were sneaking off to… I don’t know, karaoke night or a secret family.”
His cheeks flushed, sheepish even now. “No secret family. And I’m terrible at karaoke.”
The laugh bubbled out of you, unstoppable. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and certain, feeling him smile against your mouth. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his. “Next time, don’t let me sit in the dark, okay? If you have to go, just… tell me. Even if it’s just a look. I can live with Superman. I can’t live with silence.”
His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care. “No more silence. I promise.”
You leaned into the kiss fully, your arms wrapping around his neck, and for a few precious seconds there was no Superman, no danger, no lies—just Clark, just you, just the steady warmth of him choosing to stay.
summary: after a hot, hazy dream where superman morphs into your best friend, nothing feels simple anymore. you spend your days dodging a heartbroken clark, until one night it all becomes too much- and every secret you’ve both been holding finally comes spilling out.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: part two of that should be me, but can be read as a standalone. established friendship. yearning. slight comedy! smuttyish, not too much but enough. wholesome.
one | two
You woke up gasping.
The sheets were tangled around your legs, sweat slick against your skin, your chest heaving like you’d been running for your life. For a moment, the world was a blur; the sound of your pulse in your ears, your breath catching on a name you didn’t even remember saying aloud.
All you could remember was him.
A weight above you, heavy and warm, not crushing but encompassing. Fingers threading through your hair, hands all over your waist, guiding you, giving you strength to keep going.
I’ve got you, baby.
A whisper against your throat, a voice that was low and rough and so familiar. Your sternum had been peppered in kisses, sucked gently to the point of turning purple, your chest littered with love and filth and everything in between.
You’re doing so good for me. So full a’ me.
You remembered the way it felt- the air thick with heat, his body braced over yours, his mouth so close that you could feel his breath when he said your name like it was something secret.
And then- the blur shifted. For a heartbeat, you clung onto Superman's shoulders. Broad, strong, shadowed in blue light, softly chiselled in the way you’d always imagined them to be underneath all the blue.
You thought, dreamily, of course it’s him. Who else could make your heart stutter like that? Who else could lift you, hold you, protect you? It wasn't unlike you to have these dreams, these thoughts that were direct results of ignoring your own arousal the night before.
But right before the dream shattered- right before your eyes flew open- the image changed.
Not the cape. Not the symbol.
Glasses.
And suddenly, it wasn’t Superman anymore.
It was Clark.
You bolted upright, heart jackhammering against your ribs.
“No,” you whispered to the empty room, palms pressed to your face. “No. Nope. Nope. No way.”
Sweet, wholesome Clark Kent, who said things like golly and gosh and chum; pressed tight against you, fingers making your lower half their home.
You swung your legs off the bed, pacing. “Oh my god.”
The dream clung to you like static, refusing to let go. Every time you closed your eyes, you could feel it again- the warmth of his breath, the low rumble of his voice, the press of his hand against your cheek. Clark’s hand.
Calloused slightly, often stained with ink. Hands that grew up on a farm, formed by years of lifting hay bales and hammering fence posts. Hands that guided you through busy crowds, held your own on those nights you needed comfort.
Your best friend’s hands; now tainted by the carnal vision of them wrapped around your thighs, holding you open as he pushed himself inside of you.
“Okay, it’s fine,” you muttered, half to yourself, half to the universe. “It’s just… a dream. Just a weird, emotionally repressed, stress-induced, totally random dream. No big deal.”
Except it was a big deal.
Because now, every time you saw him at work, it was all you could think about.
He’d lean over your desk to check your notes, that subtle scent of clean soap and coffee clinging to him, and you’d remember that same scent from your dream- except in your dream, he’d been closer. And it didn’t linger on his clothes, no- it was on his skin, the same area you’d been gasping and sighing against all night long.
He’d smile at you, all shy and boyish and kind like he usually did, and your heart would flip traitorously, whispering: that’s the smile.
It was mortifying.
So naturally, you did the only thing you could do.
You started avoiding him.
A skill you didn’t think possible, given that you worked ten feet apart and were often in each other’s pockets. You showed up late, ducked out early, pretended to be on phone calls.
At first, Clark stayed oblivious. You’d been stressed out at work for a while- the least he could do was give you some space, just a little bit- just enough to help you out without overwhelming you.
He still left your favourite coffee on your desk, the ice in a separate cup because he knew how much you hated the condensation ring it left on your favourite coaster. He brought you lunch every single day even if you couldn’t eat it with him, and he still hung back after the workday on the off chance you’d allow him to walk you home.
Unfortunately, none of it worked. In fact, it did the complete opposite; it made your heart beat even faster and the ache between your legs insufferable.
Every time he spoke, every time he so much as looked at you; you’d remember it, hear his voice in your ears, a threat to your composure. It wasn’t Superman’s voice anymore, not like it had been at the start.
It wasn’t until your heartbeat faltered when Clark's arm brushed yours in the hallway that he- just as he'd been suspecting- knew something was wrong.
“You okay?” he asked one afternoon, when you almost tripped over your own chair trying to escape to the break room.
“Y-yeah! I’m alright,” you smiled then, far too wide, far too toothy. You grabbed your bag and stalked away towards the kitchenette, trying for the love of everything good and beyond to calm your pulse.
Clark followed you, grabbing his mug and yours on the way.
“Are you sure?”
You’re doing so good for me.
“So sure,” you squeaked, leaning against the counter with forced ease. “Are… are you okay?”
So full a’ me.
“No. Not really,” his voice stayed soft, wracking you with guilt. Concern furrowed his brows as he tilted his head. “You’ve barely looked me in the eye all week.”
You laughed- a sharp, nervous sound that made him look even more suspicious. You clapped a hand over your mouth.
“Sorry- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that, I’ve… just been tired. Long week. That’s all.”
He didn’t press, but his eyes lingered on you, soft and searching.
“You promise?”
“I promise, Clark.”
"You'd tell me if I did something wrong, right?"
"Yes, of course I would," you lied, thoughts spinning into, how could I possibly be normal around him now?
Because the truth was- it wasn’t just the dream.
It was everything after.
You’d started noticing things you hadn’t before. Silly little things, quirks of his that you deemed adorable and unexplainable because they never affected you and never put him in any danger- not really.
But now, they did. Because now, you were watching him closer than ever before; a way to get over him, sure, but also because your avoidance of him left a certain ache in your world that needed filling. Even if that fill meant thinking about him non-stop a million times a day.
Clark disappeared. A lot.
It wasn’t conspiracy, you just assumed he wasn’t very organised. You’d often wake up in his apartment to a stack of waffles on the counter, syrup on the side and a note about butter being in the fridge, as well as a written excuse about needing to pick something up before work.
When you’d ask him about it later on, he’d have no idea what you were talking about.
There were other times, too. ‘Brunches’ he forgot about, ‘lunches’ with Lois that she had no idea were even in the calendar. Oddities, inconsistencies in his excuses.
And it wasn’t even just that; sometimes, things worked out a little too well, to the point where it made no sense. Like the day you mentioned missing a tiny niche bakery in Paris- the one tucked between the flower shop and the bookstore- and how you’d give anything for one of their pistachio macarons again.
You'd told Clark all about them, about how much you adored the city of love and couldn't wait to go back- partly because of the culture, mostly because of their bakeries.
The next morning, a box of twelve sat neatly on your desk.
Wrapped in that same lime-green ribbon you’d once gushed over, with a neat little note in Clark’s handwriting:
We’ll go someday. You'll have the real thing again, in the real Paris. Promise.
When you’d asked how on earth he managed to get them, he only smiled and muttered something about “knowing a guy.”
You didn’t push. You just laughed, broke a macaron in half, and offered him the first piece- heart swelling with that familiar, dizzying warmth of being known and cared for by someone like Clark Kent.
It was always like that with him. Little miracles you could never quite explain. A thing you wanted, a thing you needed, always seemed to appear, quietly, effortlessly, as if the universe bent a little whenever he was near.
You’d never thought much of it before.
But now, now that your senses were live like haywire and you found yourself obsessed with the very thought of him- every small impossibility began to feel like a clue you’d somehow missed.
You started noticing things. The way Clark’s eyes would flick toward sirens before anyone else had even registered the sound. The way he’d wince whenever somebody got hurt- even in a movie, even when it wasn’t real- like pain was something he could feel through other people.
The faint scorch marks you’d once seen on his cuff, the tiny rip at the shoulder of his shirt that hadn’t been there the day before. The way he carried himself, too; steady, grounded, but with a kind of quiet vigilance, as though he was always half-listening for something just beyond your hearing.
And then, of course, the way he always disappeared right before a catastrophe. Yet red and blue would streak the sky, littering the clouds in a purple blur.
It wasn’t proof. Not exactly. You excused it in your mind; there was just no way. They had similarities, sure, but Clark was Clark and Superman apparently had a harem and was here to take over the entire world.
He was not your sweet, lovable, honest best friend that rarely ever called girls ‘hot’ and would usually opt for they have a beauty about them instead, earning a couple laughs from Lois and Jimmy and even Perry the one time he walked past and heard it.
Absolutely not. No.
Not Clark.
Yet still, you couldn’t shake it. It was enough to make your stomach twist with something dangerously close to realisation, a feeling you shoved all the way down.
But once the thought crossed your mind, it was impossible for you to forget it.
A week later, you found yourself standing outside his apartment. You didn’t even know why you were there until he opened the door, surprise flickering across his face before softening into something warmer.
“Hey,” Clark said, voice gentle as ever. Immediately, he stepped to the side, silently inviting you to come in. “You okay?”
You stood frozen in the hallway, clutching your coat around you like armour.
“I, um… no. Yes. I don’t know.”
His brows knit. “Did something happen?”
“Kind of,” you said, then laughed nervously. “This is going to sound insane.”
“Definitely not. I’ve probably heard worse.” He opened the door even wider. “Come in.”
You did. His apartment was dim, the city outside painting him in whispers of gold and blue.
It felt strange being there after a couple weeks not having stepped foot inside- familiar, but charged, like every molecule of air remembered something you didn’t.
Your stuff was still littered around; a book you were taking forever to read, your cherry print mug, a pair of socks that weren’t initially yours- Clark had gotten you them one random Tuesday after you’d mentioned the floorboards in his apartment being too cold.
He handed you a mug of something warm before sitting across from you. For a short while, neither of you said anything; you just chewed on your bottom lip, mind far, far away.
He watched you closely, patience unwavering. Eyed the way your teeth nibbled at your skin, an anxious habit you’d been trying to break the whole time knowing him. You kept alternating the mug between both hands, distracted, unfocused.
His chest hurt just by looking at you. For once in your life, he thought, you looked lost.
You weren't the same girl he'd been steadying around the bullpen a few weeks ago, the one gushing about his alter-ego and making the tips of his ears go pink. Right now, right in front of him, you looked the complete opposite; reserved. Hesitant.
Scared.
“So...” Clark started, soft as ever. The way he looked at you threatened to break you even more.
“...are you finally going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”
It wasn’t an accusation, not in any way. Just pure, genuine curiosity tinged with a whole lot of hurt.
Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your shirt, nervous thumbs twiddling.
“I…” you started, “I didn’t want to. Promise. You know I would never, not for no reason,”
He felt like something had punched him right in the gut. So, there was a reason. His mind raced, listing all the possible things he could have done wrong.
Clark swallowed. “I know,” he mumbled, “Go on,”
You stared into the steam, trying to find words that wouldn’t make you sound completely unhinged.
“I had... a dream,” you started, cringing a little at the words that sounded so un-wise coming from you.
Clark blinked. “A dream?”
Your ramble came out then; slowly at first, then sporadically, all in one, “Uh- yeah. Not like MLK did, I just realised how that sounded. I had an actual, physical, real life dream- not a hope for the world, not anything worthy of a speech, an actual-“
Clark said your name softly then, amusement twitching at the end of his lips. “You’re rambling,” he said, words as unhurried as ever even though you were being anything but.
“Sorry,” you exhaled shakily, "I-I'm sorry, Clark- I don't know how to say it, but I don't know how to keep it to myself either," you felt like crying.
Clark could feel it, hear how your voice wavered.
“Hey, hey,” he coaxed, fingers brushing the hair out of your face. With a gentle press against your jaw, he smiled softly.
“Hey, look. You’re okay. Okay?”
You nodded a lie.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me. Alright?"
"Alright."
“Okay, then. Now, let's start from the beginning,” he set his own mug down, elbows on his knees now, leaning towards you and looking so damn good you wondered how you’d be able to stammer through this conversation.
You took a deep breath in.
“You dreamt about something?”
“Yes,” you exhaled quickly, before you could say anything else that made no sense. “About Superman.”
Something in his expression shifted- not panic, exactly, but wariness.
“Oh.”
“And you,” you added even quicker.
Now that got his attention.
His world stopped. Briefly. He’d been so focused on the rhythm of your heartbeat, the way your blood rushed hastily through your veins- to notice the hammering of his own.
“…Me?”
“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t- I don’t know how to say it,”
He nodded softly, though his own head began spinning, “I won’t rush you. Take your time.”
“It was a dream, about you, about us, having-” you cleared your throat, face burning at the memory, “You know. That. And, I thought it was Superman at first. It felt like him, or what my brain thought he’d feel like. But right before I woke up…”
I’ve got you, baby.
“It was you.”
His eyes widened behind his glasses, but he stayed quiet.
You took a shaky breath.
“And then I started noticing things," you interjected hastily, urging him not to think too deep about the implications of said dream.
"You... you disappear sometimes, Clark, and I haven’t asked you about it ever because I didn’t have any reason to. But you're always gone- right before all the stuff goes down and Superman comes out of nowhere, knowing exactly where to go and what’s going on. And the burns on your sleeve. The Paris macaroons. And your voice. God, your voice. It’s the same.”
Clark had been speechless countless times in his life. How could he not, when the world he was living in always felt far too vast, far too different to the makings of his being?
But none of those times held a candle to what he was feeling right now.
He swallowed, throat tight. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, huh?”
“Too much,” you admitted. “I know how it sounds. Crazy. I know you’re going to tell me I’m imagining it, or that I’m tired, or that there’s no way. But… I don’t know. I just needed to tell you. I just needed you to tell me, if I’m insane or not.”
He should’ve said it then; cut into your words with the easy thing, the safe thing. That you were imagining it, that you were tired, that it was all just coincidence. He could almost hear the lie forming in his throat, ready to protect you both from the truth that would undo everything.
But it stuck there, heavy and unmovable. Because you’d dreamed about him. Clark Kent. The mild-mannered reporter that grew up on a farm and was barely fitting in at work, who wasn’t a symbol of anything other than Daily Planet headlines and mismatched socks.
You’d seen him- not the cape, not the the red and blue, but Clark. And what if that meant something? What if, buried somewhere in that dream, there was the smallest chance that you felt the same way he did? The thought burned through him like sunlight through glass.
The other part of him- the part built on secrets and restraint- screamed that telling you would ruin it all. You’d look at him differently. You’d see everything he’d tried so hard to hide: the lies, the double life, the danger.
And yet, even knowing all that, when he looked at you now, eyes wide and trembling, he couldn’t bring himself to lie.
“You’re not crazy.” he said quietly.
That stopped you.
When you looked up, he wasn’t smiling, not like you hoped he would be. He wasn’t about to grin, that cheeky, wide, Kansas charm grin, and scoop you into his arms with a kiss on the forehead and some ill-timed joke about I can’t believe you thought I was an alien.
His face was open, soft- but there was something in his eyes you’d never seen before. Something heavy and tender and impossibly sad.
“Clark,” you breathed.
He stayed silent, eyes falling to his hands.
“Oh, my god,” a hand flew up to your mouth, “Oh. My-“
“I’m-“
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
He exhaled slowly, almost painfully, setting his mug down. His voice was low, rough with a mixture of longing and regret.
“Oh, my god, Clark.”
He froze, his eyes flicking down to his hands, and then back to you.
There was a pause, a quiet stretch of time where you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.
Then, finally, he whispered, “I… I didn’t know how to tell you.”
His voice was low, almost afraid to be heard. “I didn’t... I was scared you wouldn't want me in your life if you knew the truth,"
Your heart squeezed. “Clark…”
He ran a hand through his hair, nervous, frustrated with himself.
“I've been stupid, because I’ve fought it. Every day, I’ve fought it because I didn’t want to make things complicated. I didn’t want to risk what we have, what- what I mean to you, and what you mean to me.”
You stepped a little closer, reaching for his hand, Superman’s hand, and he didn’t pull away.
Instead, he let you, though his thumb twitched against yours like he couldn’t quite relax.
“You’ve been so honest with me,” he said, voice catching, “I owe you the same. I can’t hide it anymore.”
Enough of the quiet yearning, of watching you across the bullpen with half-lidded eyes and a heart that hurt far too much than it didn’t. Enough of watching you walk around his apartment like he was yours, yet refusing to have any right to claim that title.
Enough.
His hand came up, cupping your face once more. His eyes locked onto yours. Steadier, this time. Knowing.
“I love you.”
An inhale caught in your throat. Your legs did that thing again whenever he was too close- a slight wobble, steady enough to stand but a detriment to walking.
“I’ve loved you-“ Clark moved a strand of hair out of your face, blue eyes warming your own, “Since I caught your coffee on the first day, and you gave me half your bagel. The first time I heard you humming to that darn song I couldn’t get out of my head for weeks in the office kitchen- I saved it, and it’s still on my phone. I fell for you then. Since you asked me for a pen the third day because none of yours were writing right…”
You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to breathe. You felt like you were on a cloud, an alternate reality, in a dream; terrified that the faintest movement would shatter it all.
“…I’ve loved you. Quietly. So quietly, in every small thing, and now… now, I get to say it.”
"Clark..."
Clark’s gaze dropped for just a moment, almost ashamed. “You don’t have to say anything back,” he stammered. “I understand if this is weird, if I’ve made it weird. I just- I can’t stop thinking about you. For god's sake, I wake up and you’re the first thing on my mind. And every day that I’ve been away from you this week- it’s been hell. Not being near you, not seeing you, not waking up to you in my kitchen, in my shirt- it’s- it’s unbearable.”
He swallowed hard, and his hands curled slightly, like he was holding back something bigger than words.
“And if you let me," his voice cracked, "if you wanted me the way I want you,” he stepped closer, so close you could see every emotion flickering in his eyes.
“I would never leave your side again. I would never let you push me away, not like I did this week. Not for a day, not for an hour. I don’t care what’s happening out there, what’s happening in your head that you feel like I wouldn’t be able to take.
“I would stay. I would stay with you through it all.”
The world narrowed to the sound of Clark’s voice, leaving you silent.
There was no bravado in his confession, no attempt to impress you- just raw, honest Clark, the man you’d always known, revealing everything he’d kept buried because he was terrified of losing you.
You reached up, hand resting at the base of his neck, fingertips grazing his curls. In turn, he leaned into your touch, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.
“Please,” he murmured, voice low and trembling, “if you feel even a fraction of what I do… let me know. Let me love you. Let me have the honour of loving you.”
You didn’t give him a chance to carry on. Everything inside you- every thought, every hesitation- faded into a single, undeniable impulse.
Your hand clutched the back of his neck, and before your brain could catch up, your lips slammed against his.
A collision of need and relief, of longing held too long, and something inside you roared to life.
You couldn’t think. You refused to think. You just acted, letting your body take the lead, letting it speak what your words never could.
He froze for the barest second, then melted into you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly close.
“God,” Clark whispered against your lips, and it sounded like both a prayer and a plea.
The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, a push-and-pull of passion and tenderness. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, and his lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency, every motion a confession.
“I love you,” you breathed against him, between kisses, and his eyes fluttered open, searching yours, before finding your mouth again. “I love you, Clark.”
A slow, wide smile stretched across his lips. It reached his eyes, blue pools twinkling like sunlight on a stream.
“I have always loved you.” you repeated, voice rough with emotion, voice now part of the rhythm of your shared heartbeat.
Time dissolved around you. There was only the warmth of him, the taste of him, the ache of all the months you’d spent lying to yourselves finally spilling into this one, infinite moment.
All the late nights, the frustration, the longing for one another trapped behind closed doors and the craze of the bullpen- it had all been worth it.
You knew that, Clark knew that, and now this was your reward.
You kissed him again, stronger now, urgent and unrelenting, your body pressed against his as if letting go of yourself meant holding onto him forever. His hands looped swiftly under your thighs, and you soon felt them rest against the cold marble counter instead.
He groaned low in his throat as he steadied himself between your legs, a shiver running through you both.
Neither of you had any idea how long you stayed in that bubble; of kisses and featherlight touches and mumbles of newly-exposed truths. But neither of you cared.
Not even when the kisses started slowing, replaced by light laughter and fond gazes.
You pulled back just enough to look at each other, foreheads pressed together, shadows mingling in the low light of his apartment.
“I don’t ever want to be without you,” you whispered, voice soft.
“It’s always been you, Clark."
Clark’s lips curved into that half-smile again, swollen from all the kissing and irresistibly pink.
You wanted him to never stop; to keep smiling like that, to keep making you feel like the most important girl in the world.
His big hands rested on your waist, pulling you closer to him, revelling in the ease your position on the kitchen counter allowed. You let him, body molding accordingly.
Still between kisses, he mumbled teasingly, “Even over Superman?” though the glimmer in his eyes remained serious beneath the playfulness.
You shook your head, laughing softly. Your heart was still hammering, your lips tingling from the intensity.
"Even over Superman," you whispered lightly, mussing his dark curls with a touch that made him melt. Then, after a pause, "He’s not that cool, anyways.”
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours. “Watch it.”
A giggle left you, the high finally beginning to dissipate from your body. You were still very much suspended on Cloud 9- but now, you could breathe. Your words were finally working again.
“So…" you started shyly, tracing a finger down his jawline, over his dimple, "...no alien girlfriends waiting in orbit, right?”
Clark chuckled, pulling you close as he placed a kiss on your forehead.
“Nope. Just you. Always just you.”
You stayed like that for a long moment, hearts beating in quiet rhythm, the city humming faintly around you.
Metropolis stretched below, alive and endless. You didn't know what this meant now- not really. You had no idea what dangers lurked ahead, what storms Superman would have to face now that he had somebody to lose.
Things were bound to happen; problems were bound to arise. None of this would be easy- how could it be, loving someone who carried the sky on his shoulders?
Yet as the city murmured below and Clark's heartbeat steadied against yours, none of that seemed to matter.
For now, Metropolis could wait. The storms, the danger, the endless pull of tomorrow; they could all stand still for a while. Because in this fleeting, fragile calm, neither of you cared about what came next.
guys i OBSESSED over getting this right omfg pls tell me it was ok! love yas xxxx
summary: clark’s always lived by ma and pa kent’s words; don’t rush love, just tend to it where it grows. when the girl next door starts smiling his way, that advice becomes his saving grace.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: clark yearning, alll the fluff, he loves and values ma & pa so much, neighbours, slight age gap, certified loverboy taking his wholesome farmer parents' advice on how to fall for the beautiful girl next door (u!!!). wrote this as a drabble so its not proofread im sorry, but enjoy!!! xxx
Clark Kent wasn’t used to wanting things just for himself.
He’d been raised to think about others first; to look out for the people around him, to listen more than he spoke. “There’s strength in stillness, son,” Pa used to tell him, “and sometimes love looks more like listening than talking.”
It was the kind of simple, steady wisdom that shaped every part of him.
But since you moved in next door, stillness had become something of a losing battle.
You were younger, twenty-five, and there was something about you that didn’t quite fit the rhythm of the city- too bright, too unguarded, too alive. You were loud but not crass, confident without the cocky.
He’d first met you in the hallway, wrestling with three boxes stacked precariously in your arms. One slipped just as he turned the corner, and he caught it without thinking.
You looked up, startled, eyes wide and a laugh bubbling out as you exhaled, “Oh my- thank you! That was so quick. You’re like a superhero, my god.”
He’d smiled at that- quiet, almost shy. “No, no superhero. Just your neighbour,” he’d said, and something in the way you grinned back made his heart skip in a way it hadn’t for years.
You smiled at him wide, offering him your name and the number of your apartment that was coincidentally right next to his.
"I'm Clark- Kent. I'm Clark Kent," he'd said bashfully.
"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Clark Kent."
From then on, he started noticing you everywhere.
He noticed the way your laughter carried through the hallway, the faint hum of your music through the walls, the smell of your morning coffee drifting out when you opened your door.
He noticed that you always ran late but never seemed flustered for long, that you talked to your cat as if he could understand full sentences, and that every time you smiled at him in the lobby, something in his chest warmed painfully, like sunlight through stained glass.
Clark had lived most of his life keeping a careful distance from people, afraid of what might happen if he got too close. But you were different. Undoubtedly. You had this quiet magnetism, a personal pull if yours that made it impossible not to be drawn in.
You didn’t even try to, and he knew that. You just were.
Of course, Clark tried- in small ways- to earn your attention.
He carried your mail up when it landed in his box. Fixed the light outside your door when it started to flicker. Left an extra cup of coffee at your door on mornings when he knew you’d overslept, piping hot so that it'd be the perfect temperature by the time you got around to it.
You always thanked him with that same soft brightness, a quick hug or two, maybe even a blown kiss- but you never lingered.
He told himself he didn’t mind. You were a busy body; always out, never home for too long. You worked hard and quite literally partied harder, often stumbling through the lobby with your heels in your hand as he tried extra hard to get rid of the worried-sick feeling he'd had all evening.
Still, Clark found himself looking for you more and more.
Then came the morning in the lobby.
He’d just stepped inside, reading the front page of the Daily Planet- when you rounded the corner too quickly, coffee in hand, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.
You collided squarely into his chest, the cup tilting dangerously. He caught it before it spilled all over you.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry-" you gasped, eyes wide.
“It’s alright,” Clark said, steadying you with one hand at your elbow. With a crooked, sheepish smile, he joked, “Third time this month, I think.”
Your laugh burst out then, surprised and musical. “Yeah, I know. I'm awful. At least I’m consistent?”
"Very much so." with a quick glance at the stack of folders under your arm, he then asked, "Need a hand?”
“Only if you’re offering, ClarkKentI'mClarkKent.”
His cheeks reddened at the way you recounted your first ever meeting. You spoke easy, tone teasing. “I must have been acting really weird that day for you to remember that.”
“You’re hard to forget,” you said before realising how it sounded. You looked away quickly, flustered. “You, uh- it was just sweet. How you said it.”
“Right,” he said softly, fighting back a grin. “Well, let’s head up. Four flights is a lot more than you think.”
Regardless, the climb up the stairs passed too quickly. You talked about work, your cat, the chaos of city life, and the small triumphs that made your days bearable.
Clark listened, exactly like his mother taught him to. He kept his eyes steady, his replies coming out soft and gentle, encouraging you to go on. “Eyes on them, honey. That’s how people know you care,” Ma had always said.
He always knew to trust her, even back then as a little boy with no real grasp on the importance of making other people feel understood. But he could see it in the way Ma moved with other people; how they made space for her, how she was quick to turn the most reluctant stranger into a friend.
It was a trait Clark wanted to have for himself one day, something innate that he craved.
By the time you reached your door, your breath had evened out but your smile hadn’t faded. “You really are the best neighbour ever,” you said, still half-teasing but warm all the same.
Clark smiled. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Well, helpful and modest. That’s a dangerous combination, Mr. Kent.”
He wanted to tell you that kindness wasn’t dangerous- that it was the only thing that ever made sense to him- but he only said, “Guess I’ll have to keep it up, then.”
You tilted your head, studying him for a moment longer than before. “You always do.”
When your door closed, the silence that followed was louder than it should’ve been.
He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing the rail where your hand had been, before heading back to his apartment.
That night, he sat at his desk with the city lights flickering through the window and thought about you. About how natural it felt to talk to you, how easily you laughed, how you made the dimly lit hallways of your apartment building a little less dark just by waltzing your way through it.
He wondered what his parents would’ve said if they could see him like this- a man with superhuman strength and senses, undone completely by the sound of a woman laughing in the hallway.
Clark could almost hear his mother’s voice, fond and amused, while his father chuckled to himself and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, “You can’t rush love, son. It’ll come when you’re steady enough to hold it.”
He wasn’t sure if he was steady, but he was certain of the pull in his chest.
A few days later, a knock sounded on his door. When he opened it, you stood there, balancing a plastic container and smiling brightly. “Apology Cake,” you announced.
“Apology Cake?”
"Apology Cake," you repeated once more, as if that was the answer and nothing more. "I've come to apologise,"
"For?" Clark asked in amusement, though he had already taken a step to the side to let you into his apartment.
“For all the coffee-related injuries I’ve caused,” you said. “It's banana bread. I bake when I’m stressed. Or bored. Or, you know, alive.”
He chuckled, following you inside and letting the door close, “That sounds like a good habit to have.”
“It’s really not,” you said, walking past him. “Last time I tried, I forgot the sugar and I had to borrow some from Dorothy downstairs. This time I think I nailed it though. I had sugar and butter.”
He smiled, setting the container down. “I’m sure you did.”
“You can’t say that before tasting it,” you noted, amused.
He took a bite. It was soft and imperfect and warm, like something made with heart instead of precision. He was 89% sure you took the saying 'measure with your heart' literally, and 11% sure you'd taken it out of the oven ten minutes prematurely.
“It’s good,” he said honestly.
“You’re just being polite.”
“Maybe,” Clark smiled faintly, “but it’s still good.”
You leaned against his counter, looking at him curiously. Your eyes narrowed as you watched him, your stare precise and intent.
After a while, you spoke.
“You’re just always like this, huh?"
He looked at you over the frames of his glasses, eyebrows slightly raised. "Like what?"
"You're always so gentle."
"Gentle," Clark echoed.
"You're just..." you gave a slight shrug, "Super kind. All the time. Like, this is just you- always,"
Clark paused, your question pulling him somewhere quieter inside himself.
A small silence settled between you both and for a split second, you wondered whether you made it awkward or not.
“My folks raised me that way,” he said finally, allowing your shoulders to relax.
“They taught me to be... kind. You know, the stuff all parents teach their kids. But, they'd always say, being nice isn't something you switch on or off. There's no conditions to it. You just do it, and that's how it has to be. No matter who it is or where you are. How you have to move through the world."
Your expression softened as he spoke. "And I know it's easier said than done. Stuff happens, you know? Bad days, worse days, I get that. But Ma always says, where there's room for anger, there's twice as much room for understanding."
You found yourself staring at him a little longer than necessary. It wasn’t just the words, though it was nice hearing them all the same.
It was the way he said them, like he’d lived by them his whole life and truly believed them.
Clark was always lovely, of course he was- everybody in the whole entire building loved him. Because he wasn't ever performative, or awkward, never a mask that you were waiting to let slip and expose; Clark's kindness was steady, real.
You knew it to be true because of all the little things. The way he held the elevator door for you even when he was late. The way he carried your groceries up the stairs without complaint.
The way he paused to notice if you were smiling, or tired, or needed a minute or so of silence before proceeding with the day ahead.
You could see it in his quiet gestures, rooted in something deeper than politeness. A good upbringing, raised on fresh farm air and pure, unfiltered love from two very kind-hearted people.
“They're right,” you said softly, words truthful. "I think that sort of thinking's rare nowadays. But I like it coming from you. It's nice,"
“Maybe you’re just not looking in the right places,” he said, meeting your eyes.
Something in the air shifted, a subtle but sure blanket covering you both. You smiled, slow and knowing.
“Guess I’ll have to start looking next door.”
Clark felt the words settle in his chest like a heartbeat.
After you left that evening, he stood at his window again, watching the city. He could envision your apartment light being on, warm and golden, like all the times he caught glimpses of it on his restless evening patrols as Superman.
He could imagine your shadow moving through the curtains, your silhouette reaching for something on a shelf, the little unguarded gestures of an ordinary life.
And somehow, that was what made him fall.
Not the dramatic moments, like your laughter echoing down the hallway or the way you brought him random gifts after not seeing him for a while- but the quiet parts.
The way you hummed under your breath when you thought no one could hear, the same old Billy Joel song you'd play every Sunday morning when he knew you were feeling overwhelmed.
The way you always offered a smile, even on days when you looked tired, especially on days when it would have been ten times easier to duck your head down in defeat and keep walking.
The way you noticed him, really noticed him, like he wasn’t just another face in the crowd.
Clark had known love in theory- he’d seen it, admired it, tried to understand it from a distance. But this… this was different. This was wanting to make someone’s morning easier. Wanting to hear the sound of their laugh again just to know they were okay.
It was soft, human, and so terrifyingly simple.
He thought of something his father once said, years ago, as they’d watched a summer storm roll in over the fields. They'd just had dinner, and Clark noticed his parents being extra attentive to each other during the meal; a sure sign that a minor disagreement had taken place prior.
“Real love isn’t about the lightning, son. It’s about the quiet after. The part where you stay.”
And as Clark imagined you, nimble fingers thumbing through the pages of a well loved book he'd have to ask you about one day, cross legged on your sofa with the radio on and your cat purring quietly on your lap- he realized that maybe, without even meaning to, you’d become that quiet for him.
He didn’t need to move mountains or save the world that night.
He just needed to know you were there; right next door, laughing softly at something he couldn’t hear, and making the whole world feel a little more like home.
i am so sleepy and tired but i needed to write something so here u go!!! as always thank you for reading adooooore you x
WAYS U CAN PLEASE SATURN ACCORDING TO UR SATURN PLACEMENT ♄
1H/ARIES SATURN: RESPECT URSELF. DO NOT ALTER UR BOUNDARIES TO BE LIKED. SELF IMPROVEMENT. PUT EFFORT INTO UR BODY/APPEARANCE. WORKOUT / BE ACTIVE. HEALTHY COMPETITION. PRACTICE OFTEN. BE CONFIDENT BUT NOT ABOVE OTHERS. SLOW DOWN. SELF GROWTH. DELIBERATE ACTIONS.
2H/TAURUS SATURN: DEVELOP STRONG VALUES. DO NOT UNDERMINE URSELF. QUALITY OVER QUANTITY. INTENTIONAL SPENDING. HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP WITH FOOD. TRY NOT TO OVERINDULGE ; TRY NOT TO WASTE. STOP SELF SABOTAGING. NO SELF DEPRECATING. APPRECIATE WHAT U HAVE. EXPRESS GRATITUDE. DONATE WHAT U CAN.
3H/GEMINI SATURN: THINK BEFORE U SPEAK ; SPEAK LESS THAN U DESIRE. STOP OVERSHARING. FOCUS ON UR CRAFT ; GET RID OF THE DISTRACTIONS. POWER IN THE TONGUE. PERSONAL MOTTOS. STAND FOR WHAT IS MORAL ; BE WELL INFORMED. HAVE HARD CONVOS WHEN NECESSARY. BE A SUPPORTIVE FRIEND. STOP COMPLAINING. FIND SOLUTIONS. ADAPT & OVERCOME.
4H/CANCER SATURN: CREATE BOUNDARIES & STICK TO THEM. BE OF SERVICE TO OTHERS WITHOUT SELF SACRIFICE. DO NOT BE OVERLY SELFISH. EXPRESS UR NEEDS. TAKE CARE OF UR MENTAL HEALTH. EMOTIONAL REGULATION. SELF CARE. BE SELECTIVE OF UR INNER CIRCLE. POUR INTO UR LOVED ONES. TREAT OTHERS WITH KINDNESS. KEEP UR LIVING SPACE CLEAN.
5H/LEO SATURN: LET GO OF SELF DOUBT. BRING UR VISION TO LIFE. MASTER UR CRAFT. BELIEVE IN URSELF & WORK TOWARDS UR GOALS. GET RID OF UR NEED FOR OUTSIDE APPROVAL. LOOK OUT FOR THE CHILDREN ; BE THE PERSON U NEEDED GROWING UP. WORK HARD, PLAY HARD. DELAYED GRATIFICATION.
6H/VIRGO SATURN: FOLLOW A ROUTINE. HEALTHY HABITS. STRUCTURE. KEEP UR SPACES ORGANIZED ; DE-CLUTTER. BE A FRIEND TO ANIMALS. TAKE GOOD CARE OF UR PET/S. PUT IN THE WORK EVERY DAY. OFFER A HELPING HAND. HONOR UR OWN TIME & ENERGY ; DO NOT ENGAGE IN ONE-SIDED RELATIONS.
7H/LIBRA SATURN: MAKE UR OWN DECISIONS. TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY. CRACK DOWN ON CO-DEPENDENCY ; AVOID SELF ISOLATION. LONGTERM RELATIONS. BE THE BIGGER PERSON. FORGIVE BUT DON’T FORGET. APPLY LESSONS FROM THE PAST. TREAD LIGHTLY. RESPECT THOSE WHO CAME BEFORE YOU. FORM LASTING ALLIANCES.
8H/SCORPIO SATURN: KEEP THINGS TO URSELF. STAY PRIVATE. PRACTICE SELF CONTROL. RESILIENCE IN THE FACE OF HARDSHIP. HOPE FOR THE BEST, PREPARE FOR THE WORST. SAVINGS/RAINY DAY RESOURCES. EMBRACE CHANGE. LEARN TO LET GO. RADICAL ACCEPTANCE. SEXUAL DISCIPLINE. XTRA EMPHASIS ON SAFE SEX!
9H/SAGITTARIUS SATURN: PRACTICE UR BELIEFS. WALK THE TALK. MANTRAS. LEARN FROM OTHERS ; COME TO UR OWN CONCLUSIONS. STUDY. BE AN ETERNAL STUDENT. ALLOW URSELF TO BE OUT OF UR ELEMENT. RESPECT OTHER CULTURES. MAKE UR OWN TRADITIONS. STAY HUMBLE. ACCEPT MULTIPLE TRUTHS. APPLY WHAT WORKS.
10H/CAPRICORN SATURN: KEEP UR EYES ON THE PRIZE. TRUST THAT ALL THINGS COME IN DUE TIME. KEEP URSELF MOTIVATED. WORK FOR WHAT U WANT. STAY CONSISTENT. PERSONAL LEGACY ; THINGS THAT LAST. BECOME UR OWN ROLE MODEL. DO IT URSELF / DO IT RIGHT. LIVE WITH KARMA IN MIND.
11H/AQUARIUS SATURN: LEAD THE WAY ; FURTHER THE CAUSE. BETTER THE COMMUNITY— CREATE UR OWN. BE CONSCIOUS OF WHOM U ASSOCIATE URSELF WITH. BEFRIEND PPL OLDER THAN URSELF. LONGTERM FRIENDSHIPS. LONGTERM RESULTS. ADVANCEMENT. NETWORKING. ONLINE INFLUENCE. SET THE STANDARD.
12/PISCES SATURN: ALL IN MODERATION. HEALTHY COPING METHODS & LIFESTYLE PRACTICES. CONSIDERATION. REFLECTION ; SELF AWARENESS. THERAPY. STANDARDS. LEAVE ONCE DISRESPECTED. NO FAKE FRIENDS. MIND OVER MATTER. MANIFESTATION. BE REAL WITH URSELF. SELF TRUST.
⚷ Chiron is a comet-asteroid that helps us spot some of our wounds. In addition to that, Chiron usually symbolizes the way in which we can heal, as well as show a little charisma through the chart, however in this post I will only talk about wounds and healing. You can get to know yours on Astro.com in the section “additional objects”.
🟫Chiron in 1st house: The wounds fall on oneself, the natives with this placement may have problems accepting themselves, both some facets of their personality and themselves. Self-esteem issues, dissatisfaction with your body, and a desire for a change in your body. The natives have problems to show themselves as they are, to be themselves when surrounded by other people, they are somewhat introverted. They help others to feel better about themselves, to see their good and positive sides, but many times they cannot see something bright in themselves. They question themselves a lot, they may have a tendency to doubt themselves and be somewhat insecure.
🟤Chiron in Aries: The wound lies in the feeling of not being able to be themselves without feeling judged. Ego wounds. Tendency to repress anger. Feeling that in the past they were very submissive and not wanting to be so anymore. Fear of taking the initiative. Much focus on body imperfections that others do not notice.
🤎Ways to work on this: Make a list of things you are good at. Look in the mirror and say loving or positive words to yourself. Find ways to express yourself. Wear comfortable clothes that allow you to feel good about your body. Do not compare yourself with people and progress independently. Accept yourself little by little and just as you are aware of your flaws, become aware of your virtues. Take the advice you give to others. By helping others you help yourself.
🟫Chiron in 2nd house: Insecurity lies in self-worth and self-esteem. The native can be very critical of themselves, they can feel that they aren’t safe no matter where they are. They feel that they have never known stability, and may have had a life with many ups and downs and a sense of little consistency from others. They may not fully enjoy indulging or spoiling themselves. Fear of becoming too attached to things or people.They may feel empty inside, as if something is missing to be completely happy. These natives always make others feel good about who they are, show them that they are enough, that they are beautiful, and open their eyes to see all the good that surrounds them.
🟤Chiron in Taurus: They do not feel stability in their life or in their relationships. Feeling of not being worth as much as others. They do not value themselves or their abilities. They may either have a tendency to develop some kind of attachment or have difficulty sticking to something. Dissatisfied with the way your body looks.
🤎Ways to work on this: Look in the mirror and tell yourself that you value yourself. Buy nice details. Organize your space and throw away the things that you no longer use or do not serve you. Try to get some exercise to clear your mind or go for a walk. Find and play with your style and aesthetic. Sleep when you need to, eat when you need to, listen to your body. Massage your body, your legs and buy essences to purify your environment. Take long showers or baths.
🟫Chiron in 3rd house: The wounds can come from the native's school days, they could have difficulties connecting with others and even difficulties feeling ready or able to learn. They can talk to themselves in a brusque and somewhat insensitive way. Some of them have been judged for their way of thinking and their opinions, people could make them feel unintelligent. They tend to doubt their abilities. You may have trouble connecting with others, feel like you don't make yourself understood, that others don't listen to you, or that what you say isn't important when in fact, it’s really important. You are an excellent listener and an amazing counselor, your words heal and are valuable.
🟤Chiron in Gemini: The voice in their minds can be a bit cruel and overly critical. They don't trust their thoughts. They doubt a lot. Wounds caused by brothers or cousins. Feeling of not being understood when you want to say something. They feel that they are not being heard or that others don’t appreciate what they are saying.
🤎Ways to work on this: Keep a journal where you constantly vent. Writing can be healing for you. Sing. Look for activities to spend your mental energy. Take walks with music to relax. Write the ideas you have. Draw. Talk to the people you love, say what you feel you want and don't care what others think. Write a letter to yourself, either telling how your day was or a love letter to yourself. Learn on your own and don't be afraid to ask questions.
🟫Chiron in 4th house: Yesterday's wounds feel as fresh as the sun through the window of a new day. The native has an excellent memory, so excellent that it makes them remember things that hurt them in the past. Carry many emotional wounds in relation to the family, parents and childhood. Could have had a sad and lonely childhood, feeling left out by family. May not have allowed you to be sensitive or have judged them for being very emotional, so they keep what they feel to themselves and may feel uncomfortable having to talk about their emotions and heaviness. Feeling of having lost home. You make others feel comfortable and safe, you do not judge their emotions and you emotionally nurture like no one else.
🟤Chiron in Cancer: There are wounds caused by childhood and the mother. You may feel that your emotions and needs are ignored or unappreciated. Feeling unloved. Fear of being too sensible or vulnerable in others eyes. Difficulty opening up. Fear of being abandoned or feeling that they were abandoned. Fear of being forgotten.
🤎Ways to work on this: Hug yourself. Cook or eat something you like. Write everything you feel. Watch movies you watched in your childhood. Find activities that nurture your inner child. You can meditate. Sleep when you're sleepy, not when you're bored or sad. Cry if you feel like you want to. Satisfy your needs before those of the rest. Swim a little. Take a long bath. Identify your emotions and look for solutions just as you do with others.
🟫Chiron in 5th house: The wound lies in the self-expression and the ego. These natives may feel unappreciated or undervalued, and may deal with the feeling of being ignored and judged by others. May be judged for being “not so rational” when young, becoming more reserved and self-conscious. They may have trouble believing in the potential of their talents or even seeing themselves as talented. They are afraid that others will see them as immature, ridiculous or very incoherent. They decide to be guided more by the mind due to the distrust of being guided by the heart and getting hurt or badly off. They help others see their brilliance and be who they really are without fear of public opinion.
🟤Chiron in Leo: Their fears often block their creativity. Fear that others will harm them and make them feel inferior. Lack of spontaneity. Fear of being ignored or being judged by others. An internal desire to shine and to be recognized for their virtues, for being who they are. Desire to be accepted.
🤎Ways to work on this: Express yourself through art, writing, dance, painting, music. Look in the mirror and say that you love yourself and that you are worth it. Recognize your virtues and talents first. Make a list of everything you're good at. Make a list of virtues that define you. Do the things you want because you want to, not to impress others. Get rid of the opinion of others. Become aware of virtues and flaws, value yourself for the good and work on the bad.
🟫Chiron in 6th house: The wound falls in living in the expectations and trying to be perfect. Natives with this placement have difficulty relaxing, they are prone to demanding a lot from themselves and setting very high standards for themselves. Work hard to improve themselves, too critical of what they do and very hard once they make a mistake. Could feel that family or superiors put more pressure on them. They need to feel productive and useful, they enjoy helping others both on a practical and emotional level, but they do not allow themselves to be helped. Make others aware that they don't have to be perfect, that they are great just the way they are and make them treat themselves more gently.
🟤Chiron in Virgo: Excessive desire for self-control and not showing vulnerability. Inability to accept or ask for help. You can help others so much that you forget to help yourself. You feel like you never do enough or that you don't do it that well. They may have overthinking and anxiety problems.
🤎Ways to work on this: Interact with animals, pet a cat or a dog. Clean your room or area where you spend more time. Water the plants. Go shopping. Make lists where you set small goals and reward yourself when you achieve them. Give yourself a compliment in front of the mirror. When you finish doing something, thank yourself for having done valuable work. After helping others, give yourself some time to fix your own problems. Make it a habit to write in a journal.
🟫Chiron in 7th house: The wound falls in relationships and in the way of interacting with other people. Many people may feel that they connect easily with the native, that they are understood and appreciated, but the native has trouble connecting with others, feeling loved or comfortable with other people. You can have problems in your relationships attracting hurt people, with problems or in the worst cases, victimized people. They have a tendency to keep their distance from others so as not to get hurt, they fear the idea of infidelity or that their partner does not trust them. They are people with a lot of tact and understanding of the pain of others, empathetic and people trust them easily.
🟤Chiron in Libra: They have trouble finding a balance between others and themselves. They feel that their lives are out of balance. Trouble opening up romantically or with a partner. Sensation of being alone even if accompanied. Wounds from injustice and betrayal. Feeling that you must always be alert.
🤎Ways to work on this: Get together with fewer people but give you a more positive relationship. Be open to meeting people. Identify what went wrong in other relationships and learn from those mistakes. Go shopping and dress as you like. Analyze and give yourself the time to get to know people before you open up. Do not let others' issues eclipse yours. Practice some kind of art. Give yourself time to heal before opening yourself up to a new relationship [love or friendship].
🟫Chiron in 8th house: The wound lies in the betrayals of the past that are etched in their minds. Tendency to blame themselves for things that weren’t in their control. Fear of generating some type of attachment with another person, since it is not easy for them to trust others and their intentions. When someone betrays them, they prefer to close their hearts with a triple lock and never trust others again. May be issues related to a person who should have been there for the native but never was, a feeling of little support. Wounds related to sexuality or sexual life. Some may judge you based on your sexual preferences or your sex life. They give others intensity and stability, they never judge, they only understand.
🟤Chiron in Scorpio: Some of these natives fear losing a loved one, they fear change or being very close to someone. They don't forget or forgive easily if you hurt them. There is a strong emotional wound related to lies, betrayal, deception, or estrangement. Either afraid or fascinated by death. Fear of being dependent.
🤎Ways to work on this: Shadow work, use esotericism in your favor. Astrology to understand you better and accept you. Swim or do other activities in the water. Forgive, practice forgetting if you can't forgive and stay away from those who don't bring you anything positive. Meditate or do some sport to vent your emotions. Establish healthy boundaries and break down some blocks that you put between yourself and others.
🟫Chiron in 9th house: The wounds of the native fall on the issue of faith and feeling discriminated. They are people who for things in life have become skeptical, have lost faith that there is goodness in the world, and have even lost faith in themselves and their abilities. People can offend or annoy them because of their way of thinking, because of their beliefs, or because of things like their gender, their religion, or their race. They could have coexisted with people who are intolerant. May have problems with teachers. They make others feel full and happy very easily, they like to surround themselves with people who are different from them and do not discriminate against them for their differences.
🟤Chiron in Sagittarius: Problems seeing the bright side of life, tendency to skepticism and excessive pessimism. They constantly feel judged. Problems for being different or having opinions that differ from those of the family. Lack of faith in life. Feeling that people do not understand your point of view.
🤎Ways to work on this: Look for answers to the questions you have. Write your dreams and things that make you happy. Remember that happiness is moments not eternity, do things that give you happiness even if it is momentary. Travel, physically or spiritually. Learn about a topic that interests you. When you think about the bad, make a list of the good. Try new things and connect with people from other places.
🟫Chiron in 10th house: The wound of these natives is tied to their need to want to go far and fear of failure. The native's parents could have demanded a lot from them, but at the same time not having valued the achievements that the natives had and simply asking for more and more. The native fears being judged, but wants their efforts to be recognized. They are afraid of failing, making mistakes and that people will point them out for it. It is likely that they grew up in a tense environment and had to learn to have inner peace despite external chaos. Problems with the father and/or authority figures. They give a sense of peace and stability to others, ease to guide them and value their efforts.
🟤Chiron in Capricorn: Feeling of being in the crosshairs and constant judgment of your father. Misunderstandings with him. They feel that much is required of them and that others have results more easily than they do. Lack of recognition for their work. Problems with authority figures. They matured before their time.
🤎Ways to work on this: Reward yourself once you achieve something no matter how small you think it is. Allow yourself to feel angry. Acknowledge your own efforts before wanting others to do so. Write a list of your goals and aspirations. Write your talents and abilities that you have. Be patient with yourself and do not want immediate results. Look at yourself in the mirror and tell how capable you are to achieve whatever you want.
🟫Chiron in 11th house: The wound falls into the feeling of not belonging and being invisible. These natives may have difficulty finding their place in a group of people, they may feel that they do not fit in with people their age because of how they think, with their "friends" or even with their family. Loneliness hurts them but they have already gotten used to it in a certain way. Some fear being themselves and adapt to what is trendy to fit in, many others prefer not to fit in and continue to be themselves, whatever it is, they rarely feel like they belong. They may feel that society or others do not accept them. They have the ability to accept others as they are and make friends with anyone.
🟤Chiron in Aquarius: They feel that it is there for friends but they are not there for the native. Trouble feeling like you fit in and having friends. Friendships that hurt them. They feel judged because others see them as weird. You feel misunderstood, abandoned and ignored. Fear that their freedom will be taken away. Some fear of commitment.
🤎Ways to work on this: Be selective about the people you surround yourself with. Meet people through the internet. In your privacy, dance and sing like crazy. Get rid of the opinion of others. Put creative ideas you have into action. Make a list of what makes you unique. Have a blog. Enjoy your time alone trying new things, or doing what you like the most. Understand that you are not the problem or others, you just haven't met the right people. Get creative and authentic.
🟫Chiron in 12th house: The wounds fall on the feeling that their suffering is ignored or less important than that of others. They tend to hide when they suffer, when they are sad or emotionally ill because they feel that it is not something that others pay attention to, or that they are not very interested in. They have a tendency to solve other people's problems so as not to think about their own. They are more sensitive and understanding with others than with themselves. They may fear looking or feeling victimized by seeing their own problems. They may have been made to think or feel that their suffering was not of great importance. They are sensitive, compassionate and true healers and love to help others.
🟤Chiron in Pisces: They are defensive because they feel very vulnerable. They fear that others will use them and their empathy. They may feel insecure about themselves. They want to help others but they do not help themselves. Some may have faith problems. They put others before themselves.
🤎Ways to work on this: Write what you feel, paint something that reflects how you feel. Balance your time with others and alone. Meditate or do some yoga. Make a playlist for yourself, write yourself positive notes, listen to music, sing. Have creative isolations from time to time, but don't forget to connect with others. Daydream when you have free time. Taking a bath with rose petals or rosemary. Write what you dream.
⚷ Next we will talk about Chiron's aspects. I limited myself to write about certain planets or angles, making either a positive or tense aspect with Chiron to make it easy to read.
🟫Making aspects with Sun: These natives quickly identify when others have problems with something about themselves. They know how to raise the self-esteem of those they love and how to help them improve their relationship with themselves. These natives have problems accepting themselves, it is likely that they have made them doubt or be very ashamed of some traits of their personality. The relationship with the father can be complicated. Your relationship with yourself can be complicated. Tendency to self-sabotage. The problems with the father are stronger, since the actions of the father could deeply hurt the native. They are an empathetic and understanding person of others, always willing to support someone who is going through a difficult time. They use their experiences and situations to help others find solutions to their problems. Knows how to listen. Excellent advisers. Make others feel better about themselves.
🟫Making aspects with the Moon: They easily heal other people's emotions, they are trustworthy and people feel safe with them. They may have problems with the mother, have a mother who has had very difficult experiences or a mother that tends to victimize herself. They can perfectly remember past wounds and take time to recover from them. They feel insecure when it comes to projecting their emotions and prefer to keep them to themselves, it can be difficult for them to form emotional bonds due to insecurities or past issues. It is difficult for them to open up emotionally because of the fear or being too vulnerable or others taking advantage because of that. They are extremely sensitive to the suffering of others, they like to take care of those who are most vulnerable. If they have children, the problems of their children will hurt the natives deeply. They may feel that childhood was somewhat complicated and that their needs were not fully met.
🟫Making aspects with Mercury: Tendency to constantly remember embarrassments and difficult moments of the past. The relationship with siblings can be either very bad or very healing. They are great at understanding other people's problems and looking for solutions, but not for their own problems. They may question their own intelligence, feel inadequate, or feel that it is difficult for them to learn. They may tell you that their voice is very low [unless it’s in a fire sign], some may have dyslexia or stutter. School life could have been complex. Their wound could cause the native to generate nervousness. Their words have a healing quality and in fact many may like the sound of their voice [especially with aspects like trine or sextile], they help others a lot and their advice is often very welcome by others. They have a lot of knowledge of how to help others and understand them. May have an interest in psychology and anything to comprehend how wounds work and how to heal.
🟫Making aspects with Venus: The subject of love can be somewhat complex. You can attract or seek to be healed through love or heal your loved one. They seek a relationship in which both heal and fully trust each other. Fear of being cheated on or that your partner is lying to you. Great counselors of love even if they consider that they do not have much experience. They love in a very pure way and may have this tendency to not see the flaws in their partner. They may have issues accepting their beauty or feeling attractive. Art can be very healing for them and their artistic work may be able to heal others. They are perfect companions who always help those they love, and may feel unloved at times. Fear that someone is with them just to use them. Their love has a healing quality, they make those they love feel in a unique and beautiful way. The native may have problems with female figures or embracing their femenine side regardless of their gender.
🟫Making aspects with Mars: They may be afraid of taking the initiative for many things, of seeing themselves as too aggressive, but they are also afraid of seeing themselves as too weak. They are excellent leaders who will always defend those who need it or who cannot defend themselves. They may have grown up or been in a very tense, aggressive, or violent environment, which makes them feel like they must always be defensive or alert. They have very well defined boundaries and will do anything to make people respect them. People feel safe and protected by them. Afraid of being seen as fragile, they cover up their issues, problems and rather deal with it independently. They may have problems with male figures in their life. They learned not to rely on others to save them from their problems and instead saved themselves. They can motivate and encourage others to do the same. Tendency to repress anger or desires for fear of taking risks.
🟫Making aspects with Jupiter: They have a facility for understanding and helping others in their emotional crises, both emotionally and in a practical sense. They are very sensitive people and can be easily hurt. They can grow a lot spiritually after overcoming their problems and helping others to get ahead. You may have trouble trusting your own charm and luck, in fact you may sometimes feel like you're out of luck. They can have abundance and luck once they help heal others. You can put so much focus on helping others that you forget to help yourself. They seek to bring positivity to those in need. These people have a lot of spiritual maturity that allows them to learn from negative experiences and the positive aspects of Chiron-Jupiter makes them overcome problems more easily and makes others overcome things more easily too. With the tense aspects it may cost you a bit and you may not see it that way, but you will have the good side.
🟫Making aspects with Saturn: These natives do not treat themselves delicately, they can demand a lot of themselves even after having emotional issues. They may have problems with their dads or authority figures. They do not like to depend on someone to solve their problems. They are excellent at finding quick solutions to other people's problems. They may have trouble having a little fun for themselves or allowing themselves to enjoy life a little, at the same time they feel that they need to be more organized, rational or methodical. They may have a feeling of abandonment or coldness that comes from a somewhat unhappy or difficult childhood. They may have problems with frequent sadness, periods of depression or little desire to do their daily activities. Cold outside, warm on the inside. They prefer to be on their own and are in constant alert. They have a hard time healing but they manage to be the person they would have liked so much to have in the past.
🟫Making aspects with Uranus: They may feel that there is a problem with them, that there is something wrong that they cannot connect with others easily. They can find healing through being alone, with friends or on the internet doing other activities. There may be problems with some relatives due to incompatibilities. Despite being well alone, they fear that they will never be accepted, that they will be marginalized and alienated. They make others learn to be fine on their own, to feel proud of who they are. The natives go a long way to find beauty in what makes them different. They seek to heal their group, it is usual to see them as the counselors of a group of friends or of some community. They can be very good at healing the inner chaos of others, but not so good at their own. Once they accept their own quirks, they will begin to attract people who love their quirks as much as they do, and who share ways of thinking.
🟫Making aspects with Neptune: They feel the need to help the other person, here we have the true empaths, people who have a natural healing quality. They are amazing at providing emotional support, perhaps sometimes more than practical. They sense the wounds of others but may ignore or not know how to handle their own. Sometimes they feel other people's wounds as their own, they can be too empathetic and that can harm them. People feel good about your presence and readily accept your help. It is easy for them to know when a person or even an animal is having a bad time. Others may have made them feel invisible and even forgettable. They have a noble and loving heart that they are afraid to show for fear of being deceived or hurt. But there is something genuinely beautiful in them, and it is that their tenderness and good treatment are not easily forgotten, they make others believe that there are good people in the world.
🟫Making aspects with Pluto: There is something very powerful in them, they manage to transform themselves at a deep level, to be reborn after a crisis, whatever it may be. They are really strong and powerful, they take their time to heal, but healing for them does not usually include forgiving and forgetting as such. They can be somewhat spiteful if you hurt them and they never forget how you make them feel. They may have felt some kind of rejection or hatred in their childhood. These people definitely change the lives of those around them, they have a great intuition to know about the emotions and wounds of the other, they know how to understand and heal them like no one else can. If there is something they have, it is that they know themselves perfectly and seek to transform and make something beautiful and inspiring of their pain.
🟫Making aspects with Rising: These natives may have a facility for healing other people and may actively seek to help others overcome their problems and overcome traumas of any kind. They are very observant and aware of the difficulties and problems of others. However, they have problems healing their own wounds, they are very critical and demanding with them. They hesitate before daring to do something, they usually do not show themselves completely for fear of being judged. Perhaps from a very young age they felt attracted to the topic of helping and healing others. Interest in meditation, therapy or psychology. They like to come across as a strong person with whom you can vent, someone kind who understands your wounds. They always treat others as they would like to be treated. They may have trouble accepting the way their body looks and may see flaws in themselves that others don't pay attention to.
🟫Making aspects with Midheaven: These natives can easily gain the appreciation and trust of the people, because they seem approachable, kind and polite. People can see them as a person who has been through a lot and still has a noble heart. They actively seek to be a person who helps people get ahead and heal through work. They may have a job related to helping others, or at least a job where they inspire others to excel. They may have many problems or differences with authorities. They may feel that it is difficult for them to go far and may doubt their abilities to improve themselves. People tend to see in them a good leader, someone who actively strives to improve the emotional state of the people. If the aspect is tense, people will still find comfort and trust in them, but they will also know that the native is not dealing with their own wounds. You can find a lot of academic and professional success once you heal your emotional world.
summary: one half-heartbroken confession has clark kent avoiding you for days. you decide it's probably for the best. until one day, you find yourselves at the same bar; one look, one fleeting moment- and everything you’ve both tried to smother finally catches.
firefighter ! clark kent x roommate ! reader
themes: part two of angel on fire! suggestive. yearning, a lot of it (think i got carried away). fluff, domestic, clark is obviously very angsty, mentions of jack castello, jimmy glaze. enjoy!xo
one | two
"No."
"But, Jimmy-"
"No. Oh, my god, I said no," Jimmy Olsen threw his hands up in the air, camera swinging wildly from one hand. You braced yourself for a clatter that never came, the wince on your face moreso a direct result of his refusal to cooperate. "I love you. You're great. I'd probably take a bullet for you, and you know I think the world of you,"
"Mhm."
"But for the love of God- I think I would rather jump out of that window than live with you."
You groaned, your forehead falling onto your keyboard. A sound caught between a type and a thwack sounded through the busy-body bustle of the bullpen, and you felt a hand pat your shoulder awkwardly.
"There... there..." Jimmy grimaced.
"Get off of me."
"I'm pretty sure Jack lives alone...?"
"Absolutely not." you sat up with a glare, arms folded. He raised an eyebrow.
"What? You didn't like him?"
It wasn't that, not exactly. In fact, you'd actually really liked Jack; he was sweet and tall and charming in that nostalgic, 50s sort of way. He called you sweetheart and opened the car door for you and played songs like Piano Man by Billy Joel on the radio. He was also very good looking, with a face so conventionally attractive, it was simply destined to star on screens; It was no wonder he spoke so much about films and TV and whatnot. You would too, if you looked like that.
Admittedly, he was a bit on the skinnier side- but you didn't mind. You were just used to big, broad and burly, that's all. Which was stupid in itself, because big, broad and burly didn't belong to you. You had no right to compare Jack to Clark because they weren't even in the same playing field. It was unfair. And confusing. And so, intensely painful.
But as nice as Jack was- as sweet as his words were and how he looked at you like he could see a future with a white picket fence, fluffy golden retriever and three kids running around- you just couldn't bring yourself to see him that way.
"How come you haven't asked to move in with me?" Lois quizzed, eyebrow raised as she leant against your desk. Jimmy scoffed.
"Because you inhale all the sugar and you're always up at the ass crack of dawn."
"I do like to sleep in." you said solemnly. Lois simply rolled her eyes, unphased by both of your unwarranted quips.
"Whatever," she set something down on your desk then- something warm and sweet-smelling that filled a chipped Daily Planet Press mug. You gave her a thankful smile. "Here, you need this. You've been a zombie all day,"
"All week." Jimmy corrected her.
For once in Lois' life, she actually seemed to agree with him. "All week. When was the last time you got any sleep?"
You couldn't remember. Truthfully, the days since your date with Jack and heated conversation with Clark had all merged together, and you were barely surviving the aftermath of it all.
Clark was barely home. You'd waited for him the next morning, two fresh cups of coffee on the kitchen counter as you checked the time religiously. You were going to have that conversation whether you or he liked it or not; you refused to let it simmer for longer than the night spent tossing and turning, heart heavy, in bed.
7am poured into 8am and by 10, you considered knocking on his bedroom door so he wouldn't be late for work. That's when the TV flashed; an emergency news broadcast about Superman on the other side of the city filling the screen, and all hope of seeing him that day flew out of the window.
It carried on like that for the first couple of days. You, trying to find any reason to see him, and him narrowly missing (most likely avoiding) the mark. By the fourth day, you'd given up completely. As silly as it sounded, it was the longest you two had gone without speaking- ever since your first day moving in all those years ago- and it hurt.
It was quick. It was sharp. Brutal, on Clark's part, because you hadn't even been given the slightest explanation as to what the hell he'd been trying to say that night. All you knew was that he was angry at you for going out with a man you didn't know, a stranger you didn't even want.
It's all I listen to. At the time, it made your knees weak and your heart slam against your ribcage. Now, a full seven days later, it filled you with a vicious mix of sadness and rage.
Lois cleared her throat. You forced a small smile.
"Don't worry. I'll get some sleep tonight."
"You better."
You hummed a response, mind already elsewhere.
Eventually, she pushed off of your desk, retreating to her own as Jimmy returned to editing his photos. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see it; a clear snapshot of Clark displayed in HD on his screen, red and blue and hope personified tearing through the sky.
You looked away quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat.
The day went by slow. Printers still jammed and ink still spilled, articles rejected and amended, all the good stuff that came with being a reporter at the Planet. You loved in, revelled in it; writing had always been your strong suit, and being able to do it for a living was a different feeling entirely. Sure, the deadlines and and typos and frenzy whenever something rocked the city shook you to the core- every single time- but it was worth it.
Clark had visited you once. Just like you did him, only a lot later on in your friendship.
He stood in the middle of the foyer, your lunch in an adorable brown paper bag that he'd said reminded him of the lunches Ma used to make him for school. It had been something delicious and simple- a thick turkey sandwich with enough vegetables to fill your five a day- and you ate it together on the benches outside.
He'd looked at your building, eyes fixated on the spinning globe atop like he was looking for trouble. Then, with a small smile, he'd turned to you, "Feel like I've been here before."
You'd giggled, nudging his shoulder, "Maybe you were a journalist in another life."
"Maybe." he gave you a small smile, reaching over to wipe the small dot of mayo from the corner of your lip.
That was one of the first times you'd ever felt something for Clark; something bigger than adoration, stronger than attraction. You felt it pool achingly in your chest, like a pot of mercury, thick and hot and dangerous.
You watched the word document on your screen, cursor blinking tauntingly back at you. You'd written approximately fifteen words this morning; two of them being the title.
"Hey," Jimmy rolled his chair next to you, hands free of his camera now. You turned to him eagerly, craving nothing more than yet another distraction. "You got any plans tonight?"
"Other than trying not to get stuck in the kitchen while Clark's in the living room, no."
"Great. Wanna go to O'Neil's? Lois' front page was weeks ago and we still haven't done anything for it."
You paused. You knew of the place- almost everybody that worked on your street did- but it was something else. It sounded familiar, but not like you'd been; you were more an overpriced cocktail, cringey neon slogan kind of girl. You and your friends rarely frequented dive bars like O'Neil's.
Besides, it would probably do you some good to get out. A new change in scenery. After all, you were a few days overdue a night spent internally pining over a $15 Cosmopolitan.
So, without much of a second thought, you nodded. "Sure," you said, "I'll be there."
"Great," Jimmy's grin widened. Then, just as you turned away to let him go, you felt his hand on your shoulder. Again. Except it was warm this time; gentle, like he knew you needed it. "You're gonna be fine. Okay?"
"I know." you smiled small.
"You can even crash at mine after, if you didn't want to go home," then, Jimmy paused, as if the cogs in his brain were turning and he was trying to keep up with the thoughts they were processing. "See how you feel. See if you still want to move out of your place... and move in with me."
Your eyes widened slightly then. You'd been 60% joking and 40% serious, but you hadn't actually expected him to take you up on your ridiculous offer.
"Are you seri-"
"I'm going to wheel away now before I can change my mind," he said hurriedly, turning to go, but not before looking back at you with a serious look in his eyes. "I mean it, though. Really. I hate seeing you like this, and I have a spare room I barely use."
You wanted to say thank you, you appreciated it- anything would have worked. But the words stuck in your throat like glue.
Instead, you watched him go back to his desk, mouth dry and heart thumping. It wasn't just the idea of moving out that terrified you- it was the very notion of moving in with somebody that wasn't Clark.
With a sigh, your fingers found the keyboard again. You typed rhythmically, anything to get the beat out of your chest and onto something else.
Unfortunately, Clark couldn't get drunk.
He'd tried. God, there wasn't a single bit of alcohol on earth he hadn't knocked back five shots of just to case-study his body's reaction. There wasn't a draft beer, pint of lager or even a jug of ale he hadn't inhaled, just to see if he could feel something, just to try and ease his thoughts. Even if it was just for a second.
He understood Kara now; the interdimensional partying and the fact that she never settled in one place for too long. He suddenly got the need for planets with red suns, understood now why Earth just didn't seem to cut it for her; it was too painful, too constant.
Living with you after that night was hell. Clark just couldn't face you- not after what he'd said and practically admitted; not after knowing that you still didn't understand it- understand him and his feelings- fully.
If you had felt even an inkling of what he did, you wouldn't have let him walk away. You wouldn't have spent that night in the room right next to him, heart going a million miles per hour, every toss and every turn amplified in his eardrums. You would have said something. Something that would have proved Clark wrong; that the way your chest was beating wasn't because of Jack, it was because of him.
But you hadn't. You'd fallen asleep. And he'd sat at the foot of his bed, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, for hours; contemplating, thinking, heartbroken.
Jason was saying something to him now, shoulders nudging against his in a way that exemplified his own drunken state. Clark felt a pang of jealousy stab hard at chest.
"...And I'm just saying, if we hired out the engine, we'd make a killing!"
"Government property, Jase." Archie rolled his eyes, shooting Clark a look that said Rookie, am I right? Clark let a small smirk show. "But great idea. Maybe pitch it to the Chief,"
"I am pitching it to the Chief."
"A different Chief. Please." Clark pleaded. Jason just shrugged, taking a swig of his beer before gesturing to Clark's empty glass.
"Need a top-up? Next round's on me."
Clark shook his head. Beside him, Archie raised an eyebrow, eyes on the man before him currently sulking over a beer he'd finished hours ago.
He didn't bother to ask if he was okay. Why would he, when Clark had been like this all week? It was a constant in the team now, a shadow and cloud they couldn't seem to shake. He was starting to feel bad for them all; they were getting the brunt of his frustration more than anyone else.
Not that Clark had ever been rude to any of them, or even gave off the vibe that he would be. Ma would kill him. Pa would disown him. No, he was just quiet; introverted, trapped in his own thoughts. He stayed locked in his office most of the time, only coming out to help answer a call.
"Still haven't spoken to the Mrs?" Archie tried subtly, eyebrow raised as he sipped his own mix of Vodka and something fizzy. His eyes flickered towards the neon lights above them, flashing harsh, vibrant colours that somehow made the whole bar feel even darker.
Clark didn't bother to correct him. He'd spoken about you so much and so often that at some point, it had become a hell of a lot easier to just let everybody think you were more than just his roommate. It definitely put a stop to their bachelorette-strip-tease recommendations of him, that's for sure.
Somehow, it made the situation feel a lot more justifiable, though he knew it was all pretend.
If you were really his, Clark would have no problem sorting this whole thing out. He'd sit you down and let you speak and honour your feelings. He wouldn't invalidate them. You'd talk through the problem together; no secrets, no noise, just you and Clark and the warm comfort of your apartment that currently, felt like the Fortress. Minus the robots, the tech, and everything else that made it feel like a second home.
But right now, he couldn’t act. He had no right. There were secrets between you- mostly his- truths that he had wished he could take back the moment he let them see the light, never mind fully confess.
Clark shook his head slowly. Archie spoke.
"Yeah, well. You'll figure it out. You know that, right?"
Clark nodded, slower this time. He had no faith in his co-worker's words but appreciated the sentiment anyway. "I hope."
He tuned out then, gaze falling on the colourful bottles adorning the wall behind the bar. They glimmered and reflected every ray of light that hit them, and he just couldn't stop himself from falling back into the agonising routine that was, thinking about you.
It had almost become a habit for him, even without the current tension. Flying thousands of feet above the ground could get unbearably lonely, and he often needed something- anything- to keep himself from unravelling.
Your face, your laugh, your entire being. Just you. Random things, irrelevant things that he remembered yet had no idea why. Your taste in music, your favourite film, even your clothing; scattered all over your room but never in the space you both shared, even though he wouldn't have minded one bit.
"You don't even use the coat rack." he'd noted one day, eyebrows furrowed in both disdain and perplexity.
"I have many coats!"
"...Then use the coat rack."
The sweet, vanilla scent that seemed to follow you wherever you went, warm and syrupy. You'd spray it everywhere, claiming it was important to have a signature smell; on your wrists, your neck, the top of your head, even the random pulse points you'd found thanks to two and a half Google searches.
"What does this smell like, Clark?" it had been his day off when you came bounding into the living room, a clear bottle of something expensive clutched carefully in your hand.
"Uh... vanilla?"
"And?"
"....Stronger vanilla?"
You'd laughed, spraying it everywhere regardless of the value, rambling on about undertones and base notes and whatever else made perfume perfume. His heightened sense of smell made Clark hyper aware of all the different ways this one fragrance smelled on you; something to do with the PH levels, he remembered you saying.
It was sweeter on your wrists, more refined on your pulse points; unfortunately, it was simply irresistible on your chest-
That's when Clark heard it.
His head shot up, mind viciously yanked back to the real world. A dry swallow bobbed in his throat.
Archie raised an eyebrow, "You alright?"
It started off faint at first. Almost non-existent.
But it was getting louder, much louder. He couldn't mistake it for anyone elses; he'd heard it, paid attention it, much more than he did his own.
"Y-Yeah. All good."
Your heart.
His eyes darted around the room.
Nice and steady, it's usual avid, unique rhythm. Clark's eyes narrowed, his own picking up it's pace to match yours. For a second, they were in sync; the same pump split between two bodies.
Where were you?
He scanned the bar, furrowed brows knitting together in confusion. You wouldn't be- you couldn't be- here. This wasn't a place for someone like you. You didn't belong here, in a glorified, rusted shack at the corner of some grimy office district.
This was where sleazy businessmen with loosened suits came to unwind; to invade the spaces of women they didn't and would never have a chance with otherwise. Where sleazy bikers and blue collar workers came to glare each other down, until a fight broke out that shut the bar for the night.
His blood ran cold. He could hear your voice then, soft and subtle and sweet; the same one he'd only had the privilege of hearing through your shared walls the past week.
"Jimmy! Are you serious?"
His hand tightened around the glass. Next to him, Archie downed a shot, oblivious, and Clark could feel you coming closer, your voice a megaphone pressed against his ear now. Panic started to rise in his chest, made worse by the incessant bumping of the speakers.
Then suddenly, someone else's voice tangling with yours; deeper, male, unfamiliar. Not exactly Jimmy's, though he could hear his faint chuckles, too.
It was a tone he'd only ever heard once. Outside of your apartment on that night everything fell apart; when he'd placed a hand on your lower back and whisked you away, shooting Clark a wink and a smile and a promise to have you back before 10.
The voice that had made Clark lose his mind.
"Lovely to see you again."
"You... too."
Everything happened too fast for him to register. The front doors opened and in came all of you; a massive group, a loud group, one led by Jimmy and your other friend Lois bickering at the front. Behind them, some woman with large black glasses and the fanciest, iciest blow-dry Clark had ever seen. Next to her strode your boss, Perry White, as well as a couple other journalists with press passes swinging off their necks and frazzled expressions after a long, hard day.
Clark couldn't help it. His eyes scanned the crowd for you, low-lidded and steady, unable to shake the terrible feeling that you'd come here with the one person he never wanted to see you with again.
His heart sank to the pit of his stomach as you wandered in.
You looked beautiful. Tired. That same flushed look on your face that meant the current workday had you beat. Your arms were folded tightly, your pass pressed plush against your chest.
You were cold. Freezing, in fact.
And the man walking in right next to you hadn't even bothered to give you his damn jacket.
"And this is why The Princess Bride holds up. It's a cult classic in the sense that nobody knows who the actors are, but it's still a film that can hold it's own."
"That's... cool, Jack."
Your teeth were gritted. At this point, Clark couldn't tell if it was due to the weather or sudden disinterest.
His hands itched for the burly leather jacket that hung off his stool. He'd been resting against it this whole time; it'd be warm, so warm, and it'd engulf you and swallow you whole. He knew that; he had a photo of you from months ago trying it on, his Home wallpaper for a bit until he realised it was kind of creepy that you had no idea.
Now, it was of some random squirrel he'd saved in Central a couple years back.
"Hey," someone nudged him, "Isn't that..."
Clark didn't even need to look to know what they were referring to. His gaze followed the line of Jason's stare as he saw Jimmy, Lois, and Perry weave through the crowd, eyes landing on him with that knowing glint.
But his focus snapped right back to you, to the way Jack was leaning in just a little too close; how your posture was tight and defensive, but still... not in a way that suggested you wanted out of this situation. His fingers gripped the edge of the bar so hard it hurt.
He wanted to walk over.
To pull you away from Jack, away from this whole situation, throw you over his shoulder if he had to and hail a cab for you both to go back home. You could talk it out there, he could make you understand.
Before, it would have been easy. But now, he simply didn’t know how.
Suddenly, your eyes found his. They locked across the room, and for a moment, it was like everything else melted away. The noise. The chatter. The weight of everyone’s eyes on him, on you.
You froze.
Clark’s breath hitched. He knew that look. That stunned, breathless expression on your face that he rarely ever saw, especially as of recently. It was like you were trying to read him, trying to figure out what he was feeling.
And then, before he could make a single move toward you- before he could do anything- your expression hardened, just slightly, and you looked away.
Your face fell into its usual mask, a polite smile on your lips as Jack continued to talk about whatever nonsense he let fall out of his mouth.
A breath caught in Clark's chest. His heart clenched in a way that almost made him lose his balance.
You had looked away from him. You, who typically couldn't go a day without knocking on his door or waiting up for him after work. You'd chosen not to give him so much as a glance, made a conscious effort not to.
The guilt swirled again, faster this time. As you and Jack moved further into the group and settled into a booth on the other side of the room, Clark let out a slow, quiet exhale.
For days now, he’d told himself that he was giving you space. That he didn't want to suffocate you with his feelings; that if he waited long enough, you would come around, and you could either both go back to normal or figure out a way to work around it.
But now, standing here with the weight of that decision pressing on him, he realised how much of an idiot he’d been.
Clark’s mind spiralled with the thousand things he could’ve done differently, could’ve said differently.
He could’ve told you how much he cared, not just in that typical I'm your best friend and I just want what's best for you way, but in the deep, delirious way that meant I can't live without you, so whatever it is, I'll die trying.
He could’ve stopped the act, the nonchalance that disguised something far more fleeting.
He could’ve-
Minutes passed. Minutes stretched into an hour.
Archie had slid a beer into his left hand at some point and a cigarette into his right, but Clark only felt the cool liquid slide down his throat. The cigarette sat untouched between his fingers until it burned out on its own. Neither would have done much, anyway- there wasn’t nicotine nor ethanol strong enough to silence his thoughts.
He didn't dare look your way. Partly because he couldn't bring himself to, and mainly because he knew what he would see; you leaning closer to your friends so you didn’t have to lean into Jack, slipping into the warmth of their laughter, keeping your eyes fixed anywhere but the bar where he sat like some ghost you’d rather not remember.
You weren't happy, but you were comfortable. And that sort of comfort preferred to be alone; you didn't need Clark. You were moving on, even if you didn’t know it yet.
And he knew that it was all his fault.
He heard chairs scraping. Everything sounded much louder in his ears now; the conversations, the music, drinks being poured on the other side of the room. Every decibel felt like hell, a mirage of crashing cymbals that Clark just couldn't steady.
For a split second, he braved a glance in your direction. His eyes narrowed when he saw that it was only your drink on the table, as well as the bickering group of reporters (plus Jack) you called friends; but you, nowhere in sight.
Slight panic started in his chest. He glanced around, vision quick and focused. Terrible men in suits; bikers with black-oil knuckles. His heart pounded as he tried to hone in on the sound of yours.
Quickly, Clark stood up from his seat. "I'll be right back." he mumbled to Archie, though the other man had long since succumbed to the hazy ways of Scotch poured over ice.
If you'd gone home, he could meet you on the way there. He'd walk, side by side, next to you, maybe even a couple of steps behind if you still didn't want to talk to him. He just couldn't have you out there alone.
His eyes scanned the bar. You were still in the building, which relaxed Clark a bit; he could make out you humming softly, moving slow. Then, the sound of a hand dryer.
It was automatic.
His feet moved faster than his mind, every step an instinct he couldn’t fight, couldn’t hold back. The bar had been too loud, too heavy, too full. And now all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, an erratic, irregular beat that longed for yours.
He didn’t even stop to think as he threaded his way through the crowd, toward the back of the room. He barely noticed the startled looks of people as he passed, the jostle of bodies, the blurry laughter that seemed to only slow him down.
All that mattered was you.
The hallway stretched in front of him, dark and narrow, the noise from the bar muffled into a dull hum. Four doors lined the hall- clean, untouched unlike the rest of the place, because barely anyone ever came back here. The bathrooms were hidden away, tucked far enough that only the desperate or the lost ever found themselves in this dim corner of the bar.
And Clark knew. He felt it in the pit of his stomach like a stone; you were in the last one. He didn’t need to think twice; you'd pick the one the furthest away, just in case someone needed the closer one more.
His pulse was erratic, mind frazzled, stretched too thin to focus on anything else. He wished he could blame it on the alcohol- regardless of the fact that he never could- but no. The truth was far worse.
It was you- you, the one thing he couldn’t control, the thing that was both his salvation and his downfall. You were what pulled him like a magnet, to the point where he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.
Clark stepped towards the last door. He didn't knock, or wait, or even have time to- because before he knew it, you wrenched it open, and his body moved without thinking.
He slid into the small space; quiet but urgent, broad frame out of place in the narrow slither of space.
A stunned gasp sounded through the cubicle as your eyes widened and you stumbled back, mouth parting with a question that died before it could leave your lips.
"Clark?"
Clark locked the door behind him with a soft click, the sound echoing louder than it should have in the small, dimly lit restroom. You turned toward him, your expression already shifting from surprise to bafflement.
"What- what the hell are you doing?!"
He didn’t respond immediately, his breath shallow, his gaze slowly fixing on you as if he were trying to memorise every little detail of your very being.
You stood there, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, a faint tremor in your stance like you were still trying to keep some form of distance between the two of you.
It drove him crazy. You drove him crazy; from your slightly smudged lipstick to the heavy flutter of your cocktail-induced blinking.
You tried again, your voice quieter this time, but there was still an edge of urgency in it.
"Clark."
His name hung in the air between you both, but he didn’t move. His eyes were still locked on you, distant, like he was somewhere far away, trying to piece together the words that were choking him from the inside.
Then, his gaze trailed, lower and lower and back up again, drinking you in, hungry.
You said it again, a little sharper this time.
"Clark... what's going on? You're scaring me."
He knew he should have said something, but he couldn't. He just stood there, breathing like he was trying to catch up with himself- with everything he was feeling, everything he'd kept locked beneath sealed lips. His silence sat between you like a thick, suffocating fog.
He could see the impatience on your face, growing with every call of yours he didn't respond to.
But he just couldn't speak. The words caught in his throat like they hadn't before. And yet, it had only been seven days. Seven whole days since he'd been anywhere near this close to you, and still, it felt far too long.
You reached out, but stopped yourself, unsure. “Clark, please-”
“It's my first time seeing you in a week,” he swallowed, voice cracking slightly as he spoke- as if the admission itself was too heavy to carry. He inhaled sharply, "Let me just... let me take you in. Please."
You fell silent. Suddenly, the already cramped room felt horrific, draining the bravado out of your face as Clark took a step forward like both of you could afford him to.
"You're being weird, Clark." you said softly, though your eyes fluttered shut as soon as you felt his warm hands move towards you.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to."
They rested on your hips, gentle enough not to startle you.
Even so, your skin pricked at the slight touch of his, and when you felt Clark's forehead rest against yours, you suddenly couldn't remember much of what you were trying to say.
It was instinct; the way your forearms fell against his chest, fists loosely clenched against him.
He pulled you closer, arms heavy and determined, closing the gap between you both in a hug you'd been craving for days.
You and Clark had had a lot of silences in your lifetime. Your friendship was comfortable, cosy; a safe space built on shared trust and mutual understanding that sometimes, there just simply wasn't anything left to say. Not all gaps needed to be bridged. Sometimes they just needed small smiles and reassuring nods of acknowledgment.
This was one of those times.
You wrapped your arms around Clark's torso, your arms small compared to his yet just as desperate. You pulled him in, breathing his air in like he did you.
Then, with a muffled, barely audible voice, you spoke.
"I'm so mad at you."
He didn't stiffen. Nor did he bite back, saying that it was your fault as much as it was his, not like you thought he would- how you wanted him to. Maybe, it would make this feeling in your body go away, if Clark just stopped being so infuriatingly calm.
Instead, you heard him swallow; a gulp that took so much strength you physically felt the slight bob of his Adam's apple.
"I know."
"And I've hated you. All week, I've hated you," it wasn't the truth, not at all. But at the time- when you were dodging Jack's calls and making plans to move your Queen size bed into Jimmy's box room, you thought you were getting pretty close.
You felt Clark shift, his head shaking in a slight nod of acknowledgement. "I don't blame you."
Silence again. Your body relaxed, and with it, came a slight pull back- only you had nowhere to go. Clark's arms stiffened around you, protective, keeping you against him like it was the only thing he was able to do.
"Please don't," he mumbled, lips pressed against your forehead. "Don't move."
"There is a toilet behind us, Clark." you murmured into him, your tone joking. His let out the faintest, amused exhale, hand coming up to rest on the nape of your neck.
His thumb grazed your skin there, gentle, rubbing small circles on the nape like he was trying to calm you down. You wondered how long you'd both be there for; uninterrupted, two bodies pressed against each other in a hidden corner of O'Neil's.
After the week you'd had, you certainly didn't mind if you were here for a lot longer.
Clark smelled like he always did; of sandalwood and smoke and something sweet underneath, like honey. It was addictive, ambrosian. A parry to his absence the past week.
It was insane, you thought, what seven simple days without him did to you.
Then, as if he was thinking of the exact same thing, Clark spoke.
"I'm sorry..." he mumbled then, words accompanied by a soft kiss pressed against the top of your head. "I am so, so sorry,"
You didn't hesitate, the words already at the tip of your tongue.
"I'm sorry, too," your voice fell into a mere whisper in comparison to his.
He pulled back this time, and you could see him fully under the dim light, see them; glistening pools of water brimming around his baby blues.
Not enough to spill completely, but you knew a blink would probably do the trick.
"Clark," your brows furrowed, hand reaching out to cup his face. "Oh, Clark. We're okay. You're okay,"
He shook his head, said your name, face leaning into the warmth of your palm.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"There's nothing to apologise for, Clark," you whispered, "It's okay. We just had... we just didn't speak for a bit, that's all. But we are now and we're fine, we're so fine. Okay?"
You couldn’t read him. Every part of you wanted to see him crack, just a little. A smile, a grin to break through that clouded intensity, to remind you that he was okay. But none of that came.
Instead, something dark flickered across his face. A pained look, so familiar it almost hurt to see. It was the same expression he'd worn the night he walked out without a word, leaving you stunned in the silence that followed.
You thought about it it night and day, replayed the same scene over and over again in a head that never ceased to spin.
Thought unprepared, you opened your mouth to say something. "Clark-"
"Tell me you don't feel anything for him," Clark cut in, his voice firm but raw, tone filled with a strength that didn't match his pleading eyes.
You paused, stunned by the sudden shift in his words. For a second, nothing came to mind, not a single 'him' existing in the realm you called your memory.
"W-What?"
"Or tell me that he makes you happy. That you like him. Anything, I just need something," his grip on your waist tightened, eyes clamping shut again.
"Please. I'm begging you. Just say the words, and I can stop."
Stop?
You narrowed your eyes at him, head tilting to the side, but Clark wasn't looking at you anymore.
He was trapped in his own head, his own world- where nothing you say seemed to matter anymore.
"I just need to hear it from you. I can't keep guessing anymore- it's driving me crazy. You..." he caught himself, once again trailing away from a sentence- before seemingly disregarding that notion entirely. "You're driving me crazy. So please,” Clark breathed, voice fraying at the edges, “just say it.”
“Clark-”
“Tell me you want him.” His words stumbled out quickly, rushed, affronted with distress. “Tell me you don’t feel anything for me, and I can go. I’ll fly into a mountain if I have to, bury myself under the ocean if that’s what it takes. I just need to know that... that you don't love me back. That you don't feel the same."
It wasn’t dramatics. It wasn’t exaggeration. He meant every syllable- and that scared you more than anything.
He watched you. It was all on you now.
Your breath trembled, unable to keep up with the tension in his words.
“I can’t tell you that, Clark.”
“Why?” The word ripped out of him, desperate, raw. He was coming apart at the seams; every thread undone, loose and tangled. His fingers trembled where they held you, chest rising too quickly.
And in that moment, you knew; he wouldn't believe you. Whatever you said, whatever you did, Clark had already convinced himself of the latter.
A sound fell from your lips- quiet yet sharp, wounded and winded and so similar to a laugh- yet it wasn’t really a laugh at all.
You shook your head, looking up at him through the tears that had started to blur your vision. Instinctively, he reached a hand up, catching them before they could fall.
“I don’t want Jack,” you said, voice cracking. "I've never wanted Jack. I've never wanted anybody-"
You pushed past the hesitation, knocked back the fear. Whatever alcohol had settled in your system earlier was gone now; all that remained was the truth.
“-but you, Clark. I want you."
You thought about the nights spent with him, the ones that had made you fall the hardest. Kisses on cheeks and foreheads and too-tight hugs that knocked the wind out of your lungs. Nights spent cleaning his suit with him, soaps and suds and bubble beards and all. The way his gaze would linger, and you'd pretend not to notice, yet the red-hot feeling in your cheeks would give you away every single time.
You felt the memories envelope the very words you put out there; each one wrapping like a vacuum seal around every syllable.
Yet Clark's expression didn’t melt the way you would have wanted. No joy. No relief. No softening.
Only fear.
“Don’t say that.” his tone dropped, stern and clipped, born out of trepidation. “Don’t say things like that if you don't mean them,"
Your brows pulled together, a hurt sound escaping you. "Who says I don't mean them?"
His eyes flickered over your face, searching for a lie, a joke, a crack in your expression that proved he was dreaming or delusional or just outright losing his mind.
The space between your faces narrowed. His breath brushed warm against your lips.
"If you’re saying this just to spare me... it’ll kill me."
Your breath caught. Because you knew him better than anybody, and right now, you knew that Clark wasn’t angry, irritated, or annoyed. Not with you.
He was terrified.
You stepped closer, hands sliding to the sides of his neck, drawing him down until your foreheads touched.
“I’m not sparing you,” you whispered, your lips brushing the air between you.
He swallowed again, his eyes finally meeting yours after so long keeping them shut.
"Then please, don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying to you, Clark."
His face didn't move from yours, but you felt his hand lift from your waist.
Slowly, carefully, he extended his pinky toward you. Your own hand shifted almost instinctively down from his neck, the small gesture feeling impossibly intimate in the quiet of the cramped room.
You looped your finger in with his, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.
"You promise?"
“Pinky promise,” you mumbled, voice low and steady, a gentle smile slipping out despite the intensity of the moment.
He gave a tiny squeeze, and for a second, everything felt lighter- like the weight of unsaid words and held-back feelings had vanished into that single, perfect promise.
You barely had any time to register; everything happened all at once.
With one swift move, Clark had you- one strong arm wrapped around your waist as he unlocked the door and stumbled out with you still against him. He pressed you gently against the wall of the hallway; a quiet giggle falling from your lips at the movement, the air around you intoxicating.
The world outside ceased to exist: the muffled chatter of the bar, the buzz of laughter, the clinking of glasses- all gone. It was just you and him, breath mingling, hearts racing in a frantic, delicious rhythm.
"You're insane," you started, but even you couldn't hold back the laughter that spilled out. He reached down, hand pulling your legs up to wrap around him.
For the first time that evening, you saw a smile spread across Clark's lips; genuine, this time. Real. Not out of hurt, sadness or dismay; no. This one was pure, driven by delight, making your chest ache in all the right ways.
Clark hesitated, just for a second- long enough for the world to hold its breath- but the look on your face, the way your eyes shone, the way your hands cupped his face as if you’d been waiting for this moment forever- begged him to stop holding back.
His eyes flickered to yours, a silent question begging for the right answer. You nodded wordlessly.
Then, as if the tension had reached a breaking point, Clark smashed his lips against yours.
You didn't hold back either. His lips were warm, insistent, and impossibly gentle all at the same time; they fit the curve of yours almost perfectly.
You'd dreamt about this. Envisioned it. You'd gushed about it over cocktails with your friends, cried about it in the Uber ride home.
Yet nothing could have prepared you for the feeling it caused in your stomach; the warm static that stretched to every limb and filled out every fingertip.
"God…" he murmured against your lips, his mouth trailing down the curve of your neck for a heartbeat before sliding back up, capturing yours again with an almost frantic need. "I’ve missed you. So, so much."
Your hands threaded through his hair, holding him as close as possible, as if letting go for even a second would erase the last week of longing and frustration.
"I've missed you," you breathed back, lost in the ecstasy that came with being this close to him.
One hand held you up as another snaked it's way down your lower back, resting on the plush off your ass as Clark gave it a slight squeeze.
You moaned softly into him, a jolt of electricity coursing through your body from that contact alone. Obvliviously, you bucked against him, lost in the kiss.
"Don't do that," he gasped against you. A small smirk tugged at your face as you did it again, craving nothing more than to close the gap and keep it that way.
Clark said your name, stern yet distracted. Your stomach almost exploded from the butterflies it gave you.
"I'm not doing anything," you said innocently.
A chuckle left his mouth, vibrating into yours.
"You always been like this?"
"Like what?"
"Trouble."
"Only to you."
"Wait 'til we get home," he warned, though his words carried next to no threat. "Soon as we're through those doors, you're done for."
Your heart glowed at the word, the very idea of coming home with Clark as something other than just Clark Kent, your roommate making you feel dizzy.
"We're waiting 'til we get home?" you joked.
He pulled back, the smile on his face still as wide as it had been; but there was an edge to it now, a seriousness that conspired out of your words.
"You really think," he began, the hand that had been guiding your lower half now trailing up your neck, his thumb grazing your jaw.
"After all this time... after finally getting to be with you like this," he pecked your swollen lips. "That I'd just do it, here?"
You gave a small shrug, though it was taking everything in you not to completely melt into him again. "We've waited long enough."
"Can't wait any longer? Say, 20 minutes?"
"Desperate times call for desperate measures,"
He raised an eyebrow, "In a dingy bar bathroom where the light doesn't even work?"
"I think it's romantic," you pressed.
Clark shook his head, choosing to ignore your words.
"You're impossible." he said gently.
You grinned at him, leaning in for another kiss that- obviously- Clark was more than happy to give.
You'd always wondered what it would feel like, someone like Clark looking at you like you were made of something special; spun out of gold, priceless in all the right ways.
You never thought it'd feel like this; the euphoria of floating high on a bubble that could never pop.
"I mean it," he reiterated slowly, cocking his head to the side as he looked at you. "I want every first with you to matter. Every single one. None of this..." he gestured to the hall around you.
You smiled slow, finishing his words for him, "No bar bathroom quickies,"
He sighed, "Definitely not."
"Guess that rules out the fire engine, then."
Your fingers threaded through his, holding on as Clark paused, seemingly thinking about it, "We'll talk about it."
The warmth of his hand, the steady pressure of his palm against yours, made your chest flutter in a way that words couldn’t capture.
You pulled him closer, noses brushing as you spoke.
"Take me home, Clark." you whispered, voice trembling with a mix of giddyness, exhaustion, and something you hadn’t let yourself feel out loud until now.
His grin was slow, triumphant, the kind that made your stomach flip and your knees threaten to give out. "I thought you’d never ask." he said, his voice steady, filled with quiet awe that made your heart thump.
His arm tightened around your waist, pressing you against him in a way that was protective, possessive, tender all at once.
Step by step, he led you through the bar; past your friends and the absence of Jack (wide-eyed, stunned, and giving several thumbs-ups), down quiet streets, even through your apartment lobby. Your hands stayed entwined, the night air brushing your cheeks, carrying away every worry, every negative thought you’d held onto for far too long.
In that simple closeness, with his warmth wrapped around you like a promise, you felt a happiness so complete- so utterly insane- that you’d convinced yourself you’d never get to feel it. Especially not with someone as good and as impossibly sweet as the man before you.
All the waiting, all the quiet pining, all the small, seemingly insignificant moments- they had been leading to this. To him. To your gorgeous, six-foot-four firefighter slash superhero roommate who could stop wars and city invasions and universe-ending threats but for some reason, unbeknownst to you, had taken three whole years to tell you how he felt.
The front door swung open. Your back hit the wall, lips brushing, necks marked, clothes already half-forgotten before any room had been entered- and Clark Kent pressed against you in a way that made the world outside vanish... yet somehow, it felt like this was only the beginning.
omg i need a lobotomy this took me so long to write ive been so busy forgive me !! i also kinda hate the ending and feel like ive written it thousands of times before but whatever we ball xxx
synopsis; where the reader has a crush on Superman and Clark at the same time, unaware they are the same person.
an: I just had a lot of fun with this one honestly. There's a few silly moments here and there where i just wrote whatever tickled my fancy.
You weren't one for celebrity crushes. The idea of falling for someone you had never met had always seemed weird to you, but now, you understood. You could see the side of the girls falling over themselves for Elvis or preening for Matt Dillon. Because you were down bad for metropolises' one and only Superman.
Right now you were sat in the office grinning at your computer like a mad woman. You were watching a video of superman on YouTube, and wow...he sure was something.
"What's got you smiling like that?" Clark's voice rolls over you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
"Nothing." You slam your laptop shut, and instantly feel as if you've been caught in the act of doing something you shouldn't. But there's nothing wrong with watching a news report on your laptop. Nothing wrong with rewinding a few times just to see the dimples Superman has when he smiles. Right?
"She's got a crush." Jimmy calls from across the office, teasing.
Clark's brow furrows, "On who?" his voice deepens, almost as if he's concerned for you, though you don't know why he would be.
"I don't have a crush." You counter, but you can feel warmth creeping up your neck, heating your ears. Even if the others in the office can't see it, you know you're embarrassed.
"She has a crush on Superman, I've seen her watching videos of him constantly this week."
"Jimmy! Shut your trap!" you throw your pen in his direction, and it hits him directly on the forehead.
"Hey!" Jimmy makes an attempt at throwing the pen back but you dodge expertly, wheeling yourself out of the line of fire in your office chair.
"You have a crush on Superman?" Clark asks, and there's a small smile creeping onto his lips. He's going to make fun of you, you know it.
"It's not a crush." You defend, though you know too well that it is. "I just think that he's cool." You keep your gaze locked on the papers at your desk, hoping to defuse the conversation.
"Cool, huh?"
You don't answer him, and that in itself is all he needs to know.
-
The next day Superman saves three young kids from a three story fall, and you watch the reports fly in. Hero, savior, wonder. Words used to describe him as he brings the kids to safety on the sidewalk. The event is caught from multiple different angles, and you watch every one you can find in your researching, feeling your heart well with pride. But you don't know him, never have, so why do you feel so attached?
Clark pushes his way into the office twenty minutes later, never on time, and you look up from your laptop to smile at him. He smiles back, and his dimples flash, triggering a resemblance to something in your head.
"Morning," He greets, and the tone of his voice washes over you. He's happy today, and walks tall as he makes his way to the desk.
"Morning." You say it back almost instinctually, but you're stuck on the fact he reminds of you someone. The dimples. Superman has dimples. God, you're so down bad that you're seeing him in everything. You worry you're losing your mind the next time Clark grins at you, and again you see the similarity to the man you're obsessed with. Clark Kent looks like Superman, just a little. Not really. Who are you kidding?
You're just seeing what you want to see, which is a more attainable version of your celebrity crush. Still, you can't stop yourself when you say "I have never noticed those before." Clark turns to you, and you clarify. "Your dimples. I've never noticed them before."
It's as if you saying that short circuit's something in Clarks brain as he fumbles for a response. "I've always had them." He ends up blurting, as if you don't know that now. Then after a moment, his voice softer, like he's gone shy, "Do you not like them?"
It stuns you a little, because of course you like them. You've always had a thing for guys with dimples—superman included—though you can't say that to Clark. He's your coworker, your friend. "No, I do. I like them. They're cute." And you mean the words you say. Because Clark's dimples are cute, and so is Clark.
You're in serious trouble now. A crush on Superman, a public figure you may never meet or even see in person, is one thing. A potential crush on your coworker. Bad, Bad, BAD.
-
A week later and you wake up sweating. And not from any nightmare, no, from a very, very good dream. A dream about Clark. You are absolutely fucked.
“I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.”
Lois is trying to calm you down, but there’s nothing she can do. You are fixated on him, on your coworker Clark Kent. You'd called her after much deliberation on the topic, and after a near panic attack you decided you needed her expert council.
“I’m having dreams about him Lois! And they’re not PG rated!” You’ve got your head in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. Deep breathes, in and out. “Every time I see him, I'm gonna think…god, you know what I'll think about.”
Three days ago Clark had brushed past you in the break room, a hand on your back as he reached for the coffee machine. And you’d shivered at the touch, his touch. His hand was warm, gentle and big. And you’d be damned if you could forget about it. And he apologized profusely as if he'd felt your shiver in his heart, "sorry, i didn't mean—that was out of line, sorry."
You hadn't known how to tell him that it was perfectly alright, perhaps even more so than that, for him to touch you. In fact, you wanted him to, and that was something you hadn't felt in a long time.
"What the hell am I gonna do?" you manage to look at Lois across from you now, and you know that she has no reasonable answers for you.
"Maybe tell him how you feel?" she offers, which is a totally unreasonable answer, just as you'd suspected.
"He's my coworker! I see him every day, and if he rejects me I'll have to change my name and run off to a whole new country."
"I don't think he'd reject you." Lois says, and there's a knowing smile on her lips. But you don't quite catch her drift.
"You're right, he's too nice to turn me down. He'd go out with me out of pity, we'd date for years and then finally when we're old and dying he'll say "it's not you, it's me." and—"
"Woah, okay stop." Lois has taken a few steps forward and is crouching in front of you, her hands on your knees.
"Did it ever occur to you that he might like you back?"
"No. Well, maybe. I don't know."
Lois just smiles at you, and pulls you in for a hug. She's used to you, to your out of control thoughts, and she squeezes you tight. "It's going to be fine, it's just Clark, not the end of the world."
-
A day after that conversation, and it sure does feel like some kind of hell. Sitting across from Clark is like torture, especially when he looks at you over his glasses, smiles brightly. Those dimples. Damn him.
There's only one thing for you to do. One thing that can fix the landslide of thoughts. A dive so deep down a rabbit hole of Superman media that no man will ever compare. Yes, that's reasonable right?
You pull open your laptop, and type 'Superman' into the search bar. Videos and images of the man fill your screen, articles and interviews with him popping up in every corner. But there's a haunting presence surrounding so many of them. Interviews with Superman, reported on by Clark Kent from the daily planet. Articles about Superman's latest saves written and edited by the one and only. You peek over the top of your laptop screen, and find Clark with his head in his own work.
His curls fall effortlessly into his eyes, and you wonder how he can see anything he's reading at all. A sigh leaves your lips, blissful and dreamy, and you don't realize you do it until Clark looks up at you.
He blushes when he catches you already looking his way. "Everything okay?" he asks, and you allow the sound of his voice to envelop you for a moment. It's a voice that sounds familiar, not in the sense that you've heard Clark speak so many times before, but almost like you've heard a similar voice spoken by someone else. Someone with a cape and very similar dimples.
"Yeah," you can feel your brows pulling down into a frown as you look at him. "Yeah, everything's good." you've never been good at masking your feelings, and now must be one of those times, your expression the dead giveaway.
"What's on your mind?" Clark rolls his office chair closer to your desk, his paperwork long forgotten. You turn your laptop around to face him with an unknown confidence.
"You know Superman, right?" you watch as Clark's eyes scan over all the articles he's written about the hero in the past, before he nods with hesitation. "Yeah, sort of, I mean professionally speaking."
You don't know what comes over you then, but the words spill from you before you can properly think them over. "Can you get me in contact with him? Unprofessionally speaking?"
You're unsure if what you're implying is landing right in Clark's brain, but he seems to short circuit at the words. He readjusts his glasses, and grabs at his tie, as if to loosen it. "Yeah, uh, sure. What did you want to talk to him about?"
You turn your laptop back to face you, and begin typing something new into the search bar. "If I asked nicely, do you think he'd grab a coffee with me?"
Clark nearly chokes, or at least you think that's the case considering the strangled noise that escapes his throat. "You want to ask Superman on a date?" the words sound tight, and stressed coming from him.
"Maybe?" you glance up from your screen to note the look of shock that covers Clark from head to toe. His entire body language has changed, and it makes you shift in your seat.
"Do you think he'll turn me down?" you say at last when Clark fails to offer anything further in the way of conversation. Your question seems to tug him out of his stupor, though he's still sitting up straighter than usual, as if he's walking on thin ice that you can't see.
"I don't think anyone could turn you down."
-
Clark is reeling. He can’t quite believe it. You want to ask him on a date. Well, not him exactly. Superman. Who is also him. Fuck, this is getting complicated.
Clark had been falling for you for months now, unbeknownst to anyone in the office, and he had to admit that when he heard of your crush on Superman originally, he got a bit of a kick out of it. A confidence boost. Until of course he realised that it wasn’t really him, Clark Kent that you wanted.
It’s weird to feel jealous of yourself, but that’s exactly how Clark feels. The feeling of “what does he have that I don’t?” Is strange when you have everything said other has.
Still, Clark puts you in contact with ‘Superman’ because for him, it’s impossible to say no to you. I mean how could he? Every time you smile at him his knees go weak and that day when you told him his dimples were cute? He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.
So somehow, Clark is all done up in his ‘superman’ attire, ready to go meet you for coffee. But how does superman even have coffee? Should Clark get the same order he always does, or will you catch on if you recognise he has the same tastes?
Still, despite his doubts, he refuses to stand you up. He meets you outside the daily planet, standing tall just like he always tries to do when in this suit.
“Hey.” you greet him with such a wide smile, one that lights him up from the inside out, and he thinks in that mere second that maybe he doesn’t need the sun to heal, maybe he just needs you.
“Hello.” He extends a hand, formal despite the circumstances. “Clark has told me so much about you.”
“I was just about to say the same thing.” You answer, taking his hand to shake.
“So, shall we?” Clark gestures down the street, toward a coffee shop that he happens to appear at almost every day.
“We shall.”
-
For the most part, the date goes well. You talk about a plethora of things, and he makes jokes that have you red in the face with laughter. But there is something missing, shoes you don’t think even a superhuman man can fill.
Right now, you’re on the roof of a building taller than any tree, with the one and only Superman, looking over the city you love so much. And somewhere in that city, is a man you can’t stop thinking about. And that man, surprisingly enough, isn’t the one right beside you.
“What’s on your mind?” The voice covers you, smooth like stones washed up on the shore.
You look over at Superman, a singular curl coming loose in his hair from the wind that passes by. “You’re beautiful.” You tell him, before you can so much as think it over. “So beautiful, and kind, and funny, and a great listener.”
“Why, thank you.” He starts “I think of you the same way.” You know he means it, and that’s what makes it harder to say the next part.
“I’m going to sound like an asshole right now,” you preface, “but I know someone else, that is beautiful, and kind, funny, and a great listener. And he has these dimples that are just the cutest, and his eyes are so gentle and dreamy–“
Superman cuts you off, albeit politely. “I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being rejected right now.”
It makes you sick in your stomach to have to do it, but you nod, “I am so sorry.”
Superman is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles, soft and understanding. “It’s okay. But if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly am I being rejected for?”
You pause, and you know Superman isn’t pressuring or guilt tripling you in any way. You feel safe, and comfortable, to tell him the truth. Maybe that’s why he’s such a hero.
“Clark. Clark Kent.”
-
Clark’s heart stops in his chest. At least it feels that way when his name falls from your lips.
“Clark, like the Clark who set up this date?” The words tumble from him laced with confusion and doubt that isn’t an act. He almost says "who me?!" but manages to stop himself just in time.
“Yeah.” You heave a sigh, one that sounds heavenly and princess like. “Don’t tell, but I think I’m obsessed with him.”
That almost makes Clark break character. He can’t believe it. You like him, really like him, and he has a fucking shot after all.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s rude, and mean. We’re on a date and I’m talking about some other guy, what is wrong with me?
But Clark wants to know more, he’s begging for it internally. “No, no it’s fine. He seems like a nice guy.”
You smile subtly, staring off at the city around you. “He really is.” Clark is just about ready to pump his fist into the air.
"Why don't you ask him out?" he says instead.
You're quiet, and when you turn to face him the look in your eyes is anxious, unsure. "Because he might turn me down, and I don't know if I can handle that."
It's like a sucker punch to his gut, "I don't think anyone could turn you down." he mutters, losing himself in the look on your face. He watches, as your expression changes, shifts from one of nerves to one of confusion.
"He said the same thing." it's almost a whisper but he catches the words, despite the breeze trying to carry them away.
"Who did?" his own response is quiet too, as if you're telling each other secrets you don't want the air to hear.
"Clark. He said that exact same thing to me the day I asked you out."
-
It all comes together then as you stand there staring at Superman. His dimples, the curls in his eyes, the voice you know so well, the humor that is so familiar and kind. The touch of his hands, warm and gentle and big.
It's like a fog has lifted and you're unsure how you never saw it before. "Oh my god," you take a step back, wanting to cower in the corner from shame. You just gave the most embarrassing rom-com speech about Clark Kent, to Clark Kent. "Oh my god," you say again, your eyes scanning over every inch of the man before you. Superman. Superman. Superman. Except it's not is it? It's Clark, it's so clearly Clark that you feel stupid.
"What?" there's panic on his face, and you watch as he realizes that you know. That you see through him. "Oh," it hits him, and you watch as he also takes a step backward.
"You're Superman." you say, and it seems absolutely idiotic considering he's standing right in front of you in the red and blue suit, a giant yellow 'S' plastered on his broad chest.
He stays quiet, watching you closely. You take a step forward, and he stays utterly still, like a deer in headlights.
"You're Clark." you just needed to say it out loud. To fully convince yourself it's true. And it is. As soon as you say it, Clark—no superman—nods.
"Surprise?" he says it warily, daring for a soft and cautious smile.
-
Shortly after that conversation you beeline it out of there, promising to meet Clark later that night to really talk it over. But for now you need to sit with your thoughts, figure things out, and come to terms with the fact you just told the man you might be falling for exactly how you feel without knowing it.
To think you've had feelings for the same man twice, thinking that he was two different people? You have a type.
But you can't seem to get over completely exposing yourself and your feelings by rejecting Clark—for Clark. You pace back and forth in your apartment for an hour, maybe even two, before there's a knock at the door. You've run out of time.
"Hey," you groan as you open the door for him. He's in normal clothes now, out of the Superman suit, and he looks so unbelievably good. The white button up, the dress pants, the hair. His curls are set free, and you can almost feel your pupils dilate at the sight.
"Hey." his voice is soft, so gentle, so him. "How are you feeling?" there's genuine concern in his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he wants to reach out but refuses too.
"I'm okay, I guess. It's a lot."
He nods, and glances around your apartment, he's only been here once before for a staff party you held at your place last Christmas. He sat on the couch with you for most of the night, watching Jimmy dance offbeat to music you had coming from your tv. You think that might have been the first spark you felt for him, though you didn't know it at the time.
"So, about what happened on the roof."
As soon as he says it you want to crumble to the floor in shame. You keep yourself upright, though it's a struggle, as he continues, though he doesn't miss the way you wince at the topic of conversation.
"Did you mean what you said?"
You feel nauseous, but you nod. "Every word."
-
Clark can't help it. He tries to stop himself, but the smile grows, crawling across his face and clinging there. Stuck. "You said you were obsessed with me." he says through the smile, teasing, remembering.
He watches as you look away from him, your embarrassment endearing, sweet. "Did I say that? I don't remember saying that." the words tumble from you but he knows you're partly joking. You know just as well as he does what you said before.
He wants to laugh, wants to spin you around like a Princess, but he just takes a singular step forward, still grinning. "I distinctly remember you saying it." he adds, unable to take his eyes away from you. He's thrilled, excited, but also a little nervous. What if he made this all up in his head? What if it's just all one amazing dream?
"I'm a little obsessed with you too. For what it's worth." He adores the way you look up at him, the furrowed brows, making way for a smile of your own.
"Just a little obsessed?"
He feels the heat rising up his neck, "A completely normal amount of obsessed, I think."
That's the moment he reaches out, taking one of your hands in his own. He's hopeful that you won't pull away, be repulsed by the fact he isn't as human as you once thought he was. You stay with your hand in his own, and give his fingers a squeeze of reassurance before you speak again.
"So," you lower your head a little, "how many times did you laugh at me behind my back when I was watching videos of 'super-you' in the office?"
He pretends to think it over, look up at the ceiling contemplatively. He remembers those times, where he was almost jealous of himself. It feels so silly looking back now.
"Only once or twice." he answers, after a moment. "How many times did you almost figure out it was me?" He's been wanting to know since this afternoon, since you called him out. But there have been times in the past where he thought you already knew, where he thought maybe you were waiting for him to tell you.
"The dimples almost gave you away." You reach a hand up to touch his face, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes in contentment. He nods, only slightly, not wanting you to move your hand away from his jaw.
"Unfortunately that is something I don't have much control over."
His eyes scan over every inch of your face, committing this moment and each of your expressions to memory. The smile lines and the way your eyelashes flutter. The purse of your lips as you try not to laugh. The lips he has a very strong urge to kiss right about now.
"I still can't get over the fact," he starts, "that you rejected me, for me." he leans in a little bit closer, as he says it, just to tease, and he revels in the roll of your eyes.
"Shut up, Kent." you say, right before you push up and close the rest of the distance between his mouth and yours. It's a not a perfect kiss, and his nose bumps with yours as he tries to hold you up to his height. He also can't stop smiling, so that doesn't help matters, and it might just be the messiest, most awkward kiss he's ever had. But it's also the best one. Because he's never felt this amount of joy before, never felt so at home in someone else's house, in someone else's hands.
So when you pull away, bashful and laughing, he brings you back in for one more.
Reblog and comment pretty pretty please!!
CLARK KENT TAGLIST: empty
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @s00buwu
ok but think about….men who get carried away when they kiss you. their breathing gets heavier, grip gets harder, and suddenly they cannot let go of your lips.
Pulling you back into them if you even think about pulling away. Air? Who is she? They kiss you like you’re the last breath of air on earth, kissing you like they’ve been drowning forever, and you’re the first gasp of air breaking through their lungs—a desperate, consuming need.
Their hands roaming over your body, keeping you in place, keeping you agonizingly close. You know that it will bruise, but you don’t mind. How can you when they’re kissing you with such fervor? You try and make some distance, but all you get is a warning nip in your lower lip. But oh, when their hands reach your face, they hold you so tenderly, like you’re a dream they’re afraid to let slip away.
And when it gets too much—their teeth pulling your lips, chasing after you in a guttural groan, you try to pull away. To just breathe, even if it’s for a second. But as soon as you do that they dive back in, pulling you flush against them, almost whimpering, mindless babbles.
“no no, no. pretty you don’t get to do that, don’t go away. come back here. i’m so, so fucking lucky to have you. so sweet, you’re so sweet for me.”
And then they finally pull away, a saccharine string of saliva connecting your lips to theirs. It’s honestly filthy, but all you can think about is breathing, and you’re breathing them in, their scent clouding your senses. Their forehead resting against yours and then they smile. They smile as if they haven’t completely mushed your thoughts.
“I love you, pretty girl.”
──────────────────
Narrow the gap between you and me
Our breath briefly touches, true up
Faster in this sweet space- Taste // Lee Know, Felix, Hyunjin
Yuji Itadori, Yuta Okkotsu, Satoru Gojo, Rafayel & Sylus (L&DS), Ken Sato + your favs!
known for his tenure as one of the best pilots in the jaeger program as the rightside pilot of mark-iii jaeger angel diamond, marshal choi seungcheol’s retirement—and eventual promotion— shocked many members of the nagasaki shatterdome. he currently oversees many of the pilot pairings and deployments.
yoon jeonghan: loccent mission control
the former leftside pilot of mark-iii jaeger angel diamond, officer yoon jeonghan’s ranger career ended on his tenth deployment following a severe injury. now, he utilizes his experience as a pilot to serve as the eyes and ears of the ocean, helping current jaeger teams navigate combat against the kaiju with minimal casualties.
hong joshua: kaiju science officer
utilizing his marine biology degree, head k-science officer hong jisoo analyzes the various monsters under the sea via comparison to aquatic species that humans are more familiar with, thereby enabling him to discover likely weak points of armor on the beasts for the jaegers, heavily coordinating with loccent to relay his research during combat.
wen junhui: jaeger pilot
having had the most experience between him and his copilot, ranger wen junhui operates as the right—the dominant—side of mark-v jaeger imperial riot, and is known for his strong compatibility with many rangers. he heavily utilizes his martial arts background into combat, particularly with his rapid pace of punches, and innovative use of weaponry against the kaiju.
kwon soonyoung: jaeger pilot
as one of the longest rangers in the jaeger program, ranger kwon soonyoung’s ability to drift both as a pair and as an individual are immensely high among the many pilots in the shatterdome. as the leftside pilot for mark-iv jaeger ruby tiger, his main area of drifting is to handle formations with multiple jaegers, though they end up having to improvise due to kaiju.
jeon wonwoo: jaeger tech
one of the top engineers in the nagasaki shatterdome, officer jeon wonwoo has designed and engineered numerous jaegers, including imperial riot, ruby tiger, and is currently spearheading repairing angel diamond. his degree in mechanical engineering and time spent working lends him an almost innate understanding of how to construct the jaegers, down to smallest detail.
lee jihoon: jaeger pilot
ranger lee jihoon is one of the most seasoned jaeger pilots in the shatterdome, holding the record for the most deployments alongside his partner. his ability to create strategies in the midst of battle enable him to work seamlessly with his partner as they fight in the oceans, being an efficient counterpart to his co-pilot’s exuberance.
lee seokmin: jaeger tech
officer lee seokmin is in charge of programming the jaegers, and is commonly seen typing within the walls of the shatterdome whenever he is not communicating with his pilots or crew members to update and repair the interfaces or lag time. seokmin’s constantly running ideas have partially created solutions for the jaegers’ system endurance.
kim mingyu: jaeger tech
having spent his childhood admiring series such as transformers and power rangers, officer kim mingyu now gets to create and recreate them on jaegers as their weapons specialist. his handiwork is apparent on several jaegers, based on their distinct combinations of weapons and their unorthodox nature, much to the pilots’ appreciation and engineers’ consternation.
xu minghao: jaeger pilot
the leftside pilot to imperial riot, ranger xu minghao is a heavier proponent of pushing his jaeger’s legs to the limit due to his preference of kicking during his time as a martial artist and b-boy. minghao is ironically the more calm pilot to his partner’s chaotic nature, though he has his own brand of recklessness on the battlefield with his crazy ideas in solo combat.
boo seungkwan: medical officer
the constant tender of wounds and injuries for nearly all rangers and the occasional engineer, officer boo seungkwan has memorized all the various charts and routine injuries they endure, much to the pilots’ amazement and gentle frustration as seungkwan reminds them to maintain their health so that they can spare his own sanity.
chwe hansol: loccent mission control officer
due to his strong understanding of the drift and interpersonal relations, officer chwe hansol functions as the shatterdome’s drift controller, ensuring strong neural connections as he ensures teams avoid chasing the r.a.b.i.t, encouraging different means such as through song lyrics, and other general methods of building teamwork and camaraderie.
lee chan: kaiju science officer
initially having a brief stint as a jaeger tech (specifically in the weapons department), lee chan has since switched over to working as a researcher, with a concentration in kaiju weapons. his collaborates frequently with the jaeger techs to translate his research into feasible weaponry to fight the monsters with their own tricks and tactics.
(where you can't go home for the holidays and end up having a much better christmas than you expect.)
pairing: jihoon (woozi) x afab!reader
genre: acquaintances to lovers, christmas!au | fluff & smut
rating: explicit
word count: 10.5k
warnings: lots of mentions of christmas (including decorating, family, cooking, etc.), if the holidays are too much please skip this, mentions of family issues, reader can't go home for the holidays (and they actually like christmas), no gendered pronouns used for reader, mentions of past death (family member woozi mentions), woozi owns the house where reader rents a room but there are no power dynamics, explicit and implied smut, woozi is kinda grumpy, reader is super bummed about christmas, woozi ends up being a secret softie
smut warnings: lots of kissing, thigh riding, nipple play, marking if you squint, slight begging, two ass slaps, oral (reader rec.), fingering (reader receiving), overstimulation, squirting, briefest handjob, unprotected sex (don't do this), implied aftercare, implied morning after sex
author's note: this is for @k-vanity's 25 tips for surviving the holidays and the final prompt is christmas. i don't really have anything to say for myself. this is not what i'm supposed to be writing and it kinda just happened. merry christmas (if you celebrate) and happy holidays. i've already had christmas dinner, so if you see any mistakes, blame it on the drinks.
The holidays are your favorite time of year. Always have been. Nothing has really changed over the years. You moved away for work and fell in love with a new city. Now you just get to have twice the holiday cheer. You decorate your space in the house you live in with friends (and the grumpy house owner who’s resisted most of your attempts to be friends). Then, you go back to visit family when it gets closer to Christmas. It’s been a really great system. You’re just as excited this year as every other year.
Until your plans change. It’s only the day before you’re supposed to fly back home when your dad calls to let you know that he and your mom are sick. They know that you have a lot of post-Christmas plans (New Years, school work, and even a trip) and they don’t want to risk getting you sick as well. They insist that you can still come back, if you want, but warn you that they’ll have to keep their distance. You spend a lot of time thinking about it (read: talk it over exhaustively with your closest friends) before deciding that you’re just going to stay put for the holidays. You can plan another time to catch up with your family and have a time-shifted Christmas. After all, you think of the holidays as more of a feeling than a specific date on the calendar. You can find something to keep you busy for the 25th.
A couple of your friends invite you to come and spend Christmas Eve or Christmas Day with them, but you decline. You appreciate the sentiment, and really consider it in at least one case, but it just doesn’t feel right. Your family has so many traditions that it feels weird to consider dropping in on someone else’s. Besides, you won’t be alone in the house. (Even if Jihoon, who owns the house and rents out rooms, isn't always the friendliest. And doesn’t seem to enjoy Christmas at all.)
It’s four days before Christmas. You’re sitting in the living room aimlessly scrolling through your phone while you wait for Jun and Minghao to come downstairs. The three of you were all supposed to be heading to the airport together today, but now you’re just going to be driving them so they don’t have to pay for a ride. A sound makes you look up before you realize it’s not nearly enough noise for Jun, who can’t seem to go anywhere without being too loud. Instead, Jihoon only nods at you before he settles into an armchair on the other side of the room with a book. After a few minutes, you hear the telltale giggles of one of your best friends as he rushes down the stairs. Jun is through the door first, followed by an exasperated Minghao. Nevertheless, you see the signs he’s trying to fight his smile. You stand to meet them at the doorway.
“Bestie,” Jun signsongs when he reaches you. Throws his arms around you for good measure. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Jun, for the last time, we were supposed to leave for the airport 45 minutes ago,” Minghao sighs. “There wouldn’t be time to pack.”
“Details, we’ve got plenty of time,” Jun waves off.
“And last minute plane tickets are insane,” Minghao adds.
“Less insane with a travel credit,” Jun supplies, undeterred.
“Jun, please, we really need to leave,” Minghao begs.
“Are you not going home?” Jihoon asks. He’s so quiet when he moves that you didn’t even hear him stand up to join your group.
“Oh, no, I guess I forgot to let you know,” you start. You didn’t. Jihoon scares you a little. He’s nice enough and he’s great as a landlord, if you can even call him that, but you’re not really friends.
“You don’t have to let me know,” he huffs out.
“I decided not to go home this year. Both my parents are sick and I don’t want to catch it too, so we’re timeshifting the holidays,” you say.
“So it’s just you two in the house for Christmas,” Jun says brightly as he throws an arm around Jihoon. “Take good care of my bestie, okay?”
“It’s fine, Jihoon, I’m not expecting you to do anything with me,” you say before he can even open his mouth.
“But…” Jun starts and you turn him around before he can finish.
“Come on, before we give Hao an aneurysm. Do you need help getting your stuff outside?” you ask.
“Bless you,” Minghao mutters as you’re wrangling your best friend out of the house.
Once you’re back at the house, all you want to do is lay in your bed. It was a lot of work to pretend everything was fine while taking Jun and Minghao to the airport. Traffic was bad getting back, so you didn’t really have it in you to break down. Now that you’re home and in your room, the tears don’t come. It’s not who you are. It sucks that you’re not going home for the holidays, but it’s still the holidays and you can still make the most of it. Maybe. Somehow.
Somewhere in the house, you hear a door close loudly. Probably just Jihoon since everyone else has left. For a moment, you consider going downstairs to see what he’s up to. But, again, you’re not really friends. Moving seems like too much effort, anyway. You flop back onto your bed and get comfortable. Wait until you’re hungry to actually leave your room to find something to eat. You’re probably going to need more groceries before Christmas, because you still want to make some of your favorites, but you probably have enough for something to eat tonight. When you walk into the kitchen, you smell something delicious. There’s a big pot on the stove with the burner on beneath it.
You’re just about to lift the lid when Jihoon comes back into the kitchen. “Leave it.”
“Oh, sorry!” you gasp, surprised by his appearance and unsure of the tone.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I just don’t wanna fuck it up.”
“That’s a big pot of soup,” you say.
“Yeah, I figured you might be hungry,” he says, like it’s the most logical thing in the world.
“Oh!” you say.
“I mean, I don’t know if you like Chicken Ramen soup, it’s a little spicy, but I like it around this time of year,” Jihoon says. He looks a bit awkward and unsure.
“That sounds really nice, actually,” you admit. “You don’t mind sharing?”
“No, I wanted to share,” he assures you. “It’ll be done soon.”
With a nod, you go to sit down at the kitchen table. The silence isn’t totally comfortable, but it’s not uncomfortable either. Not exactly. This is already shaping up to be the most time you’ve spent alone with him, if you end up eating together. It makes you wonder more about him. He seems really focused as he cleans up around the kitchen. His black hair is the longest you can remember seeing it, falling around his face as he leans over. It’s almost soft to watch him brush it out of his face.
As you’re sitting there waiting for the soup to finish, you realize that you don’t know much about him at all. Even though you’ve lived in this house almost two years, he’s still very much a mystery. You know that the house has been in the family for a long time and he was the only one who was willing to take the project of managing it on. Or that’s what you think he said once. Someone, maybe a cousin or friend or something, thought he was a bit crazy for renting rooms out like this. But, it’s a massive house and he’s single. (There are 6 bedrooms, all with attached bathrooms, multiple living rooms, and an office that he uses for himself. The house is paid off so the rent goes towards things like property taxes, maintenance plans, and anything else that comes up.) You know he also produces music, though you’ve never heard any of it. Not that anyone has, he’s very private and doesn’t even share what name he produces under.
It’s clear when he brings each of you a bowl of soup that he’s expecting the food to do the talking for him. It’s cute and also puzzling at the same time. How does someone who wants to speak through something like making soup have a successful career as a producer? You shake the thought away and make conversation yourself. Most of what you get are short answers, but it’s something. And you definitely learn more about him. He deflects a little when you ask about his family, prefers to turn it around so you can talk about yours. Which you don’t really mind, even if it’s a little sad to think you won’t get to see them.
“Hey, I was thinking I might go and see about getting more decorations for the house tomorrow. Is that okay?” you ask when you’re finished eating.
“You really like Christmas, don’t you?”
It’s not really an answer, which makes you look up to find something of a smile on his face. Maybe a little teasing behind the smile. “Yeah, I just really like the joy of it all.”
“I don’t mind. There also might be some stuff in the attic that I can pull out,” he says as he stands to clear the dishes.
“That would be better than braving the crazies,” you say.
“Come on, I’ll show you how to get up there,” he says. Doesn’t even check if you’re following him before leaving the kitchen.
You scramble to your feet to catch up to him. Truthfully, you didn’t even know the house had an attic. It isn’t surprising. It’s an old house, but still. This is just another small thing that you feel like helps you better unwrap the mystery of Lee Jihoon. Upstairs, he opens the closet and pulls out a hook to unlatch a door in the ceiling just outside of Minghao’s room. Huh. You’ve never even noticed it, not that you’re outside this room often. To your further surprise, Jihoon flicks on a switch and then climbs up the ladder into the attic. Once again, you follow close behind him.
There are a lot of boxes in the attic, mostly labeled with names or rooms or both. You figure they probably belong to relatives. Or maybe past renters. In any case, it seems best to not bother asking. Especially since he’s making a beeline to one corner. You fight the urge to laugh. So much for thinking there were decorations up here. By the way he walks, you can tell he knows exactly where they are. It’s worth it, though, because there are about a dozen boxes with garlands, ornaments, wreaths, and other various knickknacks. Jihoon asks which of the boxes you might want and sighs when you say you want to bring them all down. Doesn’t argue, though, just tells you how to help him get them down. Even helps you get some of them downstairs.
“Guess we might need a tree,” he sighs when you get the last box out of the attic.
“Oh, I can find a fake one at the store or something. It’s no big deal,” you mumble out.
“I have to take care of something in the morning, then we can go pick one out,” he says without looking at you.
“Really?” It comes out nearly as a squeak.
He rolls his eyes, which might discourage you if you hadn’t also caught the faintest smile. “Yeah, we might as well with all this stuff out of the attic.”
You distinctly hear him mumbling something about the damn Christmas spirit as he walks away, leaving you to happily sort through boxes. Hope can be dangerous, especially around the holidays when your plans are interrupted. But, you can’t help it. You feel a little spark of hope.
The house is quiet when you wake up. It’s hard to tell if Jihoon is around or not until you peek out into where you all park to see that his truck is missing. When you first met him, the truck surprised you. It’s not really flashy, or even new, for that matter, just an old, vintage Chevy that’s in completely perfect condition. It’s probably older than either of you, but you’d never know by how it looks. The more you get to know this man, the more the truck makes sense.
With the house empty, you can listen to music as loud as you want. You connect your phone to the speaker and Christmas music carries throughout the house in moments. Coffee in hand, you set out to get some of the decorations up while it’s just you. But, even with the music and the decorations, you’re feeling a little empty again. It’s not the same to be doing this all by yourself. You know, at least on some level, that you’re not totally alone. There’s also Jihoon and he isn’t going anywhere for the holidays. But, he obviously doesn’t like Christmas much if the lack of decorations or tree are anything to go by. Maybe you’re just a burden on him too.
Your phone dings and you look around for a minute before you find it on the table. The surprise of who’s texting you makes you unlock your phone right away.
Jihoon: Finished early and actually found a tree that works when I was driving home
Jihoon: I hope that’s okay. I didn’t want it to be gone
There’s no explanation for the tears you’re blinking away. It’s not about picking out the tree. That part of Christmas hasn’t ever been an important part to you. Ever since you moved away, your parents got one before you flew in anyway. No, it’s more to do with the little you know about Jihoon and that truck. It’s almost like his child. He’s so careful about it. Somehow, Jun has managed to at least get to the point of being friends with him. Then again, Jun can wear anyone down. But, through Jun, you know how particular Jihoon can be about his truck. You distinctly remember Jun saying he wasn’t allowed to eat or drink in it (not that unusual) and that he had to brush off his shoes before getting in to avoid the dirt (a lot more unusual, especially someplace it snows). It probably doesn’t mean anything. It’s probably just your emotions about the change of holiday plans taking over. But, you’re overwhelmed that he’d pick up a tree and use his own truck.
You: oh, yeah! thanks!
You: let me know you’re here and i’ll come help
The tree that Jihoon shows up with is completely perfect. Even still wrapped, you can tell that it’s going to be full. And that you’re going to have to work a little harder to get the branches to fall by Christmas. Not only did Jihoon use his truck to bring a tree back, he also has several bags of stuff, including a tree stand. It makes you wonder what he actually had to do this morning. It isn’t until you have to bring the tree in that you wonder how the hell you’re going to lift it into the house. That is, until Jihoon reaches through the branches and lifts up the tree. You try not to watch the way his muscles tense under his shirt. Fail miserably, actually, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He calls for you from the living room to help him fasten the tree into place. It’s a good thing, too, because you don’t really need to be dwelling on whether the guy who’s basically your landlord is hot or not.
Once the tree is up, he makes an excuse about needing to get some work done and disappears off to his studio. It had actually been really fun, even if it was short, to have Jihoon around and sharing in the space. It feels a little empty again. But, there’s still plenty of decorating to do. So you get to work. You’re hoping that somewhere in the process of decorating, it’ll start to feel a little more like Christmas. You consider calling Jun to answer his texts. Unfortunately, he knows your tones of voice better than you do. There’s no way you’ll be able to hide being sad. You can just fire off a couple quick texts to tell him about the tree and about how you’re decorating now.
An hour later, you’re kind of ready to give up. It’s just not going to feel like Christmas. Not when the joy and the sense of togetherness are missing. The second that you hear footsteps on the stairs, you wipe your eyes. The last thing you want is for Jihoon to see you crying. If he can tell, he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t say anything, actually. Just puts two bags down and starts sorting through ornaments, both old and clearly new. It’s the smallest gesture, yet you don’t feel so alone anymore.
“Do you want to listen to some music?” he finally asks to break the silence.
“Yeah, I can get a playlist,” you answer and reach for your phone.
“I have some, too. I’m not heartless,” he says with a chuckle.
“I never said…” you start, only to stop when he rests a hand on your arm.
“I was joking,” he says.
You’re not trying to be nosy, but you see him scroll through a few playlists while he’s looking for holiday music. “What were those?”
Jihoon looks up at you, confused, before looking back down at his phone. “Oh, nothing. Just stuff I’m working on.”
“I’d love to hear that,” you admit.
“What? The stuff that’s not done?” he asks, abandoning his search for a playlist.
“Well, yeah, but I meant the stuff you have finished,” you say.
“Oh, um, I don’t usually share that. I like to keep that separate,” he says awkwardly.
“It’s fine, I totally get it,” you say, brushing off any disappointment, and return to your focus on sorting through ornaments.
“Fuck it, sure. I’ll let you listen to some,” he says. Your head whips up with a beaming smile. And you have no way of knowing that it makes his heart stutter.
“Really?” you ask.
“Yeah, but if you hate them, don’t tell me,” he warns.
You hold out your pinky as a promise. Jihoon grumbles under his breath for a second before linking his pinky through yours as a promise. He scrolls back to one of the earlier playlists, keeps the name hidden from you, and hits play. The first song immediately puts you in a good mood. It’s upbeat and happy, full of good life advice. Just the type of thing you need right now. One song flows into the next and you’re smiling without even realizing it, singing along to songs that you can’t believe you know. Can’t believe this quiet man has so much talent. Can’t believe he works on such popular songs and still lives a simple life in a shared house with roommates that are way too loud.
It’s him that starts the conversation up again, seemingly unable to stop himself from asking for your thoughts. It’s the most animated you’ve ever seen him, asking for your opinions and talking about his process. The more you listen, the more he seems to have to say. At times, you’re not even sure that you hear what he’s saying. This animated side to him has you so entranced that you think you’d do anything to keep him speaking. Keep him smiling like this.
The house feels a lot warmer now that you’re decorating together and talking about anything under the sun. Talking about music seems to have opened him up to talking about a lot of things. About his interests, books he’s reading, games he likes to play. You find there are actually a lot of those things that you have in common. You have similar taste in books and in games, even offer to lend some books to him. He makes you promise that it’ll be an even trade so that he feels better about it.
When dinner time comes around, he suggests ordering delivery. You agree, but only on the condition that you can figure out a Christmas menu over dinner. That signature sigh and eye roll make another appearance, like he’s so exasperated by the process. It’s less effective now that you’re starting to know him better. A part of you thinks that it might even be an action reserved for people he cares about, even if that care is only small. But, you’re starting to learn how to play the game too. You pout at him and make your eyes as big as you can when you ask the second time. Before you can ask the third time, he relents and agrees.
With your favorite food spread out in front of you, from a place he’s somehow never tried, you start to make a list of your favorite Christmas dishes. Thankfully, some of your favorite things seem to line up and otherwise, Jihoon doesn’t really mind what you have. Once, he reminds you that there are only two of you, so you don’t need to go overboard. You’re quick to point out that leftovers are great and that your housemates come back shortly after Christmas. Again, he finds himself giving in to what you want.
You’re watching him clean up the boxes and considering your next question. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” he points out, back still to you.
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “You’re such a dick.”
“Now is that any way to speak to your landlord?” he teases, finally turning around.
“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you,” you say.
“If you can call me a dick?” he wonders and you laugh.
“No,” you manage. “No. I wanted to know…well, you’re obviously successful. Why live in a house with so many loud housemates?”
Jihoon looks thoughtful for a moment, turns around to continue throwing things out. You think he’s not going to answer when he comes to sit down across from you again. “I like the chaos. It's good for me. I don’t just mean because it inspires me. It does. But, it’s also good. I get a little in my head, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t always have the easiest time getting out. There’s always someone around here.”
“You secretly like us,” you coo because you’re not sure what else to say.
“I regret telling you,” he says and huffs.
“I’m kidding, Ji. I really like living here, even if you scared me at first. It feels like a weird, dysfunctional family,” you say.
“Do I still?” he asks, oddly serious.
“What? Scare me?”
“Yeah.”
“No, you don’t. I think you’re actually a lot softer than you want us to realize,” you say and watch his face. “Don’t worry, Ji, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Is that nickname going to stick?” he wonders.
“That depends. Do you like it?”
“Would it matter if I said no?”
“Of course it would.”
He looks away and clears his throat. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a little shy or embarrassed. “I do like it.”
“I’ll be sure to use it a lot, then,” you say. More tease, really. You’re curious to see how he reacts and you’re not disappointed. There’s a slight blush to his cheeks. If you could see his ears through his hair, you think those would be tinged red as well.
It takes him a minute to regain his composure. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re exhausting?”
“How do you think I manage to keep up with Jun?” you fire back.
“He adores you, you know,” Jihoon says and it’s the softest you’ve seen him while talking about another person.
“I’m glad because I adore him, too,” you say without even thinking about it. “Although, sometimes he acts like the brother I definitely never wanted.”
Jihoon actually laughs at that, a real laugh, and the sound is so pretty. “The brother you never wanted. How does he feel about that?”
“Fine because I also tell him that sometimes he’s the brother I did want. So it evens out,” you reason.
“You see him like family?” he asks, an unplaceable emotion on his face.
“Yeah,” you answer immediately.
“Why didn’t you take his offer to go home with him for the holidays?”
That’s not the question you’re expecting. It makes you frown a little. You had forgotten, just for a moment, that this year was different. “Oh, well, I don’t know. Jun is family to me and I do love him like he’s my brother. But, um, I guess it’s that he’s family to me. Not his family. I like them and they’re great, but it would feel like intruding to have accepted. Like I was someone they had to make feel welcome, a guest. Not someone who was actually part of everything.”
“I get that,” he says.
“Why do you stay here on Christmas?” you wonder, venturing further into knowing him.
His shoulders slump a little bit, like he’s not really happy with how this turned either. “I don’t really talk to a lot of my family anymore.”
“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t…” you start and he waves you off.
“No, no, it’s fine. You asked me about being successful and still living here with housemates. I told you most of the story, but not all of it,” he admits.
Without thinking about it, you get up from your chair to sit beside him. Put your hand on his arm to let him know that he doesn’t have to share this part of himself if he doesn’t want to or if he’s not ready. But, he insists he wants to share it with you now that you’ve also heard some of his music. His grandfather owned his house and got it from his grandfather before him. Jihoon had always been close to his grandparents. He was the only grandkid to come around and help them with things. His grandmother would try to teach him how to cook, even though he was never very good. She also taught him all sorts of games, that’s where he got a lot of that from. His grandfather taught him how to fix a car himself, how to fix things around the house, just how to be able to rely on yourself. They were the first ones that he told about wanting to make music and the first to encourage him even when the rest of the family thought it was stupid. They were the first ones to find out he’d gotten his first shot at just seventeen years old. They were the ones who taught him how to be careful with his money, to not blow it all because you never knew when the next shot would come. In the end, it wasn’t even old age that took them. A car accident on a snowy night took his grandmother. He lost his grandfather six months later from a broken heart.
It’s hard to remember that time because they were everything to him. He hadn’t even realized that they had changed their Will. That they had rewritten it to leave everything to him. If he had known, he never would have accepted it. But, there was a letter, too, confirming his grandfather had been of sound mind when they changed it. It went on to say that Jihoon was the only one in the family that came around just because he wanted to. So, he was the only one they felt could care for their legacy after they were gone. Something like that, it brings out the worst in people. Jihoon’s family was no different. First, they all insisted that he should share it, that they were owed part of it by blood. And then, they started to realize that he had his own success already. That he was selling songs and working with more people. They didn’t know who, exactly, because he never told him his pseudonym for producing, but the final letter from his grandfather mentioned how proud they had been. It got even uglier from there. Family members he’d never spoken to came out of the woodwork asking for favors or saying he should help. He had the means to do it, by his own success and the inheritance. In the end, he wound up cutting most of them out unless they were able to understand that they weren’t entitled to something he earned.
“So that’s why I stay here, it’s just easier,” he finishes.
You’re not even sure when you started crying, but you turn away to wipe your eyes. It’s not even your sadness. When you turn back, you find Jihoon looking closed-off. It breaks your heart all over again as you reach out to him. “Nobody should have to deal with that. What they did, what they put you through, it’s awful.”
“We all have history, right?” he asks. “I just don’t like to share it because I don’t want to be questioning if people like me for me or for what I could do for them.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I still see you as a former grumpy cat, secret softie and my…” you start, but trail off, trying to find the right word.
“Landlord?” he suggests through a humorless laugh. It makes your eyes soften at him.
“No, friend,” you decide.
“I just dumped a bunch of trauma on you and you wanna be my friend?” he asks, partly self-deprecating, partly hopeful.
“You don’t seem so bad,” you shrug.
“I guess we’ll see,” he says softly.
The rest of the night is lighter, mostly with you trying to figure out more things he likes as subtly as possible. He laughs when you come downstairs with the presents you’re saving until Christmas to open because he can tell Jun’s right away. You don’t tell him that you’ve already ordered half a dozen small things that’ll be at the house by Christmas Eve so that you can wrap them all up for him. You just want to see his face.
Two days before Christmas, you and Jihoon finish off the decorations and pick up groceries. Well, you’re the one who picks up groceries after insisting on splitting the bill. Jihoon has another mysterious errand that he has to run. Even though you really want to know, you decide to let him have his secrets. At least for now. You’re beginning to understand that he trusts you and he’ll tell you whatever it is when he’s ready, if it even has anything to do with you at all.
When the morning of Christmas Eve dawns, you’re actually excited. The past few days have been a whirlwind, and you’re definitely not done, but the house feels like Christmas. Three days ago you never would have thought Jihoon was enough to bring that holiday joy into the house. Now, you’re so insanely thankful that he’s gone above and beyond. Without anyone else around, or any other distractions, it’s been like a crash course in getting to know each other. There’s so much more to him than you ever realized.
The day passes in a haze of cooking, wrapping last minute presents, and laughter. Lots of laughter. You’ve heard Jihoon laugh more in the last couple days than in the entire time you’ve lived here. Not for the first time, you think it’s a wonderful sound and wish he’d laugh more. It’s easy to understand why he doesn’t, why he’s so guarded, but still. A person can dream.
With all the food prepped and the tree perfectly decorated, you decide it’s time to put your additional presents underneath. Jihoon huffs when you say you just got him a few small things you thought he’d like, before returning with a handful of presents for you. Every fiber of your being wants to give him shit over it. But, it’s Christmas, so you just call a truce instead. And light up like a kid when he suggests starting a fire in the fireplace.
“I’ll go make adult hot cocoa,” you tell him when he starts crumpling up old newspapers for the base of the fire.
“Adult hot cocoa?” he asks, face scrunched up like he’s adorably confused.
“Unless you just want the non-alcoholic version,” you offer.
“I’ll at least try it,” he concedes. His smile is soft when you squeal and run off to the kitchen.
By the time you’ve melted the chocolate (because who uses a premade mix in a kitchen this nice?), Jihoon has the fire going and is sitting on the couch. You’re about to ask why he’s scrolling his phone when he presses a button and Christmas music softly starts playing through the speakers. You hand over his mug and watch as he takes a sip. Even if he tries to hide it, you can tell he loves it and your smile is victorious. Probably why he tries to hide it.
You’re onto your second mug and asking Jihoon to find a blanket so that you can sit on the floor in front of the couch. It’s easier to stretch out closer to the fire. As is his way, he whines about how it’ll be too warm, even though you tell him he doesn’t have to sit with you. Still, he gets the blanket and plops down right next to you, so close that you’re almost touching. It only takes a couple minutes before he’s complaining that it’s really warm and then pulling off his sweatshirt. Your retort dies on your lips when you turn your head to the side and see the way the sweatshirt pulls his t-shirt up on the way. Or how muscular his arms look now that they’re exposed. You’re thankful that you look away before he catches you.
It’s quiet between the two of you as you watch the flames dance in the fireplace. There’s only comfort now, unlike a few days ago. That strikes you. Has it only been a few days since this man was something of a stranger to you? It almost feels like a lifetime ago. When you turn your head to him, you find he’s already looking at you.
“Can I admit something?” you ask.
“Course,” he says softly.
“I’m really glad I decided to stay here for Christmas,” you say, equally softly. You want to take a mental image of the smile that follows.
“Can I admit something, too?” he asks. You only nod. “I’m really glad you did too. This is the best Christmas I’ve had in years and it’s still only Christmas Eve.”
Before you can think better of it, you lean forward and kiss his cheek. Just for a second. Then you drop your head to his shoulder and let out a sigh. It’s the most content you’ve felt in a long time. Jihoon adjusts his arm, and you worry he doesn’t want your head on his shoulder, until he just moves it along the edge of the couch. It lets you lean against him easier, so you scoot a little closer and settle again. After another minute, he rests his head on top of yours. Without even seeming to realize it, his arm curls around your shoulder, holding you tight to him. It makes you acutely aware of his body next to yours. Moments ago, you were thinking that you could fall asleep like this. Now, you’re wide awake.
He must sense some kind of change because he pulls his head up. “Are you okay?”
His voice is so gentle, so full of concern. You wonder how he can sound so calm when your brain is overthinking everything. “Yeah, I just, I don’t know. Being close to you like this is really nice and not at all what I was expecting.”
Jihoon reaches out to tilt your chin up so that he can look you in the eyes. “It doesn’t have to be something you’re not expecting. It is nice to be close to you like this.”
That’s the other thing you can’t really believe has changed so much in a matter of days. This man is a walking contradiction in so many ways. Grumpy as a default, yet so incredibly soft. The most private person you’ve met, yet willing to share why he struggles with Christmas. Rough around the edges, yet also unfailingly kind. Constantly wearing oversized clothes, yet secretly really fit. Okay, maybe that’s not so much a contradiction as you checking him out.
“What if I was open to it being more than just being close?” you venture.
“How much is in your adult hot cocoa?” he asks, with some obvious difficulty.
“Enough to make me a little more honest, maybe, but not even enough to get buzzed on,” you answer.
“Then, I can say if you’re open to more than just being close, I really fucking want to kiss you,” he says. “I have all day.”
“Just all day?” you tease. He gives you an unimpressed look. “What are you waiting for?”
“You to say it’s okay,” he says and leans closer to you.
“It’s okay, Ji,” you whisper, lips already nearly touching.
You’re expecting a soft kiss, are as prepared for that as you can be. And it starts off relatively soft, like he’s testing the waters. It quickly morphs into anything, but soft. It’s the kind of kiss that sets your entire body on fire. The kind of kiss that steals your breath and becomes the only thing you need. It’s steady and desperate, all at the same time. You’re not even sure how your hands find their way into his hair that curls along his neck. It’s even softer than you imagined it would be.
“So, is this your move?” you ask, pulling away just long enough to catch your breath.
“What?” he asks. His lips are already a little swollen.
“Getting the fire going with a little music on in the background,” you tease.
“Trust me,” he begins, punctuating his words with featherlight kisses along your neck. “I’ve never gone to this much trouble for anyone and it definitely wasn’t to get here.”
The confession is so honest. So serious. It’s completely at odds with your teasing. But, should you really expect anything else from Jihoon? He can tease with the best of them, for sure. The last few days he’s also shown that you bring out an honesty that surprises him. You’re not sure if you trust yourself to speak, so you just pull his face up to kiss him again. It’s kind of an uncomfortable position, leaning against the couch, but you’re also not really sure if you care. That is, you’re not sure you care until he turns to pull you into his lap. It’s a little awkward and you have to break the kiss to get settled. Once you’re settled, though, it’s much nicer to be straddled across him like this. Much easier to press your chest into his and keep tangling your fingers in his hair. Much easier for him to wrap his arms around you like he doesn’t want you to go anywhere. You want to tell him that there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.
As you kiss him, you let your hands wander down his arms. There’s a safety in being held by him. There’s a strength to him you really never realized, kind of quiet like he is, a little unassuming. The kind of strength that sneaks up on you when you’re not really expecting it. Not only does every part of your body respond to him, but your mind does too. It’s just safe. You’re not sure how you know, you just do. He’s the kind of person that you can really trust to see all of you and still accept you. It’s entirely too much to be feeling about someone this fast, so you push that aside. When you inch your bodies closer together, your core drags across him and sends an ache through you. You do it several more times, back and forth, craving that friction.
“Fuck,” he hisses out.
“I’m sorry, is that too much?” you worry. Suddenly a little self-conscious that there’s been some kind of miscommunication.
He grabs your chin and pulls you back to look into his eyes. “No. It’s never too much. I want whatever you’re willing to give me.”
“But, you don’t know what I’m…” you start. His eyes are serious, intense. You’re burning up and it has nothing to do with the fire.
“Whatever you’re willing to give me, I’ll happily take it. Even if that means it doesn’t go past this,” he reassures you.
“I think I want it all,” you whisper.
“You think you do, or you actually do?” he asks.
You study him for a moment, looking for signs that he’s going to hurry off or something. With one of his hands, he’s tracing patterns against your thigh through the material of your pants. Everything about him seems sincere. Everything seems steady.
“I do.”
It’s a different smile he gives you then, one that says he’s relieved, maybe even a little surprised. One that says he’s genuinely happy. But, most of all, one that says he just wants whatever the night turns into.
“Let’s go upstairs, I don’t want you hurting your knees like this,” he says softly.
You look over your shoulder at the fireplace and he follows your gaze. “We should…”
“I’ll take care of that, just go upstairs. To my room,” he says and you suppress a slight shudder at being told what to do. You kind of like that side of him. “Get comfortable, I’ll just be a minute.”
You get off his lap, quietly thankful for his consideration of your knees and kiss him softly. It’s also easy to see that he’s giving you a little bit of time to be sure. To clear your head away from the tree and the fire and the holiday everything. It’s time you don’t need because you’re definitely sure. The second you step foot through his door, you realize that you’ve never been in his bedroom before. It’s beautifully decorated in a way that screams him. When you sit down on the edge of the bed, you sigh. It’s so comfortable.
This part hasn’t ever been the easiest for you, the waiting for someone to come into the room and knowing what’s going to happen. But, you do know what’s happening and sitting there completely clothed seems silly. In the end, you settle for leaving your sleeveless shirt and underwear on, but taking everything else off, including your bra. You just have time to sit back against the bed when he walks through the door and closes it behind him. Force of habit, you assume, since there isn’t anyone else home. His eyes drink you in, scanning down your body and all your curves. It’s so immediately comfortable that you don’t have the urge to cover back up.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he utters and it makes you blush a little. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Not in a while when I’ve been this undressed,” you answer quietly with your head down.
You feel the bed dip and look up at him, sitting right in front of you. “That’s crazy. You’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known.”
“You’re so sweet,” you say with a smile.
“It’s what you deserve,” he says and gets back off the bed.
It’s his turn to remove the layers, stopping when all he has are his boxer briefs. You fight back a gasp (and lose, as is evident by his smirk) when he takes off his shirt. What the fuck?
“Jihoon, what the fuck? Come here,” you request. He listens, but takes his time. When he’s within your reach, you run your fingers along his stomach. Trace each ab muscle like you can’t believe this is what’s been under the shirt the whole time.
“I work about a bit,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.
“A bit, he says,” you tease back.
“Can I get in the bed now? Or do I have to stay here?” he asks.
“You can get in bed, but I want to be in your lap again,” you state.
“Fine by me,” he readily agrees.
There’s a weird sense of time with him. You could kiss him for hours, may just do that. It also feels like it’s only been seconds when you pull back to catch your breath. You delight in the way he hisses when you run your nails down his stomach. Yelp when he smacks your ass in response. But, it doesn’t stop you from doing it again, maybe just so you can get another smack. You tell him not to be too gentle with you and he groans. There’s still that little bit of clothing between you, though, and it’s hard to get the friction you need.
It’s like he senses what you want, or maybe what you need, and he positions you over one of his thighs. Helps you move back and forth to find a rhythm. It gives you that friction that you’ve been craving. He peppers kisses all over, trying to find the places that you like. Lingers wherever gets the best noises out of you. All while you grind against his thigh. When you think it can’t get better, he pulls your shirt up over your head and casts it aside. He rolls one of your nipples between his fingers. The look on his face when you arch into his fingers is so satisfied. It makes him carry on while also kissing across your chest.
“Fuck, Ji, if I keep this up I’m gonna come on your thigh,” you whimper.
“So do it,” he answers.
“I can’t, that’s…” you start, cutting off when he sucks hard into the skin of your breast. “Fuck!”
“That’s what?” he prompts, returning to your nipple.
“I can’t come just from this,” you mutter lamely. It makes you feel like a teenager.
“Then I better help because I want you to make a mess,” he says.
Before you can protest, he’s kissing you again. His thumb hooks into your underwear and rubs across your clit in time with you rocking. It’s too much all at once. Too much stimulation. Too close. Too different. It all works, though, because you’re coming undone in seconds. Making a mess of his thigh just like he wanted. Screaming out his name and thankful to know nobody else can hear you. You lean forward to rest your forehead against his, trying to steady your breathing.
“That was so hot,” he whispers into the limited space between you.
“I’ve never gotten off like that before,” you admit.
“I wonder if there’s anything else I can pull out of you for the first time,” he says.
“Like what?” you wonder.
“I guess we’ll see,” he answers
“I think it’s time for me to take care of you,” you say.
He kisses you gently and pulls away. “Not yet.”
“But,” you start, only to cut off when he flips the two of you over.
The shock over being completely manhandled by Jihoon is all you register until you feel his fingers by your hips, tugging your ruined underwear down your legs. All you can do is watch as he kisses from your ankle all the way up your inner thigh and down the other side. When he pulls himself back up your body to settle between your legs, you shiver. Try to play it off as his breath against your cunt, still slick. You watch as he spreads your lips open so that he can lick into you.
“Fuck, Ji,” you whine out.
“Just relax, sweetheart,” he urges before diving into you again.
You’re expecting it to be a little frenzied. Not that you’ve never enjoyed getting eaten out, but you just kind of see it as foreplay to get through. That was before Jihoon, apparently. He takes his time, carefully builds you up again. Has you begging for something more. Has you uttering phrases that don’t make any sense. Has you seeing stars in the darkness of the room. Has you feeling the loss when he removes his mouth.
“No, Ji, please,” you beg. “Your tongue feels so good.”
“I know,” he says and then he’s kissing you.
He keeps kissing you as he runs a finger through your wetness, once and then again. Keeps kissing you when he slides his finger inside of you. Nips at your lip when you moan at the addition of his second finger. You can feel how tightly you’re coiled from the build up with his tongue. The way he fucks his fingers into you, you know you won’t last long. It’s hard and fast and as desperate as you felt moments ago when you begged for him. He’s relentless, even when your walls grip his fingers and your toes start to curl. You come so hard on his finger that he actually has you squirting. And honestly, he’s got you blacking out a little bit too.
“Jesus fucking christ,” you curse when he falls beside you. “Your fingers, your mouth, oh my god.”
“I’d ask if it was good, but I think I know the answer,” he chuckles.
You swat at his chest, but he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. So tender that it takes the bite out of your next statement. “Fuck off.”
“Your body is so amazing, I could watch you come every day and never get sick of it,” he admits.
You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him. He’s laying on his back, hand casually running over his already hard dick through his briefs. You move his hand and free him. There’s a hunger in his gaze as he watches you spit into your hand and start running it along his shaft.
“Go slow,” he requests and you look at up at him. “Watching you is so hot that I’m a little wound up. And I still want to fuck you.”
“Jihoon, you’ve already…” you start.
“Please. You can take care of me anytime. I want to feel you around me,” he whispers. It’s not quite a beg, but it’s close. All you can do is nod okay. “I need to hear you.”
“Yes, Ji, I want you to fuck me,” you say.
He rolls over on the bed to reach into the bedside table and rustles around for a minute. The sign before he rolls back over sounds bad. “I don’t have a condom. It’s, uh, well it’s been awhile.”
“It’s okay,” you say.
“I guess maybe this will have to…” he starts.
“No, I mean it’s fine. I’m on birth control and it’s been awhile for me too, so it’s fine. I trust you,” you say, finding you do actually trust him.
“Are you sure?” he checks.
“Fuck, yes, please. I don’t care that you’ve made me come twice already, please fuck me,” you insist and it works. He smiles and slides his briefs off.
In another second, he’s positioning himself between your legs again. You lay back against the pillow behind your head and just look up at him, so impossibly fond. It’s too soon to be this fond. But, you see the same look in his eyes, so maybe you’re not alone. He lines himself up and drags his tip against your entrance. Opens the lube you hadn’t even noticed and takes it into his hand. He lets it warm up for a second before running his hand over his dick. Then, he’s back at your entrance and slowly pressing into you. He takes his time letting you adjust, watches your face for signs that it’s okay. He leans forward to kiss you and it’s so gentle you want to cry.
You’re glad this is slow, that he’s taking his time. It’s not that you’re inexperienced, it’s just that you can’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable with anyone. You’re not sure you’ve ever known how nice it was to just look into someone’s eyes while you’re fucking. Not sure you’ve wanted to be this close. Jihoon’s body is pressed against yours as he thrusts into you, but it’s still not enough. You wrap your legs around his hips, run your fingers down his back, arch into him. Anything to meld your bodies together that much more. He’s not as vocal now, but you’re probably taking care of that for both of you. You can see all the things he wants to say in the eyes that stay trained on you.
His thrusts start to get a little off rhythm and your moans become more broken. “Fuck, Ji, yes! Right there.”
“I’m gonna fucking come, oh my god,” he moans out.
“Me too,” you whine. “Fuck, it’s too much.”
“Come for me, please, I need to feel you,” he very nearly begs.
“Fuck, I’m coming!” you scream out.
Your whole body shudders and you sort of register the praise coming from Jihoon. He follows right behind you, releasing into you. You can tell he’s trying to keep his weight off of you, but you pull him to just let go. Reluctantly, he settles his body down on top of yours. The weight is pleasant and being close to him is even better. After a moment, his breathing falls into line with yours. It’s several moments longer before he carefully pulls out of you and rolls to the side.
“Wow,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah,” you agree.
It’s much later than usual for you by the time you wake up on Christmas morning. But, it had been late by the time you and Jihoon had gotten cleaned up and back in bed. Even later by the time you stopped wanting to talk while all cuddled up. When you wake up, you feel his chest pressed into your back and his arm draped across your body. The second you start to move, his arm tightens and he somehow pulls you closer to him. He presses kiss into your hair.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, voice thick with sleep.
“Merry Christmas,” you answer.
He adjusts behind you and you realize he’s a little hard again, pressing into your ass. Even though you know it’s not fair, you wiggle your ass against him. You’re more than a little surprised when he bucks, just once, into you in response.
“Sorry, I’m sure you’re a little sore this morning,” he says, still hoarse.
“Not so sore,” you answer, pressing back again.
“Don’t you want to see what’s under the tree?” he asks, the teasing clear in his voice.
You turn over so you’re facing him. “I think I’d rather unwrap this present first.”
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he groans. But, he pulls you against him all the same, clearly not opposed.
Once you’re both showered again and dressed, you pad downstairs and straight into the kitchen to find Jihoon is already at the counter getting the coffee going. He looks so cute with his messy, wet hair, that you can’t help yourself. You have to come up and hug him from behind. Place a kiss between his shoulder blades and then rest your head. All he can do is just put a hand over yours.
“What do you want for breakfast?” you ask when you pull away.
“The cinnamon rolls you insisted we had to have,” he says like it’s obvious.
By the time you get those in the oven, he’s handing you a perfect cup of coffee, exactly the way you like it. It feels like neither of you can be physically separated. Hands finding each other as you move around the kitchen. Little kisses as you pass by. Just drawn together like magnets. Once the cinnamon rolls come out, and you add the extra icing that you insisted on, the two of you head to the living room.
You think you were supposed to text or call Jun when you open his present, but you’re a little stuck on opening the things Jihoon got you at the last minute. He insists that you go first and open your presents so that he can see your reaction. The first couple are silly, but thoughtful. Just little things that show he’s actually been paying attention to you much longer than you realized. Not that he had some kind of crush or anything, just that he pays attention when people talk. When you think you’re done, he pulls out a small box.
“I wanted you to open this last,” he says in response to your confused look.
It’s a small box, very nicely wrapped. You open it to find a beautiful necklace, simple and stunning. Exactly the kind of thing you like to wear. But, exactly the type of thing you can’t accept. “JIhoon, it’s beautiful. But, you must know it’s too much. I can’t take this.”
“I didn’t spend anything on it,” he assures you and slides closer so he can look down at it in the box. “It was my grandmother’s. And before you say you can’t take it again, she’d want someone to have it. She wanted to pass her jewelry on, but was so sick of our family. I think she’d really like you, so I want you to have it.”
“Thank you,” you say softly and lean forward to kiss him.
Watching Jihoon open the little things that you got him is everything you hoped it would be. He’s so appreciative of each thing, even if they seem small to you. They’re all things he says he really needs. To him, that’s one of the best kinds of gifts because it shows that you’re listening. It shows that you want to make someone else’s life just a little easier. It nearly makes you emotional when he’s the one opening things.
You want to stay curled up on the couch with Jihoon forever, watching stupid Christmas movies and invading his personal space. He grumbles a little at you clinging to him, but pouts the second you pull away. Sadly, you have to get up to start some of the cooking for Christmas dinner. Jihoon offers to help, knows you’re feeling a little sore, and you wave him off. Cooking at Christmas is one of your favorite things. You get your music going and don’t even register anything else. You don’t hear his footsteps or his voice talking to someone.
“Hey, Ji? Do you think I should make all the rolls? Probably, right?” you ask and turn around to see he’s standing in the doorway holding his phone up.
“Did my bestie just call you Ji?” a voice asks from the phone.
“Uh, yeah,” Jihoon answers and closes the distance to you. He hands over the phone. “Jun was looking for you.”
“Oh, hi, Junie! How’s your parents’?” you ask. His eyes scan you and you look down too late. You’re not wearing your shirt, it’s one of Jihoon’s that you stole because it was more comfortable.
“Not as good as it is there, apparently,” Jun says with a giggle.
“Oh, well, you see…” you start and Jun is cackling.
“I’ll let you get back to cooking, but expect to have a long conversation when I’m home,” he says once he stops laughing.
“You sound like my parent,” you whine.
“Just try and tell me there’s nothing to talk about,” Jun challenges and you look over at Jihoon sitting at the kitchen table.
“I can’t,” you say, still looking at him.
“I knew it,” Jun says, triumphant. “Give the phone back to Ji…”
“You don’t get to call me that,” Jihoon chimes in.
“So much to talk about,” Jun repeats as you hand the phone back over.
The rest of the afternoon passes too quickly. Jihoon stays in the kitchen with you when you have to cook and lounges on the couch with you watching movies when you’re waiting for things to finish. He helps wherever he can and genuinely seems to appreciate the effort that you’re taking. Well, he appreciates it almost as much as the dinner itself when you sit down to eat. Without question, it’s the best Christmas you can remember. It turns out that maybe you were right all along. Christmas wasn’t about presents or specific people or anything. It was about feeling joy and thankful and just a deep connection with whoever you were with. It makes you realize you do need to talk to Jihoon, though.
After dinner, the two of you settle back on the couch with a glass of wine. His free hand traces patterns into your legs that are across his lap. “Hey, so about what Jun said…”
“Jun is an idiot,” Jihoon brushes off.
“He is, but he also has a point. There’a a lot to talk about,” you say. He turns his head to look at you.
“I meant what I said last night, I’ll take whatever you want to give me,” he says and takes another sip of wine.
“But, that’s so…I don’t know,” you start, searching for the words.
He just shrugs like you’re talking about something so simple. Maybe you are. “I’m pretty open about things when I’m comfortable. I’m also kind of an all in or all out guy. I don’t know, that’s probably too much. I’m happy with whatever you’re comfortable giving me.”
“You’re going to make me fall for you, Lee Jihoon,” you tease lightly. You’re also testing a little bit.
He smiles at you, that soft one that makes his eyes crinkle. “That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
“I guess it doesn’t,” you agree.
“Thank you for being the best thing about Christmas in a long time,” he says. So honest. It’s so simple, too.
“It’s been perfect,” you agree. “The only thing that could make it better is…”
“Snow,” he interrupts.
“Yeah,” you agree.
He shakes his head and points to the window. “No, it’s snowing.”
You turn your head to follow his finger and see he’s right. Snow falls in light, beautiful swirls just outside the window. You can’t remember the last white Christmas you had, even living somewhere it snows.
“Wow, this really is the perfect Christmas,” you whisper.
i hope you liked it. please reblog or leave a comment to let me know your thoughts 💕
(where your roommate, wonwoo, has an interesting solution to all your bad dates. nothing can go wrong with two friends crossing a line, can it?)
pairing: wonwoo x f.reader
genre: roommates/friends to fwb to?? | smut, tiny bit of angst if you squint
rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni
word count: 6.5k
warnings: there's some plot here but it's mostly smut, multiple sex scenes (some quickly referenced), roommates who enter a fwb agreement, kissing, fingering, oral (f. receiving), protected sex, multiple orgasms, use of actual lube, some scratching, after care, mentions: masturbation, kitchen sex, teasing, overstimulation, edging, i think that's it.
authors note: happy birthday to my bby @wongyuseokie! i'm thankful to have met you through nets. i hope you like some wonwoo to celebrate. thank you to @wonwussy for helping me with a title, you're a savior. this is unedited because i only started it yesterday so sorry in advance.
also tagging: @aaniag @gyuminusone
Another disappointing date. Another man who couldn’t even seem to let you finish a sentence. Was so intent on proving how well he could provide for you that he forgot to treat you like a person. So intent on establishing his dominance that he tried to order for you at the overpriced restaurant with too-small portions. So irritated that he paid for your dinner and drinks only for you to leave separately from him and refuse his offer to drive you home. There was no way you were letting that man know where you lived. Is it really asking too much just to have a decent date? You aren’t going to let anyone try to tell you that your standards are too high. You’re really just asking for the bare minimum.
That’s why you’re sitting on the counter in the kitchen of your shared apartment, spilling your guts to your sympathetic roommate. His hair is messy, sticking up at odd angles in some places because he’s been playing video games for hours. Probably streaming at some point. You admire that he’s able to do something he loves to fill up most of his days. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and you try not to find it so endearing. But, you fail at that. He really is impossibly cute sometimes.
“Do you want a bite of this?” you ask instead, holding out the instant ramen you made as soon as you got home.
“No, I ate earlier,” he answers.
“An actual meal or a Wonwoo meal?” you challenge and he rolls his eyes.
“I ate real food. Go back to bitching about your date,” Wonwoo says.
“I don’t know, maybe I was being too harsh,” you say.
“He sounds like a fucking nightmare,” he disagrees.
“Ugh, maybe I just need to redownload one of those apps,” you whine. Wonwoo raises an eyebrow at you. “Don’t look at me like that. I hate fucking on the first date, but I’m so pent up that I need to release it somehow. I’m going insane.”
This makes him laugh, at least. It releases a little bit of the tension, too. You’ve lived with Wonwoo nearly three years and were friends for years before that. Nothing is secret between the two of you. Not anymore. The first time you realized he caught you getting off in your room because you didn’t think he was home was mortifying. Even if he didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. After you got over it, things settled. And in the time since, you’ve both heard the other doing a lot of things. Some of your friends think it’s weird, but you just chalk it up to the comfort of living with someone. After all, you would tell your female friends all about your sex life. Why was that weird to share with Wonwoo?
“Toys not doing it for you?” he throws out. You only fix him with a glare. It’s more proof that you’re entirely too comfortable.
“Our walls are thin, what do you think?” you answer.
Wonwoo snorts a little before seeming to consider something. “Why don’t we just fuck? Get it out of your system.”
The sip of water you’re taking when he suggests that comes bursting out of your mouth. A real life spit take. Thankfully, he’s out of the blast zone. He looks unamused at water coming out of your mouth, but he doesn’t look like he was kidding. It can be so hard to tell with him. You think that you know his face well after all these years. But, you never thought you’d hear that coming out of his mouth, so you’re not sure.
“Please give me some indication if that was a joke or not,” you say.
“It wasn’t a joke,” he says.
“Pretty clear indicator,” you mumble.
“Is it that crazy? You think I’m hot…” Wonwoo starts. If you were still drinking, you’d spit out your water again.
“Uh, what?” you ask.
“You think I’m hot. Hao told me,” he says as if it’s no big deal. You’re mentally running through what the appropriate payback is for this breach of trust. “It’s fine. He told me because I was saying I also think you’re hot.”
“I mean, thanks,” you laugh, still considering how you’re going to torture Minghao. “But, we can’t have sex.”
“Why not?” Wonwoo presses.
“Because we’re roommates?” you ask like it’s obvious.
“So I can hear you fuck yourself with a toy or hear you fake an orgasm with another bad date, but us fucking each other is the line?” Wonwoo asks.
“I don’t fake that many orgasms,” you scoff to buy time.
“Yes, you do,” he argues. “I can hear the difference. And I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be faking it with me.”
There’s a little bit of cockiness in the statement that shouldn’t be doing anything for you. But, it is. There’s also the very real possibility that Wonwoo does know the difference in the sounds you make. It’s not like you’ve bothered being that quiet since the first conversation where he heard you. What’s the point? The walls are pretty thin and you’re both adults. It’s not like you’re going to kick him out every time you bring a date home. And you’re definitely not going to only get off in the shower because it drives up the water bill.
Beyond any of it, there’s also a little curiosity. Wonwoo is insanely attractive. Someone would have to be blind to miss that. He’s got that whole nerdy thing going on for him on initial inspection with the glasses and gaming. Or there’s the fact that he’s content to just hang out around the house, even with company over, wearing his pimple patches. But then, there’s this whole other side to him. It comes out when you’re both out with friends and he leaves the glasses behind. Swapping out graphic tees or hoodies for form fitting clothing and leather jackets. Casually leaning against a bar and whispering honey into some nameless, faceless stranger’s ear.
And that leads you to the reason you’re actually curious. Sure, he’s heard you having sex with people you’ve been dating or just someone you brought home for the night. But, you’ve heard him too. If any of your orgasms sound faked, the ones he coaxes from the pretty girls in his bed sound anything but. There’s nearly always an incoherent string of praises. That thought alone has you considering his proposition. It has you shifting a little on the counter.
“Let’s pretend for a second that I’m considering this,” you start and he smiles.
“Pretend, sure,” he echoes.
“We’d need ground rules, right? Like we don’t want this to get awkward,” you say.
“It’s not gonna be awkward. But, we can set whatever makes you feel comfortable,” he says nonchalantly.
A very strong, very hard to ignore voice in the back of your head argues against setting rules at all. Actually urges you to just drag him into your bedroom. Or his bedroom? Maybe you do need some ground rules.
So, you talk. You don’t say that it’s only going to happen once because you never know what needs might pop up. The most important thing that you agree to is that nothing can change between the two of you. If either of you feels like it’s going to, then you have to talk about it because preserving the friendship is most important. It doesn’t matter what bed you have sex in as long as the other helps clean anything up. You’re not planning on this being a regular thing, so you don’t need to negotiate any kinks or anything like that. If it does become more of a thing, then you can revisit the kinks. There won’t be any weirdness about dating or talking to other people. This is just a solution between two friends that are both going through dating dry spells.
Once the rules are set out, Wonwoo brings you into his room. Even though you’ve been in here more times than you could ever count, it feels different now. He tells you to make yourself comfortable on his bed. When he turns around to take his shirt off and toss it aside, your eyes map out his back. And, yeah, you’ve seen Wonwoo shirtless before, but never given yourself permission to so openly appreciate his body. His shoulders are impossibly wide and he’s in deceptively good shape for someone that hides under baggier clothes.
“Should I take a picture for you?” he asks. It’s only then that you realize that he’s facing you.
“Funny,” you say with an eye roll.
Wonwoo crosses the space to his bed and settles next to you. The way he reaches out to pull your face into his own is so smooth. His lips are on yours before your brain has a chance to catch up. You gasp a little and pull back.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Uh, didn’t we just go over this?” he asks.
“No, I mean, we’re kissing?” you ask.
“What am I supposed to do, sweetheart, just get right down to fucking you without foreplay?” he asks.
You feel a little stupid for asking that because of course you don’t want to skip the foreplay. It’s just that you don’t want to force it, either.
“Just let me take care of you,” Wonwoo says to keep you from overthinking anything.
It’s not something that you expected to be doing. Giving up control to Wonwoo. But, it’s surprisingly easy when he starts kissing you again. Any thoughts that this might be weird fly right out of your head as soon as he deepens the kiss. Instead, your focus is on what a good kisser he is. The way his lips mold effortlessly to yours. The way his tongue licks into your mouth. The way his hands roam your body as if they’re trying to memorize every curve.
You’re breathless by the time Wonwoo pulls back from you to pull your shirt over your head. When you changed after the date from hell, you hadn’t considered putting anything nice on. Hadn’t bothered to keep your bra on. What was the point when you were just going to be going to bed after having something to eat? Now, you’re wondering about that decision. Because your very hot roommate is drinking in the sight of you. It’s making you a little self-conscious, the way his eyes move over your body.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he utters.
It’s a little too intimate for you to respond to. It doesn’t seem to matter, anyway. Wonwoo starts kissing down your neck and working his way to your breasts. He spreads his kisses between them, rolling your nipple between his fingers when his mouth is on your other breast. There’s something so consuming about the way he kisses your body, like he’s worshiping you. Like this is a lot more than roommates helping each other out.
He works his way further down your body, kissing along your stomach, stopping at the waist band to your shorts. Thankfully, he doesn’t give you the chance to overthink here either before he pulls the shorts and underwear down your legs. Tosses them off to the side for good measure. You’re totally naked in front of someone you find you do actually trust. And someone that, yeah, maybe you’ve thought about fucking before. There was no reality where you thought it would happen, though. Even if it does make a lot of sense. Every part of you truly does feel safe with him. He knows you better than most people in your life. Which clearly translates to this part of you.
Since you’re so comfortable, you’re finding it easier to not be embarrassed at the way he’s got you squirming under the barest touch. The way he ghosts his breath across your center makes you let out a whine. It’s unfair, the way that he wants to take his time like this. It’s also unfair that he’s the first person to ever make your mind go this blank during sex. Nothing exists to you outside of this moment and this man.
Wonwoo moves back to where you need him the most, blows gently against your center. The sensation sends a shiver down your body. You barely hear him mumble out a “so pretty” before he flattens his tongue and licks a stripe up your core. There’s just enough time to think this slow pace might actually be the death of you before he goes back in. Using his fingers to spread you apart, he starts tonguing your pussy. A mix of slow and deliberate movements with faster ones. His thumb circles your clit before his mouth moves up there to give it the attention it needs.
With his mouth on your clit, he presses one finger into your pussy. You’ve never really thought much about his hands and now you’re wondering how you missed them. His long finger pumps in and out of you quickly. It seems that he’s reading your body and can tell that you don’t want something too slow. There’s so much pent up in you.
“Fuck, please, Wonwoo. I need another finger,” you whine.
“Anything you want,” he mumbles into your pussy.
He slides another finger inside of you and it makes you clench around him. That only seems to make him move faster. His mouth continues to work along with his fingers and your hands grip whatever they can reach. You’re a babbling mess and you suddenly understand what you overheard from Wonwoo’s room. There’s something so hot about knowing he’s this good with his mouth and his hands. It’s got you coming hard on his face. Harder than you can remember coming before.
“That’s my girl,” he praises as soon as you’re coming down from your high. Your hazy brain doesn’t latch onto it the way it clearly should.
He presses a gentle kiss to your inner thing and then pulls himself up to lie next to you. His fingers trace patterns into your skin while he’s waiting for your breathing to come back to normal.
“Jesus, I guess I know why I always heard so much praise through the wall,” you mutter.
“None as pretty as the sounds you just made,” he says quietly. It’s so gentle, so intimate. There’s a lot of love between you and one of your closest friends, so you don’t dwell too much on it.
You turn your head to face him. His eyes are still dark with desire, fingers still keeping contact with your body. There’s like some kind of bubble around the two of you where nothing else exists. It’s a comfortable feeling, even in the quiet. Something pulls you in closer to him and you can feel his erection brush against your leg.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “You know, I’m still a bit pent up…”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“What? I’m gonna come on your face but we can’t actually fuck like we meant to?” you joke, a little braver than you feel.
“This was about you, not about me,” he says simply.
“It can be about both of us,” you say, hand running down his stomach. He tenses a bit under your touch and it’s unfair. He’s got perfect abs and you kind of hate it. Kind of hate that it’s so hot to you, too.
You run your hand over the outline of his dick threw his shorts, enjoy the sharp intake of breath at the contact. It feels like a sign for you to keep going. But, he grabs your hand and pins it above your head. Kisses you hard and desperate. All of his restraint from before seems to be gone now.
“Don’t play with me, sweetheart,” he warns.
“Then show me how good you can fuck me. You were so sure earlier,” you press back.
Wonwoo rolls over and pulls his shorts and boxers off. Casts them off to the side with your clothing. He reaches into his nightstand and pulls a condom out. He rolls back over to position himself between your legs.
“One final time, are you sure?” he asks. It’s the first time since you came into his room that you’ve seen him look unsure.
“As long as you’re sure too, yes. I need this Nu, please,” you say, a little breathy with desire.
“I love it when you call me that,” he admits.
With your go ahead, he slides his tip along your entrance. You know you’re still wet from his hard work, but he still reaches into the dresser again. He pulls out some lube and runs it along his cock. Once he’s done that, he puts the cap back on and tosses it aside. He presses his tip against you again and this time slides in, slowly. Gives you a chance to adjust.
You’re completely at Wonwoo’s mercy like this, with his arms on either side of you like he’s caging you in. Instead of wanting to get out, you can only think that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Your hands find their way to his arms, gripping him tightly as he bottoms out in you.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he hisses.
“Nu, fuck, please move,” you beg.
“Give me a second, sweetheart, I’m trying to adjust so it doesn’t end too fast,” he says, voice so impossibly deep.
“Please,” you beg again.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
It finally does get him to move though, barely pulling out at all and fucking slowly into you, so deep. He’s filling you up in the most perfect way. Your nails dig into his arms, but you can’t help it. He doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it spurs him on. Makes him pull nearly all the way out of you before snapping hard into you again. He repositions one of your legs so that he can reach a different angle. With each hard thrust, his dick hits exactly where you need him to be. The rhythm is fast, which is really everything you need for how stressed you’ve been feeling. Each thrust uncoils more of the tension in your body. Each moan seems to spur him on more.
When he leans down to kiss you, it’s messy. A clash of tongues and lips and teeth and need, so much need. Your hands find purchase anywhere on his body they can, even as his own arms seem to be a little shaky. So, you pull him down on top of you, bodies pressed tight as he continues fucking you. You’re still so sensitive from the first orgasm that you’re building up entirely too quickly. Even though you wanted it fast like this, you’re a little sorry to think it might be almost over.
Wonwoo must feel that you’re close by the way you’re clenching around him and begging for him to give you everything. He pushes himself up a little, just creates the tiniest amount of space between your bodies, and you miss it a little. Miss the feeling of skin on skin. But, he’s only doing it so that he can circle your clit. He just wants to take care of all that tension. You give control over to him completely. Let him set the pace. An embarrassingly short time later, you’re coming for the second time. He removes his hand but still fucks you through the high.
When your body stops shaking, you realize that he’s stilled inside you. He’s barely even moving as he looks down at you.
“It’s okay, Nu, I’m not that sensitive yet,” you assure him
“Thank fuck,” he whispers.
His pace is fast and you reach up to run your nails down his back. That seems to get him like nothing else does. When you do it a second time, he hisses out and you know he likes it. Each time your nails find a new part of his skin, his thrusts stutter. You clench your pussy around his cock and that’s all he can handle. He’s coming undone.
You return the favor through his high, lightly keeping the rhythm going and helping him settle his weight on top of you. His breathing is still heavy when he meets your eyes and gives you the gentlest kiss. Slowly, he slides out of you and rolls over. The next second, he’s up to dispose of the condom. He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a wet washcloth a few moments later, sitting on the edge of the bed to help you.
“Well, I guess I learned one thing,” you say when he gets up to take the washcloth back to the bathroom.
“What’s that?” he calls over his shoulder.
“All that confidence was definitely warranted,” you say through a light laugh.
You can just feel him rolling his eyes. “And here I thought you’d have less to say after a good fuck.”
“Nope, chatty as ever. No more tension, though,” you say.
“I’m glad,” he says, but it looks like he actually means it.
You move to get out of the bed and look at the sheets. Probably in need of a change. “Hey, do you wanna throw these in the hamper and just sleep in my bed tonight?”
“Are you sure that doesn’t break any rules?” he asks.
“No, we’ve done it…are you teasing me?” Your question morphs in the middle when you catch sight of his face. He can be such a shit for someone who acts like he’s chill all the time.
“I would never tease you,” he says, faux seriousness lacing his voice.
“That’s a shame, I like being teased,” you toss back.
“I’ll remember that for next time,” he shrugs.
“Next time?” you wonder.
“Just go get in your bed, I’ll be there in a minute,” he says.
It wasn’t like you agreed for sex with Wonwoo to be a one time thing. That felt like putting too many rules in place. Still, you’re not expecting it to happen again quite so quickly. You also genuinely didn’t realize he was home when you pulled out your vibrator. But, he was home and he barged into your room without knocking, pulled you to the edge of your bed, and fucked you hard. Made you wonder why you’d ever even consider using your vibe in the first place.
The next time comes after another failed date. It kind of seemed like that was the recipe. Something goes wrong or you’re pent up and he’s there to let you use him. Although, he’s really using you just as much. You like to let him be a little rough with you. There’s something satisfying in the way he doesn’t treat you like he’s going to break you. It’s unquestionably the best sex you’ve ever had, but that’s your business. You don’t need to share that with the class. You do figure that it might be time to talk about some kinks and boundaries, though. It would be good to be on the same page.
That seems to be how it goes for a while, at least. It’s mostly you needing something, Wonwoo being able to sense that, and helping you out. It doesn’t seem to ever start from him being the one to need something. He doesn’t even seem to be going out and bringing people home so much anymore. Not that you’re keeping track, you just can’t remember the last time he did. Or maybe he’s trying to only bring someone home when you’re not around.
He definitely holds true to his promise to tease you. One night, after a really long week at work with a lot of little things going wrong, he asks if he can take his time with you. In hindsight, you should have known it meant that it was going to mean teasing. But, you agreed anyway, and let him set the pace. Instead of hard and fast, he takes everything slow. He brings you right to the edge over and over again without letting you have your release. It’s insane how well he seems to read your signs. It seems like he can tell you’re close before you can. That night, it feels like it goes on for hours before he finally lets you come. It’s the biggest mess you’ve ever made. A fact that you would be embarrassed about if Wonwoo hadn’t looked so proud. Still, it feels like you’re the one always working something out.
Until it doesn’t.
One night, you come back from a night out with friends and are rummaging through the cabinets looking for a snack. This is the thing you hate about living with Wonwoo. He’s taller than you and doesn’t think twice about using the higher cabinets. You, on the other hand, can’t reach them so easily. You’re on your tiptoes trying to reach something when you feel him press into your back. His hand comes up and grabs the box you were reaching for with ease. You press further back into him when your heels hit the floor again.
“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he mumbles into your hair. His hands find a place on your hips, holding you against him. This feels different from how every other time has started.
“What do you mean?” you ask quietly into the silence of the apartment.
He lets one hand slide down, quickly meeting the bare skin of your thigh. You know your skirt is a little shorter than normal, but the night seemed to call for it. “This. Did you go out hoping to bring someone home?”
“Maybe,” you say, shivering a little at the way his breath tickles your ear.
“Are you trying to tease me?” he asks. It comes across almost like a demand.
You wiggle your ass against him a little before you answer. “I would never.”
“Of course not,” he says.
Everything that happens after that feels different. It’s never started like this. It’s been passionate, but it’s never been driven by so much raw desire. It’s never been the kind of sex where Wonwoo pushes your skirt up around your hips and pulls your underwear down to your ankles. Never been the kind of sex where he buries his face in your pussy while you grip the counter for support. Never been so desperate and needy and rushed.
He makes you come twice on his tongue with your knees going so weak that you can barely stand before he even moves onto actually fucking you. You’re so weak by the time you finish that he has to help you to the bathroom to clean up before he tucks you into your bed. You’re so tired that you don’t even realize how intimate it is when you ask him to get into bed with you.
The disappointment that sets in when you wake up to get some water in the early hours of the morning hits you hard. Entirely too hard for something that’s supposed to be free of feelings. Your bed feels a little empty without him taking up space. Which is really stupid because it’s not like that’s been something you’ve been doing all of the time. It’s not something you’re used to. But, there’s an unexpected comfort in him. Something that catches you completely off guard. As you drift back off to sleep, you resolve to deal with your feelings in the morning.
That’s how you find yourself sitting on Minghao’s couch as he makes you both a cup of tea. He hasn’t asked about your roommate yet, but you know that it’s coming. He just wants to have everything he thinks you’ll need first. A few minutes later, he sets two cups of tea down next to the plate of snacks he threw together. If you weren’t in such a crisis, you’d have time to be envious over how pretty the presentation looked.
“So things with Wonwoo have gotten awkward?” he asks without preamble.
“Jesus, Hao, let me take a sip first, at least,” you groan.
“I don’t want to say that I told you this was a bad idea…” he starts.
“You were the one who spilled the beans that I thought he was hot. This is your fault too,” you point out.
“I told him that he wasn’t alone in thinking his roommate was hot. I didn’t tell you both to start fucking without realizing it was bound to blow up,” he says.
“I know,” you sigh.
“So, what’s going on?” he asks.
Minghao is a lot of things. He can be a bit of an art snob. He’s that kind of impeccably dressed where he looks like he just stepped off a runway. He can appear a bit detached. But, he’s also one of the most thoughtful people you know. He’s complex and he cares for his friends more than he cares for himself most times. Both you and Wonwoo are among those he counts as his closest friends. So, he just listens as you lay out everything that’s happened since the first time you had sex. He doesn’t judge or interrupt. Patiently, he just waits as you get it all off your chest, including how you felt after last night.
None of that really comes as a surprise. You know that he’s going to give you shit and be there for you at the same time. What does come as a surprise is what he says when you’re done laying out your issues.
“I haven’t wanted to set you up because I wasn’t sure you were in the right place for it, but I actually have a friend that I think you might hit it off with,” he says. “He’d definitely get you out of this whole Wonwoo funk you’re in so things can go back to normal.”
“You wanna set me up?” you ask, surprised.
“Yeah, I think it’d be good for you,” he says.
“Okay, tell me about him,” you agree.
“He’s really kind. Kind of talks in a permanent pout, but it’s endearing somehow. He’s a giant softie at heart and he’s so incredibly loyal. He’s been talking about how he’s looking for something a little more serious. I think you’d like him,” Minghao says.
“What’s his name, Hao?” you ask skeptically.
“Mingyu,” he answers and your eyes go wide.
“Mingyu? As in that hot model you’re friends with?” you ask.
“Yeah,” Minghao says evenly.
“Okay, you can see if he’s interested,” you agree.
It’s been a couple days since Minghao threw out the suggestion of setting you up with Mingyu. The two of you have exchanged a few messages and he does actually seem really nice. He’s also funnier than you expected him to be. When he asks if you want to get dinner the upcoming weekend, you find you’re a little bit excited.
There’s only one issue. You feel like you need to tell Wonwoo. You know that he’s not going to care, but it still feels weird when you’ve been fucking around. Maybe Minghao was right and the whole thing was a terrible idea after all. It’s hard for you to tell him when you seem to keep missing each other, though. Lately, he’s been playing video games over at Vernon’s place more than normal. Even if they’re streaming, something feels weird.
“Hey,” he calls out from the front door, snapping you from your thoughts.
“Oh hey,” you answer, looking up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes as he moves to head back to his room. “Everything okay?”
He stops to look at you when you ask that question and his eyes still look a bit distant. “Yeah, fine. Why?”
“I don’t know, you’re being short with me,” you say.
He just shrugs. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“Okay,” you say, drawing out the first syllable. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that Minghao set me up with his friend Mingyu and I was thinking I’d go out with him.”
“You don’t have to tell me about your dates,” he says evenly.
“I just thought…” you start.
“We agreed,” he interjects. “Enjoy your date whenever you go.”
“Thanks,” you say quietly to his retreating figure.
The whole point of agreeing to go out with Mingyu was to get things back to normal with Wonwoo. It was clear that you had gotten in over your head. Now, you’re wondering if things are going to be able to go back to normal at all. This isn’t your normal dynamic. You always shared stories about dates, hook-ups, anything and everything under the sun. Your other friends always said it was weird for the two of you and you just ignored them. Now, you feel like you’re in it alone. Maybe they’re right and it is weird.
Since it’s a little on the later side anyway, you decide to grab something from the kitchen and just head into your room. You can go to bed early and forget that whole conversation even happened. That’s probably for the best. It’ll be easier to get back to normal once you’re going on dates again. Once you stop fucking your roommate like you could have ever done that without forming some kind of feelings.
It’s the middle of the night when you feel someone slide into bed around you. A familiar scent slips into your consciousness as an arm slides around your center. You nestle back into the chest and know for sure that it’s your roommate. The same man you’re trying hard to get over.
“What are you doing, Wonwoo?” you mumble in sleepiness.
“Don’t go on the date with Mingyu,” he says. He sounds completely awake.
“What?” you ask. Your brain is still foggy from sleep.
“Don’t go out with anyone else,” he says.
That makes you open your eyes as the words bounce around in your brain. You turn over to your other side so that you’re facing him. His hair is messy and all he’s wearing is a plain white t-shirt, but your heart still constricts a bit at the sight of him.
“What do you want, Wonwoo?” you ask, voice thick with mental exhaustion.
“Exactly what I told you. I want you to turn Mingyu down,” he says.
“Why should I?” you challenge.
“Because, well, we’ve got this…” he starts and fumbles over his words.
“We haven’t got anything. You’ve been avoiding me for days,” you point out. “Hell, I asked you to stay in bed with me after you fucked me in the kitchen and you couldn’t even make it til morning.”
“I know, but I was scared that night because I realized I was starting to feel something,” he says. “And then Hao texted me to tell me he’d finally given your number to Mingyu…”
“Finally? What do you mean?” you asked.
“He’s been asking for your number for months,” Wonwoo says through somewhat gritted teeth. “So Minghao told me you’d agreed to be set up and I don’t know, I guess I just decided…”
“To avoid me?” you supply.
“I didn’t know what to do. And I didn’t know how to process you not telling me,” he admits.
“You weren’t around for me to tell you,” you point out. “We’ve been fucking. I wasn’t just gonna be like oh by the way, I’m going on a date.”
“Please don’t go on a date with him,” Wonwoo asks again.
“I will consider not going if you can actually talk to me,” you say.
“About what?” he asks.
“Everything you’re feeling and why this whole let’s just be roommates that fuck was stupid,” you say.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says immediately.
You sigh, realizing that you’re not going to be able to go back to sleep, and send Wonwoo to the kitchen to get you something to drink. By the time he’s back, you’re sitting up in bed and ready to have an actual conversation.
You stay up entirely too late talking about everything between the two of you. It’s a little hard to believe Wonwoo is so open with admitting how he feels. It’s harder to believe that Wonwoo knew he felt something for you before the very first time you had sex. In his mind, it was clear that he wasn’t just offering because the two of you were friends. He offered it as a way to gauge your own feelings. But, after that first time, he kind of figured it was just sex and tried to detach himself from it. That was when you started to feel something for him.
When he’s done admitting his own mistakes and feelings, you figure that it’s time for you to own up to your own. It was really silly to just make up his side of the conversation about why he didn’t stay in bed with you that night. After all, the one thing you both stressed before sleeping together the first time was that you had to be honest in your communication. That’s what friends did and you were friends before anything else. As it turns out, you’re both way more on the same page than either of you realized.
“You’re wrong about one thing, though,” you admit.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“It was never just sex for me. I was totally done the first time you kissed me,” you share, picking at a thread on your comforter to avoid looking at him.
“I kissed you before we even had sex,” he points out, incredulous.
“Yeah, turns out I’m not so good at the just friends who fuck thing,” you say with a shrug.
“If I’d have known that was all it took, I’d have kissed you months ago,” Wonwoo grumbles.
That brings you up short. “Nu, just how long have you liked me?”
“I don’t know, a while,” he says.
You just shake your head at him before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Just talk to me next time.”
“Can we go back to having sex now? I miss the feel of you,” he whines out. “And the taste.”
“We literally fucked less than a week ago,” you point out to try and avoid the way it makes heat pool.
“I could taste you every day and never get sick of it,” he says without any embarrassment.
“Are we really giving this a try?” you ask.
“Unless you don’t want to,” Wonwoo says.
“I do, I’m just scared. What if we try a relationship and it doesn’t work?” you ask. “You’re one of my best friends. I don’t wanna lose that.”
Wonwoo reaches out to tilt your head up. “We’ll just promise to be honest with each other. We can figure this out together.”
“Okay,” you agree.
“So, we’re doing this?” he confirms.
“Yeah, we’re doing this.”
Just like that, you agree to take a leap with the only person that you’ve always trusted to catch you every time you fall. It feels scary, but also completely natural.
════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════ Jupiter in the houses ═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════
1st house || 2nd house || 3rd house || 4th house || 5th house || 6th house || 7th house || 8th house || 9th house || 10th house || 11th house || 12th house
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═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════ Saturn in the houses ═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════
1st house || 2nd house || 3rd house || 4th house || 5th house || 6th house || 7th house || 8th house || 9th house || 10th house || 11th house || 12th house
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═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════ Uranus in the houses ═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════
1st house || 2nd house || 3rd house || 4th house || 5th house || 6th house || 7th house || 8th house || 9th house || 10th house || 12th house
─────────────────────✧─────────────────────
════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════ Neptune in the houses ═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════
1st house || 2nd house || 3rd house || 4th house || 6th house || 7th house || 8th house || 9th house || 10th house || 12th house
─────────────────────✧─────────────────────
═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════ Pluto in the houses ═════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ═════
1st house || 2nd house || 3rd house || 4th house || 5th house || 6th house || 7th house || 8th house || 9th house || 10th house || 11th house || 12th house
A new relationship is always difficult to navigate, for Chan, it appears to be even more difficult. For you? You’re just left confused as to why your new boyfriend of a month and a half hasn’t made a move on you despite your very obvious attempts to invite him into your personal space.
You soon realize that your boyfriend is a virgin, and that’s why he’s always running away with his hands covering his bits, even through a simple goodnight kiss.
CONTENT― brief break up due to horrible communication skills, virginity loss, reader gets super insecure about her body and personality, fluff, smut obv
NOTE― It's because of those pics...you know the ones. Anyway, shoutout to @ressonancee and @onlyhuis for proof reading this for me! love u guys with my entire being!
smut tags under cut::
SMUT TAGS― virginity loss, makeout session, neck kissing, tit fondling, unprotected sex, belly button kissing, mentions and focus on his happy trail, he’s ticklish oops, blowjob, premature ejaculation, pussy drunk chan forgets how to speak, desperate sex babbling, finger fucking, hand and cock guiding, cream pie
~
Chan has a dilemma, and yes, it’s one that most men would scoff at.
Trust him when he says that he is so very aware of what is happening around him but he simply cannot manage to muster up the courage, strength, or confidence to admit to you, his lovely and patient girlfriend, that he’s dodging your advances solely because he is the text-book definition of virgin.
He is not only nervous about having sex for the first time, but there also comes the weight of him either not being good enough when he tries, or you laughing in his face and mocking him for it.
You, on the other hand, wouldn’t be so fucking in your head if he really could just muster up a tiny amount of confidence to say that to you.
It has been almost two months now since he asked you to be his girlfriend, and throughout this time never once has he done more than a gentle kiss to your lips or lying a slight guiding hand to your waist. It feels so… juvenile, so… middle school for a boyfriend to treat you this way.
Seeing as how the first three dates you went on with him seemed to suggest he was more than willing to be a fulfilling boyfriend who can, hopefully, fill all of the roles that comes with the title– you’re starting to second guess that he ever liked you at all.
Perhaps the twenty-four year old man asked you that night to be his girlfriend out of pity. Or maybe he’s simply changed his mind about you. Regardless of the reason for why he acts like this, it’s getting to you.
Deeply, actually, by this point. It only stung a bit at first, but now it’s starting to feel like he has to be with you as a joke. Why else would he be consistent in wanting to hang out? Why else would he always be inviting you out on well-priced dates and buying you pretty gifts?
It’s a joke.
It has to be a joke.
Oh, but that’s so far from the truth. If you would simply open your eyes, perhaps you’d notice the struggle that your polite little boyfriend goes through each time you try to suggest he make an advance on you.
Even the slight kisses, it makes him suffer from embarrassment at how quickly his body reacts to you.
He likes you so, so fucking much.
~
“I don’t think I’m feeling it today.” You respond to the muffled voice of your “boyfriend” on the phone, asking if he can come over to see you.
“What? Why not?” He asks back, his voice concerned.
“Do you want me to be honest?” You finally say with a long and annoyed sigh, giving up on any hope that this relationship will ever go any further than it already has.
You’re fed up with feeling unwanted, undesired, and possibly even uninteresting. He’s the one person in your life that you care about when it comes to who you are and what you look like. His reaction, or lack thereof, regarding you as both a person and his girlfriend feels astonishing and does nothing more than make you question what it is that you’re doing wrong.
It has to be you, right? Perhaps your body isn’t as pretty as he wants it to be, is that it? Or maybe your voice annoys him? God, what if he cringes thinking of how you’d move if he were to actually have sex with you? What if he doesn’t think about it at all?
You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying not to let the intense insecurity weigh on you. You always promised yourself that you’d never let a man make you rethink your worth.
You need to live up to that promise.
“Chan, it’s been nice and all, but I think we should break up.”
The silence he offers to you is entirely too loud, and feels more like a confirmation in your head that this is the exact choice you should be making right now.
He’s thrown for a loop though, standing at his kitchen table staring off at the wall as you say those words.
What did he do wrong?
“Wha–” He cuts himself off, trying to find words to say. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”
You let out another breathy sigh, annoyed at the way he plays dumb.
“I’m shocked you’re asking me that. I’ve been wondering if you were ever going to break up with me yourself, y’know?” You let out a sad little chuckle before you feel that insecurity he instilled in you burn against your eyes. “I’m just making it easy for you, so that you can go and spend your time with someone that you’d rather be around.”
He pauses, still dumbfounded by what you’re saying.
“Why are you saying that?” He bellows out in a deeper tone, making you feel as though he’s angry with you now. “I’d rather be around you.”
“Oh? Is that right?” You roll your eyes now, annoyed. “Is that why you push me away when I try to kiss you? Or what about– what about when you left the party last week after I sat on your lap?”
Ah. He knew it. He knew he should have admitted it. Despite his consistent apologies for his body acting on instinct to run away from you, he should have really tried to see from your point of view rather than his own. Even if he only ran to hide the fact that he is horribly aroused by you at all times, in every given moment.
You can hear a pained groan fall from his lips, and a door opening on his end.
“I’m coming over.”
He doesn’t let you protest, and instead hangs up the phone. You sit there in silence at his rejection of your break up. As if it were his choice? As if he had any say in it? You want to break up, that’s final.
Still, that doesn’t explain why you don’t call him back to tell him not to come. It also doesn’t explain why your heart is thumping against your chest in anticipation.
Or, maybe there is something to explain why you’re feeling butterflies over his blatant refusal. Perhaps, this is the first time you’ve felt wanted by him?
That also makes it worse. Why should your boyfriend make you feel this way only when you’re breaking up with him? Why can you only see that he cares when he’s faced with the idea of losing you? By the way he’s acting, you can argue that he wouldn’t be losing anything precious to him if you were to walk out of his life right this moment.
Still, you sit here in wait. More curious now to see if maybe you'll figure out why he refuses to look at or touch you in a way that would show you he wants you.
~
The first thing Chan does when he steps through the door of your apartment is slip his shoes off. The second thing he does is stand there awkwardly, as if every thought left his head upon seeing your face.
You look like you’ve been crying.
“This is my fault.” He says with a slight crack in his voice. “Because I keep hiding from you….right?”
You nod silently, remaining on your couch that faces his timid and stiffened figure.
He stares at you, examining the consequences of his own actions.
“You want to break up because I haven’t tried to, like, do things with you.” He winces as he says it, struggling to not feel awkward talking about having sex. He’s embarrassed, but would be even more embarrassed if he lost a girlfriend over this.
“That’s not the only reason.” You shake your head, looking away from him and to your hands as you pick at your nail beds. “I’d be okay with no sex if you’d simply tell me why. The fact that you haven’t told me anything–” Your voice cracks a little bit, feeling stupid for being so emotional over such a short lived relationship. “It kind of destroyed my confidence.”
He watches the way you refuse eye contact, which is something that stabs him directly in the stomach. He can feel it drop to the floor, adrenaline making its way into that empty space you’re creating for him.
“Before we break up, I just want to know why it took this for you to act like you genuinely might have feelings for me.”
He stumbles over his thoughts the same way he stumbles over his feet trying to approach you.
By now, he doesn’t think he can ever feel more embarrassed than he does at this moment. He crouches down in front of you, sad that you didn’t laugh at the way he nearly knocked himself out on your living room floor. Then he looks at you, chasing your line of sight as if to reassure you through nothing but the air in the room.
“I was afraid you’d laugh at me.” He starts, and after seeing that your expression doesn’t change even a little bit, he continues. “You seemed so into me that I–” He takes a deep breath, willing himself to be as honest as he can be. “I just didn’t know how to act.”
You look at him with irritation at those words.
“Of course I was fucking into you. Why else would I have agreed to be your girlfriend?” You roll your eyes, pushing yourself back into the couch cushions and away from his crouched body. “Think about how I feel. The fact that you just watch me throw myself at you time and time again? The fact that you rejected me every single time? How is that not giving you the answers you need as to why I’m breaking up with you?”
He takes note of that heightened voice of yours, defensive and likely more hurt than you’re letting on.
“Listen–” He breathes in, trying to internally hype himself up to bite the bullet.
You were listening, but he’s keeping whatever it is he’s thinking about in his head for just a second too long.
“No, I think we’re done h-”
“I’m a virgin.” He interrupts you, lowering his gaze to the floor and refusing eye contact with you.
Your eyes shoot to him though. The last thing you would have expected was for him to be a–
“You’re–” You try to repeat his words for confirmation, but he interrupts you again.
“I can promise you it’s not because I don’t want to do these things with you.” He says, still staring at the floor. “It’s because I was afraid that you’d lose interest over it.”
Your mouth falls open as you look at him, every feeling of frustration in your body disappearing almost immediately.
“It’s because I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to, like, be any good at it.” He continues to admit. “I was trying to work up the courage to tell you, or to just like, do it.” He rambles, now scooting back and standing up to his feet. “And if you still want to break up, I understand. I just thought I at least owed you an explanation.”
You watch as he nods to himself in an unsure way, turns on his heel, and heads back to the door to slip his shoes back on.
You sit in stunned silence as your brain erases every single insecurity you gained over this month and a half relationship before jumping to your feet. If anyone could have been more insecure about this than you were, it was him. And now that you can see that, the guilt hits you twice as hard as the presumed break up would have.
“You’re a virgin?” You ask, though that wasn’t at all the words you intended to say. “I mean, you kept pushing me away because you didn’t want to disappoint me?”
He nods timidly, halting his body and still refusing to look at you.
He has one shoe on, and his other foot half in the other when you make your way over to him, closing the distance quickly and confidently.
“Don’t leave.” You say first, before physically moving his body for him to remove that foot from his half-on shoe. “Chan, I’m your girlfriend. We can wait for as long as you need, I just...”
You pause, now feeling annoyed with yourself for making it about you. Then again, it’s not like you could read his mind. Though, thinking back to all of those instances where he pulled away from you before, perhaps you could have read context clues a little better.
“I didn’t know–” You trail off, now determined to save the relationship that both of you accidentally started to sink. “Did I make you feel like you couldn’t tell me?”
He feels…relieved by your words. Saying you could wait, asking what it is that made him so afraid to admit it.
Finally, he presses one foot against his other, pulling his foot out of his shoe and stepping back, looking at you with eyes fonder than you’ve ever seen them.
“It’s not that I felt I couldn’t tell you. I was just embarrassed.”
You very nearly coo out at him, but you keep your distance with both your words and your body now.
“It’s not that I’m not ready to lose it. Especially with you.” He admits, glancing at you for a reaction before sighing. “I think I’ve been ready for a long time, again, I was just embarrassed and also knew that I should probably tell you at some point…”
“You want to give your virginity to me?”
You watch as he blows his hair up through puckered lips, rolling his eyes before smiling at you.
“It’s not that I view virginity as sacred or anything either. There’s just a lot of weight that people tend to put on it, and I wasn’t sure how you’d react.” He tries to explain as his body relaxes by the minute. “I wanted you to be my first time, yeah. When I asked you to be my girlfriend, I knew I wanted you to be the one to show me what all the hype is about.”
You’d laugh if it weren’t for the fact that this is still kind of a touchy subject. You’re not entirely sure how you feel about being someone’s first time, but you know you have feelings for him and to deny him of sex after you blatantly wanted it so bad from him…Okay, maybe you’re just in your head. Of course you’d be happy to be his first time.
Ecstatic even.
“So….” You sway on your feet, looking up at the ceiling before landing your eyes on him playfully. “It’s not because you think I’m disgusting or like, not living up to the standards you want for a girlfriend?”
“Jesus, no.” He says.
You watch him scratch the back of his head, still probably embarrassed by how low this relationship had fallen due to the awful communication skills.
“And you’re also kind of admitting that you have thought about it?” You continue, prying out the words you’ve wanted to hear so badly since you met him.
He pulls back only a little bit, his cheeks warming at the words and the way his brain automatically thrusts him into the thoughts of all of those nights where he absolutely fucking thought about it.
“Y-yeah. Yes. I have thought about it.” He nods in a self-reassuring way as his eyes land on everything in the room but you.
You’re quick to give him your own reassurance though, trying to learn his boundary now that the secret is out and the relationship appears to have a second chance at succeeding.
He can feel you close in on him, wrapping your arms around his middle and nuzzling your face against his neck. There, he holds you back, breathing in deep and feeling the scent of you wash through his body.
Quite literally actually. As he would normally avoid, his lower half reacts far too quickly to even the simplest of touches from you.
He pulls back on instinct, but you don’t release your grip this time.
“You seem as ready as ever, I’ll admit.” You laugh upon feeling him stiffen against you, but you really do try not to shame him for it. “Still, we can wait until you feel ready enough to give it a shot, okay?”
He nods, entirely reassured by the way you don’t press up against it or comment any further about the happenings in his pants right now. Then he sighs out.
“I can imagine I must look like an idiot right now, getting hard over a fucking hug.” He finally says as he pulls from the hug and makes his way back to your living room. “But we’re okay, right? You’re not breaking up with me?”
You follow after him, keeping your sexual distance, but absolutely indulging in the loving, sweet, and careful cuddling you’ve wanted to do with him for so long now.
He appears comfortable when you tuck yourself under his arm and rest your head on his chest before answering him.
“I’m not breaking up with you,” You say, feeling his chest heave with each breath and intentionally ignoring the blatant tent in his pants slowly fall back into its flaccid position as he calms down. “It’s kinda cute, you know? That you were so worried about it.”
His cheeks are still on fire, willing his body to calm itself through this sweet session of cuddling. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment with you, and still, it is embarrassing in the way he knows you’re ignoring it for his sake too.
But goddamn, how heavenly it would be for you to like, touch it right now…..or something.
“Never thought of it as cute, if I’m being honest.” He tries to joke. “If anything, maybe it's a little pathetic on my part.”
You shake your head against him, feeling more confident of your place in his life.
“Pathetic? Don’t be mean to yourself. Besides, it’s kind of hot knowing that you got so turned on over a simple hug.” You laugh, hoping you’re not crossing a boundary. “No wonder you ran so fast when I sat on your lap, I definitely would have felt that on me.”
“Alright, alright–” He tries to hush you of your playful remarks, but ultimately, if you really think it’s an attractive aspect of whatever sexual dynamic the two of you will come to have, he’s going to make damn sure you see just how fucking turned on you make him.
~
Things are good. Great even, now that you can pin point each moment your boyfriend gets a little too overwhelmed with you. He does still push you away, probably out of instinct but he doesn’t shy away nearly as much from intimate moments with you. Especially if the two of you are alone together.
You’re a bit more careful in public or with friends though, because the last thing you want to do is make him feel insecure about it. Still, there are playful moments where you indulge in the act of touching him or kissing him just to get him excited, just to watch him stutter his way through ordering something.
The point is, you almost ended a relationship with someone who, arguably, makes you feel more wanted than you ever knew you could. It’s nice, and it feels good.
Even now, this is only your second full on make-out session with him, you feel absolutely adored. It’s cute in the way he’s trying to train himself to not get hard at even the simplest of touches, it’s even cuter when his efforts fail miserably and he’s arching his body away from you as if he could even hide what he’s packing.
You don’t push for more, despite wanting it badly. He also doesn’t push…despite also wanting it just as much as you do, if not more. He still seems to need a push of confidence to actually go any further than a nice, non-body touching makeout session.
This is fine though, and you indulge far more than you ever knew you would when it comes to this kind of thing. As if simply licking into his mouth is foreplay enough to counter a fucking blowjob for him.
Never in your life did you think you’d be this into the fact that your boyfriend is a virgin. And it’s not even that he’s never had sex, it’s that he seems to want it so bad, and there’s just something about a man who is desperate that gets you going these days.
Still, kissing him is something that fulfills you, especially with the way he’s avoiding his lower half and keeping it away from you.
He kisses you back in a telling way though, more telling than that tent in his sweatpants that you can visualize even while your eyes are closed. He radiates the arousal through the way he moves his lips against yours, and the way he lets out little suffering sounds when you kiss him harder and harder.
His hands stay against your face, neck, and sometimes your waist, but god. His kissing is genuinely just so good with the way it tells on him every few seconds.
And when he pulls back, he’s out of breath, flushed, and looking as if he would want nothing more than for you to hint, to lay down some sort of implication that he can cling to for relief from the heaviness that’s been in his pants since the fucking relationship started.
You wonder if tonight is the night, because he doesn’t appear to want to stop making out like he did last time. If anything, as he looks at you with those heaving breaths, you can tell he’s thinking harder than he ever has about it.
“Chan,” You whisper out to him, just inches from his face. “Do you think of me?”
When he keeps his eyes on you, seemingly stunned by your question, you continue.
“Do you think of me after you leave? When you’re all by yourself in your room–” You turn your head so that your eyes can trail to the space he is attempting to keep from you. “When you’re touching yourself?”
He feels the words run straight through him, causing an utterly pathetic twitch in his pants. The way your voice comes out soft and sensual as you ask him, as you look at him. He doesn’t even remember words at this moment, not even a simple “yes”.
He tries to answer by losing a little bit of his self control, turning your head back to him with his palm just so he can chase against your lips out of the sheer arousal, but you pull away.
“Do you?” You continue, encouraging him to answer you.
“So much,” He wills himself to whisper confidently, ignoring the fact that his body just forced him to rut up and against nothing, all for you to see. “Every time I leave,” He puts emphasis on his words. “Sometimes I can’t even make it home first.”
You smile at the image of him rubbing against himself in his car, so desperate to relieve himself of what you do to him each time he comes to see you. Not even making it out of the seatbelt before releasing all over himself, all in his pants. Shaking, panting, all alone and without you.
“Cute,” You chuckle, finally turning your head slightly and landing a pop kiss on him. “I think of you when I do it too, every time you leave.”
He looks at you, willing his hips to stay put as he thinks about the image of you doing that in this very room, to images and thoughts of him.
“You do?” He asks for reassurance easily.
“Mhm,” You look away from him as you sit straight up and then scoot down the bed. There, you lay yourself down against your pillows and look at him. “Come here.”
He’s reluctant to take your hand. But even he can admit that this side by side makeout session is starting to hurt his neck, and you’re clearly asking him to get on top of you right now.
“You don’t have to but, Chan–” You say, looking down, “I don’t want you to leave this time.”
Well, shit, all you had to do was say that. Honestly, the way you look at him with pure acceptance is enough to push him past the wall in his head that keeps him from finally trying to take the next step. You accept him as he is now, surely you’d accept him if he…. doesn’t last, right? What about if he isn’t good at it?
Still, he finds himself planting one hand on the other side of your head to balance himself on top of you. Still just hovering, not yet wanting or willing to, you know, put it against you.
You smile.
“It’s okay, I can tell you’re nervous. We don’t have to do anything else, I’m happy with just this.”
And then you both fall back into another, much more comfortable and natural feeling, makeout session.
As much as you’d love for him to try and take control, his reluctance allows you to contain yourself. It allows you to respect him and his decision of whether or not he wants to do anything more than this. Still, this satisfies you. And if he really does stay, maybe he wouldn’t be entirely against watching you take care of your own arousal for him. Maybe he’d feel better watching even, taking notes on what you like, learning where to touch you.
And you know, that really would have been okay but you can’t help but feel like he’s definitely wanting more. With the way his lips grow hungrier rather than more tired, with the way he’s starting to moan shamelessly into your mouth, with the way his hands are trying to travel to more intimate places on your body before stopping himself.
You might be pushing it with the assumption, but it doesn’t hurt to try and help him, right?
When you feel his hands moving to your waist, up, up, and up until they’re just barely brushing against the underside of your breast, he pulls back again and pulls your shirt down to cover the exposed skin, all while kissing you harder.
You place your hand over his, wasting not even a second as you guide him back under your shirt, right up to where you know he wants to touch.
And holy fuck does he. He doesn’t even pull back when you lay it against the warm and exposed flesh from under your shirt. His hand immediately starts groping. His lips immediately stutter against you in a relieved sigh from him, and all you can do is kiss him now with the same energy he seems to have in that one single hand.
“You’re allowed to touch me, but if you need help doing it, just tell me–” You pull back to whisper, trying to take it another step further in the act of kissing against his jaw and down his neck. “I want to touch you too, but I’ll keep my hands to myself unless you tell me otherwise.”
It’s like he really forgets how to talk or give proper consent when his entire body is acting like a fucking greenlight for you right now. He feels so pathetic, on the verge of orgasm with nothing more than the soft fabric of his sweatpants to relieve him, and yet your breast in his hand, nipple hardening under his palm before he musters the courage to put it between his fingers, it’s a lot to take in, okay?
Still, he tries to say something, and he’s even more embarrassed by the way his voice sounds like it isn’t even his own. He sounds broken when the sound reaches his ears.
“Don’t–” He starts, cutting himself off at the feeling of your lips kissing against the pulse point of his neck.
“Hm?” You ask, pulling back and away, hoping you didn’t press too much.
“Don’t stop.” He mutters out again, a little less embarrassed now that he feels you sigh against that same pulse point with the way his fingers fondle your nipple mindlessly. “Don’t keep your hands to yourself.”
Your brain falls into a stunned silence at his words, bringing a type of nervousness to bubble up in your own body. Is this really it? Is this when it’s going to happen? On a saturday night, against your pillows, muffled cartoons playing in the background…..past ten in the evening?
You can’t help it as you kiss against his neck. You really can’t, with the way he opens himself up to be vulnerable with you while actively being on top of you, while playing with your breasts, while containing himself.
He seems to need you to do the pushing, but you really cannot shake the nervousness of being his first. You’re almost certain he is nervous about so many things, but still he appears to be eager to try. He’s eager to be with you, and, ultimately, to know what it feels like to be with another person that matters to him in that way.
“Is there–” You stop, breath caught in your throat, only to fall out against his throat when he finally seems to have the confidence to make his first move. One that would seem so small to anyone else, but he– he raises a hand and holds the back of your neck, trying to press your lips and guide them to the area of his neck that he wants you to kiss.
And you do, with blatant encouragement to him for doing that, all while trying to finish your previous thought.
“Is there anything you want me to do for you?” You ask, kissing and now, licking against the spot on his neck that makes him shiver.
He sighs in a shudder, craning his neck to expose more skin for you before his hand stills against your nipple and he pulls his hand from your shirt.
“All of it?” He starts, a bit unsure of himself. “Everything?” He adds, pulling himself back from your lips and watching you fall back to your pillows. He leans his body up, relieving his legs from his weight and sitting on his heels in front of you, only slightly between your legs now.
You can see that he has a bit more confidence with the way he’s looking at you.
“I want to try all of it.” He continues, placing two hands on your knees, pushing your legs together and using his palms to make them sway left and right. It’s as if he’s thinking hard. “I mean, if you want to.”
You smile.
You want nothing more than to do this with him, for him, and for yourself.
“Yeah?” You ask for confirmation, now lifting yourself and re-positioning yourself onto your knees to mimic his own stance.
He nods in a blatant and shy way, knowing that you can physically see how badly he wants this, and how badly he wants you to be the one to do this with him. He’s achingly hard, and he isn’t sure if he’s ever managed to get this fucking hard in his entire life.
It really is painfully arousing, with the way his pants stretch against the head when he’s sitting like this. The way the fabric offers little to no sensation but while looking at you, he feels all fucked up and warm. He tries to forget that there’s precum all over him, seeping through the pants that are presented before you, and god, the way you look right at it.
He doesn’t shy away despite being as shy as he could possibly be right now. In fact, when your eyes trail back up to him, licking your lips before smiling, he a fucking goner. He knew he wanted you bad, but never did he know he needed you this badly.
He’s so fucking lucky.
“It looks… big.” You comment, leaning forward only slightly and sizing your boyfriend up. “But for your sake, I’ll try to control myself from moving too fast. I’ll go slow, okay?”
He doesn’t even nod, he’s too entranced with you in front of him, fully clothed, lifting his own shirt off of him as if he is incapable of doing it himself. Then again, he kind of is incapable at this moment. He swears his IQ must’ve dropped to a single digit by this point.
And when that shirt comes up and over his head, you note that he doesn’t even blink. That small moment where his face was obscured as you pulled it off of him? His eyes stayed on you both before and after, only now– his hair is a total fucking mess and all you can do is feel endeared by it.
“God, you’re so fucking attractive,” You groan in sexual frustration with an eyeroll. “I can’t believe someone hasn’t jumped your bones yet.”
Now he breaks eye contact at the praise, glancing away from you and trying his hardest not to smile like an idiot at those words.
“To be fair, I’ve fucked up my fair share of relationships being embarrassed.” He laughs. “Kinda glad I did though.”
You land your eyes back on him, staring blankly at his naked chest and trying your damnedest not to look at him like he’s some piece of meat. But goddamn, the body of this man.
“Come here, switch places with me.” You smile, reaching forward and trying not to think too hard about the way his arms flex when you grip them to move him. “Here, lay back.”
And within seconds, you’re between his legs and looking down at his half-lidded, arousal driven eyes.
“Fuck, really?” You groan again, glancing away. “It’s really taking everything in me, Chan, it really is.”
His heart is doing flips as he stares up at you. He feels doted on, adored, attractive. So he encourages more of those annoyed praises from you.
“Taking everything in you to…?”
You chuckle, because the audacity of this drunk and in love fool.
“Do you have any idea how badly I’ve wanted to be in this exact position?” You smile, reaching down to run your fingers down his chest and straight to that happy trail that he so readily hid from you. “It’s taking everything in me to slow down–”
“Then don’t.” He says proudly, albeit still a bit shy at your words.
You can see how red his ears are, only partially hidden by that head of messy ass hair. His stupid pretty eyes and gentle smile are directed straight at you without any type of reluctance.
“There’s my confident boyfriend.” You chuckle, toying with the hair beneath his belly button and trying to not comment on the way his body jumps a bit at the feeling. “Was wondering where he went after he asked me to be his girlfriend.”
And he remains silent after that, watching the way you take the reins and lean down to kiss against that same spot of his neck. Warm breath fanning over the skin before attaching yourself there.
Surely you can feel the way his hips react, humping up at each flutter of your lips. If you couldn’t, he knows for a fact that you’ll be able to now. With the way you trail down, across his own sensitive nipples, and then down, down, down.
He glances down at you at the same time when you glance up at him and right then and there he thinks he melts. He’s never seen a woman look at him from this angle, and it’s only a little bit detrimental to his heavy and pathetic cock. The twitching never stops, he feels so fucking sticky in his pants and it really just doesn’t stop. Continuous leaking, and he really had no idea that there could even be this much pre-cum.
Then, he’s pulled out of his thoughts with….a tickle?
“Oh?” You smile, leaning down to repeat that lick up his happy trail before landing a kiss straight on his belly button.
His body jumps again, and he lets out a moaned chucked unintentionally.
“Oh.” You smile wider, gripping both of his hips with your hands and holding him down in a playful way. Repeating the act once again.
Your suspicions are confirmed with a third jump of his body, and another chuckled, frustrated moan.
“So, he’s ticklish too?” You say with another kiss against his belly button before fluttering your fingers at the side of his hips.
His entire body goes rigid before melting against the bed in an attempt to not react to the way you take advantage of a hidden weakness he had. God, he should have known that…like, sex stuff could be ticklish.
“No– I’m not.” He lies, jolting again when you continue to test the resilience he thinks he has against your lips and fingers. “Hey–!”
And, well, you would’ve stopped if it weren’t for the fact that his hips raise with each tickled sensation, and you can genuinely feel how damp and heavy he is in his pants. It’s entirely arousing in the way its weight is obvious through his attempts to wiggle from your ticklish touches.
“Alright,” You finally relent, landing one final kiss to his belly before licking down that same line of hair he offers his body. “Chan, I want to–”
His hips immediately raise to your words, the wetness from your tongue feels like ice against his skin when the air hits it and at this point, he thinks he knows what you’re suggesting.
“Please–” He nearly cries out in a stutter. “Touch it.”
You smile as you nuzzle your nose against his abdomen before giving him a short nod that you know he doesn’t see. Considering, well, he just threw his arm over his face and keeps his hips tensed, and his ass only slightly lifted off of the bed.
Desperate. Willing.
You prepare yourself for seeing it for the first time by not seeing it at all just yet. Instead, you kiss down until your lips are met with warm, damp fabric. Immediately you can feel his length twitch under your lips when you reach it, and all you can manage to do is flatten your tongue out and against it to feel it pulse again.
And again, until that same arm thrown over his face reaches down in a desperate attempt to take the pants off for you. He’s the one losing his self control now, no embarrassment or nervousness in sight from him, and it’s so fucking attractive to see him do it.
His shaking fingers fumbling with the waistband, shoving the pants down just an inch or so more to reveal more of that trimmed hair.
You don’t comment on the way he’s acting out of fear that it’ll make him feel shamed or even mocked, despite you truly believing it might just be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen a man do in front of you.
Instead, you help him. Sinking your own fingers beneath his pants and tugging them down all in one go before allowing your eyes to land on it.
“Jesus fucking christ.” He moans out, the air alone offering an overwhelming amount of sensation due to the temperature change he now feels between his legs.
You finally look at it, so dark in color. As if all of the blood in his body resides only here. You gently move your hand just over it, feeling the heat radiate from him, seeing the precum continuously dribble from the head, and then, finally–
“You’re so….” You trail off, in awe of the way his body just….keeps reacting. So much pre-cum. “Hard.”
He releases a broken little sound at the feeling of your fingers finally touch him, and it feels insanely different from when he touches it himself. As if he’s not in control of his pleasure, and it’s all just you. You are the one who feels good against him.
You’re shocked briefly when his hand makes it’s way back down to yours, grabbing it and essentially trying to get you to stimulate him more. He puts so much pressure against your hand, sandwiching it between his own palm and stiffened cock.
You’re tuly in awe. This man has essentially edged himself to a world record, surely.
“Slow down,” You try to soothe him, moving your hand against him and watching him retract his hand. “Relax, It must feel good, right?”
That little sob he lets out shows you his frustration. So needy, so ready. And even with you moving your fingers to circle his pulsing length, his hips continuously fuck up, not allowing him to have even a moment without a forceful amount of stimulation.
“So good,” He moans, entire brain focused on what your hand is doing and unable to open his eyes. “I want it so bad.”
You don’t think he hears you chuckle and you’re thankful he doesn’t. You can imagine he would genuinely be embarrassed to know you’re witnessing his pure blissed-out and aroused-state of mind right now.
And it’s not shocking that he’s entirely focused on himself at this moment, because he’s the one experiencing this for the first time. Even if you find it hard to believe that another woman has never touched his dick, you’re entirely flattered that it very well may be the case and that he wanted you to be the one to make him feel this good.
“I’ll give it to you, just relax. I’m not going to stop.” You reassure his needy movements, and the way his body squirms at the slightest of touches. “What feels good?”
God, he’s so frustrated.
“All of it.” He groans shortly, trying to take in a deep breath and just relax like you asked him too.
You nod to his closed eyes and slacked mouth, fighting against his hips to be the one to pleasure him rather than himself and only when you blow a gentle breath against the head of his cock do his hips still and he shoots his hands up to your pillows, gripping them as if he’s preparing for something.
You watch intently at the way he’s actively fighting to move now, waiting impatiently for you to do something now. Licking his lips, chewing on his bottom lip– god, he’s so pretty up there.
Then, you grant him a new sensation. Only because by this point you’re the one who is about to lose control.
You stick out your tongue and lick all the way from his balls to the head of his cock, making sure to keep pressure against it so that you can taste all of the arousal he’s spilled up until now. And while you were going to pull back to examine his reaction, this is the part where you release your self control.
The taste alone was enough to have you moaning, vibrating your voice against the vein of his length and then circling your lips around the head.
Instantly, you suck at the feeling of pre-cum still pouring out of him. This time, there seems to be more. Coating your tongue with an almost sweetened salty taste.
You feel briefly the way his hips chase the new warmth, clearly wanting to tuck itself into your mouth and quite possibly, down your throat, but you pull back and blow once again against the head.
His entire body shivers as you glance up at him.
You can barely comprehend just how into you he looks right now before rolling your own eyes in arousal at the image before immediately giving him everything your mouth has to offer.
Who cares if he comes too fast? Fucking look at him. You’d be stupid not to suck the absolute life out of him! That’s your boyfriend up there, chewing on his bottom lip, eyes sparkling through hooded lids, chest heaving–
And god, you almost wish he wasn’t as big as he is because it’s difficult to keep your eyes open when you take it in. You have to focus on sliding it through your lips, against your tongue, and right up to the back of your throat where the head of his cock bumps.
He can feel the way your fingers grip his legs through it, and by this point he has gone entirely non-verbal at the feeling.
The only sound he can make comes from deep within his chest, and he can only release those sounds with heaved out and rigid breaths. His heart is pumping faster and faster the deeper you managed to take him, and–
“Ah! W-wait!” He panics, sitting straight up and becoming fucking floored at the way you stay on him. Moving your hands to his stomach and trying to shove him back. “Fuck,” He seethes as he takes in a sharp inhale, legs shaking as he flops back against the pillows. “Fuck, i’m sorry.” He continues to murmur, feeling himself hit the wall of orgasm and practically pulverize it.
And you, oh, you. You taste it. You feel the twitching and the way his muscles stiffen under your fingers. You can hear him muttering apologies as it spills into your mouth, down your throat, and even out of the corners of your lips.
You try to take all of it, up until you can’t fucking breathe, and only then do you pull up and replace your mouth with your hand, watching in awe at the way he just……
It doesn’t fucking stop.
He went from rigid to stammering his words, to now blatantly and full-on moaning through both the pleasure and frustration of losing the warmth of your mouth.
“God, Chan….” You whisper in a raspy voice, slowing your hands and intentionally pumping it out of him by now.
“I’m sorry–” He stammers, body still shaking as you pull the rest of it out of him. “I tried to,” He winces with another unintentional moan. “I didn’t think it would feel that good.”
You smile both proudly and fondly, watching him stumble through his words and whatever excuse he tries to come up with.
“I don’t think you know how hot you look right now.” You finally say, in a more stern voice. “You couldn’t have stopped me if you wanted to.”
Only now, when he’s absolutely drenched himself in his release does he open his eyes in a drowsy way. He looks at you and that little smile on your lips and decides that, yeah, he can believe you. He trusts you, and he’s entirely obsessed with you.
“But we still haven’t–”
You cut him off quickly.
“We have all night. All day tomorrow. All week, month, year. I don’t care.” You dead-pan, reaching for his, somehow, still hard length. “Chan.” You add, gripping it and testing the actual hardness of it. “You’re still hard, which is fucking amazing by the way, and you have no idea how wet I am right now.”
Oh, my god. He forgot.
“You– you’re turned on?” He asks, looking away from you.
“So fucking turned on.” You confirm for him, now releasing his length to give him a bit of a rest, considering he must not realize he’s still shaking. “Look, feel.”
You say it as you crawl up and on top of him, seating yourself right up against his abdomen and grabbing his hand.
He just stares, watching you guide his hand straight to the seat of your shorts.
“Oh.” He sighs out.
“Even through my shorts. See? Feel it.” You continue to move his hand against you, trying not to rut your own hips up much like he was doing before.
Brain malfunction. He doesn’t even have a fucking IQ at this point as his cock immediately reacts in all of it’s sensitive, pathetic glory.
“Do you want me to, um,” He swallows around a breath he didn’t know he needed. “touch you? Can I try?”
You sigh, relieved that he’s willing and immediately push yourself off of him and take care of all of the busy-work as quickly as possible. ie: taking off your clothes.
Unfortunately, you somehow briefly forgot that the man is still a fucking virgin. You can very nearly see his mouth fall open at your nude body being revealed to him. Even more so, you can see the dribble of saliva that he doesn’t quite catch fast enough, and his cock reacts.
“You’re so cute, god.” You praise with the same compliment you’ve been giving him all night.
And when you seat yourself next to him, hugging one of his arms and tucking it between your legs before closing your thighs around it, you smile at him and the way he literally cannot stop staring with his mouth agape.
“Babe, you’re drooling.” You chuckle, shifting your hips a bit to rub yourself against his knuckles, where you’re still hugging his arm.
Only then does he slurp up his embarrassment and try to remain calm. His fogged brain comes back to him quickly upon your comments as he wills himself to sit up beside you.
He gets to….touch you.
And boy does he.
Eagerly, messily, and quite frankly, kind of embarrassingly.
You make it easier for him though, laughing as you flop back and spread your legs for him. He’s quick to simply…explore. He’s not aiming for any singular area of your pussy because to be quite honest, he’s still struggling to stop staring at the entirety of you.
You watch his eyes, the way they stare at your tits, then your thighs, your pussy being petted by his fingertips, and then– eye contact.
He seems so sure of himself despite still managing to barely touch the clit. It doesn’t bother you one bit, because his eager fingers still find ways to touch you beautifully. There’s so much intent behind the messy movements.
Slipping and sliding two fingers between your lips, up your folds, and then stopping just short of your clit before sliding back down and feeling where his cock would go if he manages to make it this far.
I mean, surely he will, right? He’s losing his virginity as he does this right now, even. Foreplay still counts, right?
And then, after several minutes of him exploring, learning, and practically teasing you half to death, you reach down to guide him.
“Right here,” You soothe out in a soft voice, pressing his fingers against your clit and seeing him take note of it. “And here.” You trail his fingers down until they reach your clenched hole, and you very slightly press against his fingers so that the tips just barely enter you.
He tilts his head at you, concentrating on where you lead him before releasing his hand and essentially leaving him to his own devices now.
And you know, he did tell you he was a quick learner, because almost immediately he’s experimenting with putting a finger into you, and using his other hand to find a rhythm to rub against your clit.
The whole time, he checks for your reaction, noting when your breathing hitches and when your body tenses. He continues, trying to only do things that make your body react and soon, you’re already turning to mush beneath him.
His fingers circle and tap your clit at a quick pace, with the other twisted inside of you. When he slides his finger out, and then back in, he rubs your clit harder, and god, yeah. Okay. You see his effort, and it’s such a good fucking effort too.
“Feels good,” You finally moan out for him, allowing yourself to give in to the pure arousal of the entire situation taking place. Thinking hard about what it would feel like to have such a desperate cock inside of you. “Use two fingers?”
He listens instantly, moaning along with you when he slides the other in with the next thrust. His fingers against your clit trail down shortly after, curiosity getting the best of him when he spreads your lips open to see you stretch around his fingers.
“It’s so warm–” He comments more to himself than to you, watching the way you pulse around him, watching the way your slick seeps out of you. It’s so hot for him to see it up close like this, and his pace slows at the image before him. “Can you take more than two?”
You lift your head in amazement at how he could ask such a thing.
“Chan.” You smile at the way he jumps in surprise at your sudden, louder voice. Fingers nearly slipping out of you. “I can take way more than just two fingers.” You glance down between his legs. “Way, way more.”
He glances down to what you’re looking at before letting out an embarrassed sob.
“You’re really going to let me?” He nearly whines in excitement.
You nod, reaching for him and pulling him to you by his shoulders. You land a kiss against his lips, trying not to shake at the way his fingers angle different inside of you as he moves to chase your lips.
“Mhm,” You soothe against his lips, intentionally scooting your hips down to your best ability to sink his fingers into you more. “Move your fingers– it feels good like this.”
He listens, feeling you throw your arms around his neck and cling to him through it, all while moaning and groaning right up against his lips. You’re not even kissing him, you’re just….acting like this and it’s fucking great.
He thought he would be the only one to be desperate in this situation, yet here you are, clinging to him as he works his fingers in you.
“When?” He finally asks upon noting the way you start to move your hips against his fingers.
You peek your eyes open and pull back to look at him.
“Now? Do you want to do it now?”
He nods, slipping his fingers out of you and inspecting how wet they’ve become.
“Can I?”
You finally fall back, leaning against your elbows and spreading your legs wide in front of him. Lending him a nod, you watch the way he just freezes after the fact.
All you can do is laugh at this moment with the way he loses any ability to remember how sex works.
Then again, you wonder if he ever even watched porn, considering how he’s acting and couldn’t manage to find the clit.
“Do you want me to be on top?” You question, blinking up at him and his blank expression.
He shakes his head at you, still frozen in his spot before his eyes slowly make their way down to the glistening sheen against your pussy.
“Don’t we like, need a condom or something? I can’t promise I’ll be able to pull out.” He asks, finally glancing away. “I don’t know if I can last as long as you want me to….”
And with that, all you do is lunge forward, grab your boyfriend by the cock, and pull him to you.
He laughs, you laugh, and then it’s silent when he leans over you, feeling his length lay against your core, already feeling spent but so, so ready to give himself to you.
“I’m on birth control. You don’t need to pull out.” You smile evilly, wiggling your hips and watching the way he closes his eyes tightly as if to regain his composure of those words.
“I’m seriously in love with you.” He mutters, pushing his hips forward and letting his length slide through the mess he made of you.
You smile, feeling that by this point, your face may actually be stuck like this permanently, and lift your head to kiss against his lips once more.
“You’re ready?” You ask quietly, against his lips. “I can help you adjust to where it needs to be. After that, I want you to do what feels best for you, okay?”
He nods timidly, taking in a deep and nervous breath before feeling your hand guide his length to the opening.
“Go on, slide in it.” You encourage him.
And he does.
Slowly at first, gently, until he feels your wet hot walls envelop the head of his cock in full, clenching, pulling him in.
His arms shake from either side of your head as he balances himself there, and it doesn’t take long for him to drop his head against your shoulder in deeper breaths than he was taking before.
The sensation is so much, it’s no wonder people like to have sex. It’s so good, you feel so, so good around him. He can’t help it when he slides in deeper, not stopping until he’s releasing a wet moan against your shoulder and holding onto you as if his life depends on it.
He thought that once he got it all the way in, it would get easier. But it doesn’t. Even as the two of you are unmoving, with your hands in his hair and soothing him through it, you still clench him. Your pussy still stimulates it without either of you doing a damn thing.
You on the other hand, won’t admit to struggling through that one, long and languid thrust inside of you. It felt as if he was splitting you open despite how wet you already were, and still are. The heaviness, the consistent twitching, all of it stretches you out more than you even knew you’d need and god, it feels so good to have him just hold onto you like, to have him adjust to the feeling.
He’s no longer a virgin, and that’s not even what matters right now.
What matters is the way he continuously nuzzles his nose against you, snaking his head to your neck and moaning consistently against your ear when he manages to finally move.
He pulls out only a little bit before his hips stutter at the sensitivity, then he pushes back in.
In and out, in and out, until–
“Fuck.” He moans, lifting suddenly from your neck, sitting up, staring directly at where his cock sits inside of you, and he just… lets go.
Knuckles white against the grip of your waist, he powers through the sensitivity, he fucks through it. Fast, with no real rhythm or ability to realize just how deep he’s pushing himself into you, and then….
He’s done for.
“That’s it,” You encourage him through half moans at the feeling, your swollen clit begging for a little bit of attention too. “Shit, Chan, that’s it.” You continue, losing yourself in his reaction to you.
He only moves faster, his hips only stutter more, and thank fuck he already came once because he wouldn’t have made it a solid inch into you before coming undone if he hadn’t. Now though? He’s pleasantly surprised to be lasting even this long.
Until he’s not, of course.
And there, between your legs, he presses in as far as he can reach and loses his breath.
Eyes rolling back, eyebrows furrowing, mouth agape, a deep moan rumbles from his chest as his shiver flows through his body at the first release inside of you.
You immediately shoot your hands to your clit, feeling it pump inside of you much like it did in your mouth. Already so much, you feel entirely full, and entirely ready if he can manage to keep coming for as long as he did before.
You fingers assault the swollen nub so fast, working yourself up much like you would during a quick session of masturbation, not wanting him to miss out on what it feels like to have a girl come on him–
It hits you faster than you can realize.
Even when he buckles and falls back to your chest out of breath, you can’t even tell him that it’s happening.
Thankfully, he doesn’t move just yet. Well, until he feels your pussy clench him tigher than before. In a rhythmic way, almost.
Only barely can he lift his head to watch you, and that’s when he notes that you’re holding your breath.
You pussy is pulsing, and then–
“Are you?” He questions, experimenting with the idea of trying to thrust into you as he asks.
There’s the breath you’d been holding.
“Yes!” You call out, both to answer his question and to appreciate that little thrust he gave you.
Even if his cock is slowly becoming flaccid, you’re still full, and he can still feel the orgasm wash over you.
He’s silent through it, wincing at his hyper-sensitive cock and very nearly cursing it out for not having waited just a minute longer to release– then, you’re hugging him.
Tightly. So tightly, you’re holding onto him and breathing into his hair. He can barely breathe himself with this hold you have on him. Still, he doesn’t fight it, he simply lets you.
Letting you cling, letting the last jolting pulses of your core push the rest of him out of you. There, he manages to lift from your weakening grasp and throw himself beside you.
Out of breath, sweating, a total mess, he looks at you like he truly will never be able to love another person the way he does right now.
And it falls silent for a long while before you roll over, throwing both an arm and leg over him.
“Man,” You sigh out. “How does it feel?” You ask this time, opening your eyes to playfully look at him.
“Huh? What?” He asks, quirking a brow.
“You know, now that you’re not a virgin anymore. How does it feel?”
He thinks hard for like two seconds before taking in a deep breath and smothering himself against the top of your head.
“Like I’m in love with you, maybe.”
And you know, given that this relationship is barely even considered one in the eyes of most people. You don’t think you care.
“Because I made you feel good, or because you want to let me make you feel good for like…” You pause, lifting your head to look him in the eye. “the rest of your life?”
He doesn’t even have to think twice.
“The second reason.”
“You’re such a simp, Chan, really.” You joke, skewing your head fondly to look at him. “But I think it’s worth a shot.”
Hoshi (k.s.y) x reader; university!au (ft. Jeonghan x OC)
genre: fluff, angst, humour, one sided pining
warnings: slow burn, swearing, corny jokes, slapping (apologies are given), yelling, alcohol, shitty friends, kind of a mean girl thing (not reader), broken friendships, heavy emotions (at certain points), reader in denial (lmk if there’s anything else)
25.3k words (I will better myself)
masterlist
excerpt: The slap you sent across Kwon Soonyoung’s face sent a reverberating sound across the dance studio.
He looks up, eyes bloodshot and swimming with fury. There’s a hint of a smile on his face for some reason, which you realize may be out of disbelief.
You don’t register anything else other than the rage that accelerates down your own veins. There’s a part of you that wants to do it again when he utters his next words.
“That was a bad fucking idea”
(A/N): FINALLY it's here. Tysm for clicking on this I love y'all tons for the support on all my other work, I hope this one makes the mark too! This reflects more of my personal situations more than you’d think, broken friendships that you’d never imagine to lose hurt like a bitch and I’m so sorry if you’ve gone through this too. Hopefully, Hoshi can give you some solace <3
titsay
