summary: clark has always prided himself in being one of the good guys. and he is, for the most part- until you come along. suddenly, his hands are in places they shouldn't be while his mind plagues him with visions of you being oh-so-sweet beneath him.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: 18+ so mdni, yearning and a whole lot of it, jealousy, clark just can't help himself. kinda feral!perv!clark trying to be as respectful as possible but lowkey failing. filthy in the best way. enjoy! x
Clark is a good guy.
Always has been, and Ma would certainly like to think that he always will be. At school, he never got so much as a stern look and pointed gaze- after all, he was a sweet little kid that smiled a bit too much and tried to take up the least amount of room possible. His teachers loved him, the envy of all his peers.
During High School, Clark kept his head down. Did his work in a flurry of soft smiles and polite nods, offering help when needed, kindly rejecting any flirtatious advances under the bleachers that would result in him getting into trouble.
"You're somethin' else, Kent." Lana rolled her eyes at him once, flicking the spectacles on his face just a little of their axis.
College followed suit. While his friends joined fraternities and disrespected sorority sisters, Clark diverted all his attention to perfecting his degree. Sure, he had a couple pecks here and there, a few misunderstandings with a handful of very drunk and slightly deprived college girls- but hey, at least he didn't take it any further.
All in all, Clark Kent grew up with the belief that he wasn't like that. He was kind. Respectful. Ma would tell him so, and Pa would go to the ends of the earth to enforce it; listen 'ere, Clark, a lady should be left alone unless prompted otherwise. You hear?
He'd nod. Pa's shoulders would relax, and Ma would place a dear old hand on her heart at the relief of her son turning out just the way she'd hoped.
But then one day, during an intense intern briefing amidst the bustling bullpen of the Daily Planet, Clark Kent met you.
And he soon realised that he might not be such a 'good guy' after all.
Because it wasn't enough that your skirt was always far too short, or that the lip gloss you wore blinded him no matter the lightning in the room. It wasnât even the way you laughed, bright and careless, like you had no idea what it did to the people around you- what it did to him and every fibre of his superhuman being.
It was everything else.
Your perfume would linger in the newsroom ten minutes after youâd left, sweet enough that Clark could still catch it when he bent over his desk. Every time he did, his chest tightened with something ugly; vanilla sugar and lemon, wrapped in a pretty gold ribbon of guilt and shame.
He hated it, but he also couldn't get enough of it.
Your voice would carry on over everyone elseâs, no matter how crowded the bullpen got. It was like his hearing had singled you out on purpose. Your heartbeat, your exhales, the slight pucker of your lips when an article brought on confusion.
Every other sound in Metropolis dulled itself accordingly, just so he could hear you ask Jimmy if he wanted coffee, or laugh at something Lois said, or mention your boyfriend in that absentminded little way that made Clarkâs jaw lock so hard it ached.
And god, your boyfriend.
Your dumb fucking boyfriend.
Clark never usually swore (it didn't come to him as naturally as the likes of golly and gosh). But fuck, Superman on Red Kryptonite himself wouldn't have the mirage of different profanities that Clark did for the man you called yours.
Funnily enough, he had never even met the guy.
Didnât need to. He hated him anyway.
He hated the way your phone lit up and brightened your face when you glanced at it. Despised the little smile that curled at your mouth when you typed back. Loathed the thought that someone else got to touch what Clark could barely stand to look at for too long.
However hard Clark made you laugh, however red your face flared after every shh little compliment thrown your way- it was never enough.
Someone else got to walk you home, kiss that gloss right off your lips, hear you laugh when no one else was around. Someone else got to climb over you at night, cover your gorgeous frame with theirs, fuck you gently into the bed until the early hours of the morning.
The thought would come to Clark late at night, when the city was finally at rest and he had only his thoughts to keep him awake. He'd envision you writhing beneath him, soft voice dripping like honey in his ears, moaning his name like a prayer and begging, pleading, for his touch.
His release would come quick. But on the nights the guilt settled in too deep, it wouldnât come at all- and heâd spend the next few hours lying awake in silence, trying to atone for every impure thought heâd ever had about you.
It made something mean curl low in his stomach, something heâd spent his whole life pretending wasnât there.
Because Clark was supposed to be good. He was supposed to smile and hold doors open and politely excuse himself when you leaned over his desk to point something out, cleavage threatening to spill, exposed neck so inviting he felt like a rabid animal; your mere existence flooding his senses so completely that for one humiliating second, he forgot his own name.
Lately, being around you felt less like admiration, and a hell of a lot more like drowning.
Youâd walk into a room and heâd know it before he looked up. His whole body knew. The tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his shoulders went rigid, the awful, immediate awareness of where you were- crossing your legs at your desk, tugging your coat off your shoulders, leaning your cheek into your palm while you read over some notes.
Clark noticed all of it. Against his will. Against every decent thing Ma and Pa had ever taught him.
Eventually, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He booked some time off.
He told Perry he needed a break from the city, his eyes never quite leaving the floor. "Ma and Pa..." he scratched the back of his neck nervously, the lie coming out in one smooth sweep, "They've been asking for me. Some fence panels fell, Pa's heart... just wanna be there in any way I can."
It wasnât a lie, exactly. The Kent farm always had something that needed looking after, even if it wasn't an immediate fence post. There were always animals to feed, fields to tend. Plenty to keep a man occupied.
"Take the time off, Kent. You deserve it."
After that, the situation became a civil war in his mind; one that had him at a loss no matter the outcome.
He convinced himself day after day that the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his back and the ache in his muscles would drown out the ache youâd left somewhere far deeper. He busied his hands, giving them something to do other than grip the base of his cock at night, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was your skin beneath his legs and your mouth wrapped around his tip.
He needed Kansas air in his lungs instead of your perfume in his office, your laugh in the elevator, your voice drifting over cubicle walls and undoing him with every syllable.
He thought distance would help. What with Maâs cooking and Paâs quiet talks on the porch, there was simply no way the trip home wouldn't knock some sense back into him; remind him who he was, who he was supposed to be.
Even in Smallville however, you followed him.
And by the time Clark came back to Metropolis, he was exhausted in a way no amount of sleep could fix.
But you werenât there.
Your desk sat empty.
Chair tucked in. Computer dark and oddly enough, collecting a light blanket of dust.
At first, Clark thought you were just running late. You were always stuck in traffic, and coffee lines always seemed to double in size whenever you walked into a cafĂŠ. He tried not to look at your desk every five minutes as he ran out of excuses to make on your behalf.
By noon, he was making mistakes. The backspace was hit more than a coherent sentence was formed; typos littered his edge of the column. Missed calls had Lois smacking him on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. For someone so in tune with the written word, Clark even found himself reading the same paragraph three times over without taking in a single word.
Finally, he looked up from his monitor and asked Jimmy as casually as he could manage. Though the other man barely glanced up from his camera, Clark got the only answer he needed.
âOh, she took some time off. Started a few days after you left, I think.â
He swallowed, nodding slowly, and that shouldâve been the end of it.
But Jimmy kept talking.
âGuess her and her boyfriend broke up. Saw her crying in the break room last week. Lois said sheâs staying with family for a bit.â
Clark didnât hear the rest.
The words lodged themselves somewhere deep and awful, echoing through his skull all day. He hated how quickly his pulse kicked up.
Broke up.
You and your god-awful fucking boyfriend that made Clark swear (albeit in his own mind) had broken up.
And you were single.
A hot, selfish feeling unfurled in his chest before he could stop it.
You had been hurting. You had been crying. Yet the first thought that crossed his mind- before concern, before decency, before anything good that he was taught all his life- was that there was no boyfriend anymore. No one standing between you and him, the line between reality and fantasy dissolving into a thin blur in the week he spent throwing hay bales and flying circles around the equator.
That night, Clark lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his apartment, the city humming beyond his windows. For the first time in weeks, he found his restraint collapsing completely.
He let his mind wander, hands itching to free the stiffness in his boxers. He stroked long and deliberately, steady, the way he'd always imagined your first time with him would be.
He wasn't like that ex-boyfriend of yours. Wasn't selfish or needy or desperate. No, Clark would kiss the ground you walked on. He'd fuck you nice and slow, praise you like you were the God, make you come so hard the other guy would feel like fiction. He's not just Clark Kent after all- he's Superman, and even Superman has a few fun tricks up his supersuit sleeve.
You were a rocket. He'd overheard your conversations with Cat in the break room in the past, each one lewd and inappropriate but addictive all the same. Your ex could only last so long, only cared for a few unimpressive positions- but Clark, Clark could last forever and a day if you wanted. You burned hot and filthy and Clark knew he could match you without breaking a single sweat.
You'll come back to work soon- tired, maybe, eyes a little puffy from crying, soft from the heartache. You'll lean against his desk again, this time with no mention of another man. No absent little smiles at your phone. No reason for Clark to pretend he doesn't need you like oxygen.
He'll be there for you. Whether it's a shoulder to cry on, someone to vent to or an outlet in general, there's no other place he'd rather be.
And if, somewhere between the late nights at the office and grateful smiles meant only for him, you start needing him a little too much⌠you can't expect him to refrain from giving you what you want, surely?
Clark Kent is a good man. A nice man.
But if leaning into the bad is exactly what it takes to finally have you under him instead of just in his head...
a/n: Hereâs my little âget well soonâ gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, âSo, was he good?â Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.Â
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.Â
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fuckedâŚ
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone whoâd experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.Â
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.Â
If you didnât orgasm, it didnât count.Â
If you werenât still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasnât that either.Â
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.Â
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passionâŚintimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasnât going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didnât bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cumâŚ
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought heâd made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you werenât alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. Youâd known him for two years and heâd been your partner for one of them.Â
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldnât pinpoint when âcoworkersâ had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
âBest orgasm youâve had during sex?â His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like heâd asked you about rainfall percentages. He didnât even look away from the laptop while he said it.
Youâd forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like youâd spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer heâd already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. âYou think men do that?â you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
âTo you?â Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. âI hope so.â
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. âYouâre a fucking idiot,â you said plainly. âAnd maybe a pervert.â
Scott pointed at you immediately. âYouâre changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I donât. That actually makes me less of a pervert.â
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
âJust because it doesnât make you hard doesnât make you not a pervert,â you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
âHow do you know Iâm not?â he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress heâd never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
âYouâre not attracted to me, Scott,â you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
âYou seem awfully confident about that.â
âI am.â You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. âSo donât say shit that makes me sound stupid.â
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data heâd stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
âIâm ready,â you said. âGood to go?â
âNeed five minutes,â he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. âThe data will still be there tomorrow. Câmon, Scotty.â
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldnât see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
âScotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,â he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. âItâs Scott.â
âItâs whatever I decide it is,â you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
âCome open my door.â
âSince when do you need me to do that?â he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
âSince you got comfortable commenting on my bras.â
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didnât have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.Â
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR wouldâve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely werenât going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
âWhatâs wrong with Scott?â
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasnât drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interactionâŚand staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. âDo you mean tonight or in general?â you asked dryly. âBecause Iâm pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but youâd have to ask his mother for confirmation.â
Javi frowned harder. âI mean tonight. He looks tense and itâs making me uneasy.â
âItâs Scott. He always looks tense.â
âMore than usual.â Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. âTell him to relax for onceâŚand to make some friends. Thatâs literally why we came here.â
You pointed at yourself immediately. âWhy am I responsible for that?â
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. âBecause you speak âScottâ fluently. Translate what I just said into something heâll actually understand.â
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. âYouâre bribing me.â
âAnd that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,â he replied. âSo yes. Go.â
You snorted into the rim of your glass. âPretty sure stress is whatâs making you bald, by the wayâŚnot Scottâs burning gaze.â
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. âJust go talk to him.â
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.Â
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
âOutside,â you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone shouldâve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scottâs eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadnât said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
âWhatâs your current issue?â you asked.
âCurrent?â Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
âWhenâs the last time you had sex?â
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. âExcuse me?â
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. âWhat? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?â
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. âYes. Obviously.â
Scott snorted.
âAnd those are long-drive questions,â you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. âNot âparking lot outside a packed barâ questions.â
âYou still need to answer.â He shrugged again. âThose are the rules.â
âHave I ever told you how stupid those rules are?â
âFirst time Iâm hearing complaints since youâre the one who made them,â he replied with a grin.
âYouâre insufferable,â you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
âAre you seriously gonna make me answer?â
âI canât make you do anything,â he said calmly. âBut I can wait. I still have to drive you home.â
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. Youâd already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
âCan we leave now?â you asked.
Scott didnât answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
âGet in and lock the doors,â he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
âDonât tell me what to do,â you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didnât mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you werenât entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scottâs truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpfulâŚ
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didnât start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his faceâŚwaiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
âA year and a half,â you blurted out finally. âGive or take.â
Scottâs head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. âNo,â he said immediately. âI donât believe that.â
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. âBelieve whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. Thatâs the game.â
âA year and a half?â he repeated, staring at you like youâd confessed to murder. âWhat the hell do you even do on weekends?â
âCurrently?â you replied dryly. âSit in your truck while you annoy me.â
âNo,â he said, already turning the key in the ignition. âYouâre irritated because youâre sexually frustrated.â
You barked out another incredulous laugh.Â
âAnd youâve been sexually frustrated since I met you,â he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. âWhich explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.â
âExcuse you?â You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. âFirst the bra comments and now this? Whatâs next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?â
âPut your seatbelt on.â The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. âDonât fucking tell me what to do, Scott. Iâm not drunk enough toââ
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentallyâŚor maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Youâd heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.Â
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balmâŚreceiptsâŚsome loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadnât found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. Heâd had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front doorâŚall while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.Â
Determination sat stiffly in your chest nowâŚYou were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point heâd taken off his cap, you didnât know when and hadnât realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
âNight, Scott,â you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his faceâŚvery determined to remain dressed.
âAre you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?â That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
Youâd been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didnât happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a manâs face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driverâs side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of himâŚthen a full minute passedâŚfollowed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadnât just shut the door on himâŚfive minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosityâŚmaybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.Â
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since youâd felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"FuckâŚScott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
âHoly s-shit!â Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadnât allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. âGoodnight,â he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds youâd been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sexâŚthat had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didnât mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, youâd crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because youâd spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didnât trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
âWe donât have to talk about it,â you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. âDo you want to?â he asked.
âI donât,â you admitted. âI feel like you do though.â
âYouâre right.â
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.Â
âI thought you liked being right.â Scott added.
âFucking love it,â you replied automatically before grimacing. âUsually.â
Silence settled again until you broke it. âOkay,â you sighed eventually. âMaybe one thing.â You turned to him properly this time. âI wasnât that drunk that night. Actually, I wasnât drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.â
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. âI wouldnât have touched you if you were drunk,â he said flatly. âIâm an asshole, not fucking stupid.â
You leaned back against the seat slowly. âEven thatâs changed.â
His brows furrowed. âWhat does that mean?â
âThe coffee for starters,â you said. âThe lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.â You gestured vaguely toward him. âYou used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldnât remember how I took it. Now itâs magically perfect every fucking morning.â
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
âI thought eating around other people would make this less weird,â he admitted. âAnd I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.â
âOur truck,â you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. âAnd nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!â
âStop yelling at me.â His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
âWhy?â you shot back. âIs it making you hard?â
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you werenât wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadnât snapped at him once during work and he hadnât gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since heâd met you, you were actually sleeping.
âSo when are we doing it again?â he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVERâŚthat shouldâve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries shouldâve landed on immediately.
It just wasnât the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldnât happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.Â
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldnât be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasnât in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scottâs apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didnât exist.
You still couldnât pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scottâs hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you werenât already fucked, you were about to be.
Youâd been inside Scottâs apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scottâs apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since youâd felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Donât fuckinâ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasnât just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasnât some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showedâŚ
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.Â
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking viseâŚso perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didnât take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didnât slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Donât you dare pull outâŚâwant you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you wouldâve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It wouldâve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.Â
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering youâŚwith his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, theyâre a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum đ (wait chew me next)
âŚClark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main MasterlistâŚ
âŚsummary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.âŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŚ
âŚwc: 10.5kâŚ
âŚauthor's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with itâŚ
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didnât question it. He runs everywhere. Itâs a little ridiculous he doesnât have a red face more.
âWant some water?â Youâd tapped on his desk, and heâd let out a sharp breath.
âYeah.â His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. âWater- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadnât looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didnât do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when youâd walked past.
Youâd gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didnât reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and youâd just gotten used to it. Maybe youâd stepped in dog poop on the train and no oneâs told you.
âDo I smell bad?â Youâd asked Jimmy, and heâd looked at you like your were crazy.
âI donât know? I donât go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-â
âIâm not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.â Youâd hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. âIâm asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-â
âThen go ask Lois!â
âLois is in Gotham, I canât ask Lois-â
âThen ask Clark, heâll be happy to smell me-â
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. âIf this is some weird mating dance, Iâm not interested-â
âItâs not a mating dance!â
âIt seems like a mating dance-â
âItâs not-â Youâd shaken your head. âJust stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!â
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmyâs eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and youâd known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever heâs close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
âHi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-â
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
Heâs a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and thereâs a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and heâs shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. Heâs pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. Heâs breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clarkâs brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesnât know what to do either. Youâve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
âHey, buddy.â Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like heâs speaking to a feral animal. âYou feeling alright?â
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like heâd almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesnât mean to. Itâs Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giantâs body.
But like this, Clark doesnât look like a man. He looks like something thatâs crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesnât respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If heâs been corrupted by somethingâin this world, you canât rule anything outâand he attacks, youâre not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clarkâs huge, heâd crush Jimmy with one fist and youâd be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whateverâs going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
âIâm fine.â He rasps, staring at Jimmy. âJust- Didnât sleep well. You know.â
Jimmy blinks. âNo, uh- I donât-â
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
âYou smell good.â He mutters.
He turns like somethingâs dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutesâin total baffled silenceâbefore Jimmyâs mouth falls open.
âWhat the fuck is up with him?â
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while heâs editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and heâs a good reporter but not the best writer.
âYou canât use that word here.â You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
âThere are no other words I could use, though-â
âCorrupt?â
âBut- Oh.â He sighs, hitting backspace. âSee? Thatâs why youâre the expert.â
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
âHowâs your piece coming?â He asks kindlyâalways kindlyâand you groan.
âDogshit.â
âIâm sure itâs not that bad-â
âMy main source backed out.â You grumble. âLike a little baby bitch. I canât make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, itâs asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-â
âBut you won the last one.â Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
âYeah. Because I had a source.â
âAh. Right.â He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. Itâs a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
âWhat if I said I have a source for you?â He asks softly, and you perk up.
âReally?â
âYeah, really.â He grins. âYou know, Iâd think youâd have faith in me, I wouldnât lie about that-â
âShut up, Iâm excited-â
âI can tell.â He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when youâre excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
Itâs Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask whatâs wrong, but he shakes his head like heâs already denying you an answer.
âItâs- Uh- Superman.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âSuperman can be your source.â He grunts, shifting in his chair. âI can ask him to. For you.â
âI- You donât have to.â
âI want to.â
âI can find someone else-â
âNo, I- Iâve got it.â
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
Youâre used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. Thereâs no amount of love youâd risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. âThank you.â
He nodsâtight and jerkedâstares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
âI have to go to the bathroom!â He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesnât come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
Heâs back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick youâre worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is Whatâs up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if youâve got any idea whatâs Clarkâs been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him teaâa thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he hasâand Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Careâyouâve given up on trying to get him to the ERâClark grunts a sound like no and wonât hear another word.
Youâre getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clarkâs always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and itâs somehow not effecting his work performance.
âClark.â You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. âYou need to go to a doctor.â
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like heâs in prayer.
âClark-â
âPlease.â He says, so quiet you almost miss it. âBack up.â
You blink. âBack up?â
He nods, and thereâs a sting in your heart.
He hasnât asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesnât relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still wonât fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
âClark.â Youâve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. âThe doctor-â
âI donât need a doctor.â He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
âYouâre sick-â
âNo. Iâm not.â
âDude, I- I can feel your fever from here.â The heat, rolling off his body like heâs an active star. âAt least just go so they can say youâre not sick.â
He doesnât answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesnât want you too close.
âPlease?â You say. âIt would make all of us feel better.â
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like thereâs something toxic coming off of you that heâs trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
Itâs never fun, for the man youâve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like youâre proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But thatâs not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
âClark- Please-â
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
âOh- Okay. Sorry.â
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You canât help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesnât come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but wonât report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
âIs he-â
âHeâs not sick.â Jimmy stares at you like youâre a ghost. âHeâs- Um- We should- Give him space.â
You frown. âBut-â
âLots of space.â Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. âAnd maybe me some bleach. Freakinâ- Gross-â
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. Youâre wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
âDonât go visit him.â
You shoot her a glare. âI wasnât going to-â
âYes, you were.â She raises her brows. âDonât.â
âBut-â
âDonât.â
âWhat if he needs something-â
âI texted his cousin. She knows what to do.â
âToâŚâ You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Loisâ grip. âYou know whatâs going on with him, donât you.â
Lois shrugs. âYeah. Maybe.â
âLois-â
âHeâs going to be fine.â She says, giving you a firm look. âDonât check on him.â
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clarkâs apartment.
You donât go inside. Loisâ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while youâre more than willing to disobey her, itâs the way sheâd said it.
Donât.
His door is right there.
Loisâ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldnât listen.
Donât.
You made him soup, because youâre pathetic. Heâd left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and youâd brought it home to clean up before returning it. Youâd had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where youâd give Clark his jacket, heâd swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. Itâs too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You donât remember walking inside the building.
Donât.
But you want to.
Donât.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if heâs been waiting for you to check on him-
Donât.
Loisâ voice isnât louder than your heartbeat. But itâs level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clarkâs face. Keep thinking of how heâd been stiffer than concrete, until youâd moved away.
He wouldnât want to see you right now. Heâd made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
Itâs a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he canât stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know whatâs going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what youâre trying not to think about.
Itâs hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CCâd.
Heâs everywhere. You canât stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says heâs basically out of commission. Canât really do anything right now, heâd grumbled, making a sour face. Too⌠Sick.
Heâd said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually youâd talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, youâre very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, donât think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that youâve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but youâd kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows youâre thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousinâs number, so you can ask her if heâs okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Loisâ voice in your head, and go visit him.
Youâre about to go with that last option, when thereâs a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. Itâs hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way youâve never seen on TV. Maybe heâs just more casual, when heâs doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, itâs just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
âHello?â
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesnât look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And itâs not just the ragged appearance. Itâs something deeper. Itâs the way heâs staring at you like heâs worried youâre going to attack him. Like heâs restraining himself from moving, like youâre a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, thereâs something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe itâs just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. Thereâs an openness on his face that wasnât there before. And heâs not looking at you like heâs afraid or skittish.
Heâs looking at you like heâs a predator. Like youâre prey.
âClark?â
âIâm here for your interview-â
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. SupermanâClark? âpushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like heâs been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
âClark- Wait-â
Supermanâs body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put ClarkâSuperman? âin your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
Heâs burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. Youâre not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. Itâs hard not to reach out to him, but you donât feel like you should. He hadnât wanted you near him, and youâve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You canât rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whateverâs tormenting him isnât enough to wake him up, but itâs enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And heâs loud. Youâre lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or youâd get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, heâs somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. Heâs got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. Thereâs a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
Thatâs⌠Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. Youâre thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clarkâs bulge. Supermanâs bulge.
You still havenât really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. Youâre sure. Youâve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How youâve never seen him get drunk. The fact that heâs built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm. Â
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sureâyou have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusationsâyou cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clarkâs ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing heâd been using for cover.
You donât let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You wonât violate him like that. Youâre here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clarkâs brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You donât mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. Heâs Superman. Youâve watchedâalbeit from afarâhim pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if youâre glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, thatâs the least important thing thatâs happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
âClark?â You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like heâs in pain. Your touch helped, and heâd liked it, and-
No. You canât. You wonât. Youâre stronger than that, and heâs not in his right mind. Whateverâs effecting himâwhateverâs strong enough to effect Supermanâcanât be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because heâd moved your hand there. He probably doesnât even know itâs you.
But heâd been calling your name. Heâs calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you werenât such a masochist, youâd put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And youâre not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You havenât even managed to close your eyes.
Youâre so dazed from the everything that you donât hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clarkâs standing in the door of the living room.
Heâs naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, youâre too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
Heâs glorious. Itâs not just the muscle and size of him, itâs all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when youâre sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But itâs also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight youâre worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldnât complain.
And his cock.Â
You donât know how he manages to walk around with that thing. Itâs bigger than the toys youâve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
âClark, I- Iâm so sorry-â
âDonât.â He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like heâs actively stopping them from moving. âIâm the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldnât have come here.â
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. Heâd been humping the sheets all night. Youâd heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
âI broke your bed.â He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. âIâll fix it when- This passes.â
âClark-â
âStop saying it like that.â
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You canât tell if itâs with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
âPlease donât say my name. Like that, or- At all.â His throat bobs. âIt makes everything very hard.â
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
âYeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.â
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he wonât stop staring at you,.
âDonât laugh either.â
âI- Iâm sorry-â
âAnd donât apologize, or- Or look at me-â
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
âCla-â You cut yourself off. âShould I call you Superman?â
âNo- That- Thatâs weird-â
âKal-El?â
âWorse.â He grunts, and you sigh.
âI need to be able to call you something.â
âIt would be better if you didnât talk, actually.â
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
âNo, not- Not like that-â
âNot like what-â
âItâs just, when you talk-â
âItâs hard?â You snap, and you donât know why youâre so mad all of a sudden. Maybe itâs how you havenât slept in almost two days.
Itâs probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, youâre going to kill him.
âPlease donât sat that word.â Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
âNo. Iâm going to talk, and youâre going to listen and give me answers.â
âI- I donât think thatâs a good idea-â
âYou donât get to decide whatâs a good idea right now, boner-boy.â
He wrinkles his nose. âThat⌠Doesnât seem fair.â
âMaybe, but you know whatâs also not fair?â You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. âIgnoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!â
âI didnât tell you to shut up-â
âYou said I shouldnât talk.â
âI said it would be better if you didnât talk.â He mumbles, staring at the floor. âThatâs not the same-â
âShut up.â
âSorry.â
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
âYou better fix the wall, Kent.â
âI will. âM sorry-â
âStop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me whatâs wrong!â
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesnât move away.
âYouâre not allowed to- To be mad.â He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. âBe more mad.â
 Thatâs not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he canât bear to see your reaction. Â
âYou know kryptonite?â
You blink. âOf course I know kryptonite, I donât live under a rock.â
âRight. Well,â he coughs. âThereâs, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does⌠Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think youâd like her-â
âClark.â
âSorry- Sorry.â He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
âRed kryptonite?â You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
âI got exposed to some.â He mumbles. âLast weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually itâs something like⌠Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-â
âIt what-â
âI got better.â He says quickly. âBut itâs usually immediate. This wasnât. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasnât going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, andâŚâ
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
Thereâs a very reasonable guess to what itâs doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
âWhat happened when you saw me?â You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. Heâs going to need talking into this.
âClark.â You say gently, and he groans.
âPlease donât make me say it.â
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. Itâs almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
âItâs very⌠Demanding.â He mumbles. âAbout certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I canât ask that of you-â
âCanât you?â
Your question is quiet. You know heâll hear you.
And Clarkâs head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
âYou- You canât mean that-â
âWhy not?â
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
âIâd like to.â You murmur. He grunts.
âYou donât have to pity me-â
âItâs not pity.â
He chuckles dryly. âFeels like it. I know you donât- Thatâs not how you feel-â
âWho says itâs not how I feel?â
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
âUhh⌠Steve?â
You scoff. âSteveâs been trying to ask me out for three years, of course heâd tell you that.â
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
Youâve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
âI- I could hurt you.â He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. âI like being hurt a little.â
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and youâre a little worried heâs going to break your whole apartment if he doesnât move soon.
âClark.â You whisper, taking a small step forward. âI trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.â
âNo, you-â
âDonât tell me what I feel.â
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
âWill it hurt you?â You ask. âIf you ignore it?â
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
âThen use me.â You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. âPlease.â
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clarkâs fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like youâre made of feathers, and thereâs something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, youâd think something about free fall and having no worry if thereâs nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But youâre not in your right mind. Because Clark isnât kissing you like a kiss.
Heâs inhaling you, and itâs already lighting you on fire.
Thereâs a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. Itâs the most beautiful sound youâve ever heard.
Clarkâs back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, thereâs no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
âClark-â
âSo- Sorry-â He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. âYouâre just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-â
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
âSmell so good.â He almost whines. âSo good.â
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. Youâre the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but heâs also a man whoâs in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. Heâs almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he canât even help himself. You donât think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This wouldâve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
âItâs okay.â You coo, kissing the side of his head. âYou can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-â
âYou- You canât-â
âDonât tell me what I get to want-â
âNo, you canât.â He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You donât mind at all.
âIâll hurt you.â He mutters, and you sigh.
âWe talked about this-â
âIâll hurt you.â He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he canât physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. Youâd think was a stick if you didnât know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
âI need to get you ready.â
You swallow. âI- Iâm pretty-â You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and thereâs the familiar tingling ache thatâs always a good sign. âI feel pretty ready-â
Clark grunts. âNot ready enough.â
âHow do you know-â
âNose.â
âNose- Oh.â You flush. He can smell your arousal. âBut thatâs a good thing, right-â
âNot enough.â
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. Youâre not faring much better, but thereâs also a massive man below you that canât stop sucking around your tits.
âCan you⌠Always smell me?â You manage to ask, and he hums.
Thatâs his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
âAre you serious-â
âI canât help it.â
âYou- You could wear nose plugs-â
âNo. Like it too much.â
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
âYou- Canât move-â
âYou should move-â
âWonât hurt you.â He grunts, like heâs making a vow. âJust- Need a second.â
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but youâre desperate.
âYou were better when you woke up.â You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. âLucid.â
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
âYou came in bed last night.â
He stiffens slightly. âWet dream.â
âAbout who?â
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. âYouâre very⌠Mouthy. Like this.â
And youâve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says itâlike something heâs measuring, a note heâs jotting down for a pieceâmakes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
âWow. Mouthy.â You tease. âNot very polite, Clark.â
âThere are other words I couldâve used for it.â He mumbles, and you giggle.
âYeah? Like what?â
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
âA brat.â
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like youâre something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than youâve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
âI should jerk you off.â You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
âYou- You canât just say that-â
âBut it will help.â You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. âYouâll feel better enough to- To get me ready.â You try to keep your voice level, as if youâre not thrilled just to say the words. âAnd then⌠More.â
Clark doesnât answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didnât hear.
âCan you please look at me-â
âNo.â He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
âClark-â
âDonât ask me to move.â His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
âClark.â You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. âItâs okay.â
âI- I need to get you-â
âIâm going to touch you, okay?â
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
âSorry-â
âItâs okay.â You say quickly, smiling slightly. âGood preview.â
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like heâs going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and donât give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
Heâs throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
âBe- Be careful.â
You pause. âDoes it not feel-â
âFeels good.â He grunts. âToo good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-â
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way heâs moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once heâs back in controlâonce this massive dildo of a dick is inside youâyouâre not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
âLike- Like that- Shit.â He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. âYeah, baby, oh- Right there-â
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legsâkeeping your hands workingâClark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
âWhat- What are you-â
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound youâve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. Youâre in no danger of pain.
Thereâs something thrilling about how heâs gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
âSorry- Fucking Christ-â
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesnât take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
âAre you-â
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like itâs a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
âLook- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-â
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
âYouâre so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-â Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. âYour mouth is so warm, and- And soft-â
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
Heâs cumming.
And heâs not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, thereâs not a place it hasnât hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
âIf you-â
âDo that inside me.â
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
âI- I mean- Clark-â
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
âI heard you.â He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. âPretty well, actually.â
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
âDonât- Donât tease-â
âTrust me.â He mutters darkly. âI wonât.â
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
âOh- Oh god-â
âIf I had time.â Clark murmurs, almost to himself. âIâd keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,â his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. âLet you make a mess in my lap. Wait âtill youâre begging for it, then touch you,â one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. âNice and slow, until you feel what Iâm dealinâ with right now.â
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when heâs horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
âOh, you like that.â He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. âYeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.â
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. Thereâs a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
âClaaaark.â You moan, squeezing tight around him.
Youâre rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
âThatâs it.â He mutters. âJust seeing what you need, itâs alright. Shit,â he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. âYouâre so wet. I- I gotta-â
You hear it start to possess him, and you canât be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. Heâs strong, but youâre horny, and thatâs sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like heâs having a fine meal.
You canât look away from it. Itâs the hottest, most lewd thing youâve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like heâs milking you for more.
Youâre a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
Thereâs nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. Youâre a smeared, wrecked mess that canât stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
Itâs predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
âWanted to do that for so long.â He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. âYouâd come into the office and start gettinâ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought Iâd lose my mind, every single day.â
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
âThere she is.â He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until youâre drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But youâve also never been put over Clarkâs lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push upâhe needs attentionâbut Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
âNeed to be inside you.â He grunts. âNeed you ready.â
Well. If he needs it.
Itâs easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesnât take long for you to feel like youâre close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
âClark- Clark-â You donât have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. âI- Iâm gonna-â
âI know.â He mutters, and fuck, you donât doubt him. âWhenever youâre ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.â
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
Youâre dazed from the orgasm. Itâs the strongest youâve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clarkâs fingers pull away.
âYouâre ready.â He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything thereâs no friction. The tension in Clark tells you heâs close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
âJust- Stay like that, beautiful.â He kisses the side of your head. âAnd if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. Iâll stop.â
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know heâs Clark. And there isnât a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
âCan you- Can you please say youâll tell me-â
âIâll tell you.â Itâs barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
âGood. Good girl.â He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. âLet me- Canât do it here. Not right.â
Youâre not sure what heâs talking about until youâre airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
Thatâs a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldnât be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
âKeeping her ready.â He rumbles, and you hum. Youâre certainly not complaining.
Youâre already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clarkâs hands. He mightâve already ruined you forever.
âDonât do that.â
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
Heâs back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
âI touch you.â He grunts, and you canât argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like itâs gotten harder. You swallow. Itâs very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, youâre going to try.
Heâs been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but heâs not making any attempt to move on you. Heâs just⌠Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god youâd like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. Itâs right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
âDidnât mean to do that.â He rasps, and your lips twitch.
âI liked it.â
He chuckles, shaking his head. âOf course you did.â
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. Thereâs almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
âGoinâ slow.â He mumbles. âWhile I can.â
You nod. Itâs all you can manage.
He feels just as bigâif not biggerâthan he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and youâd be worried you couldnât take it if your pussy wasnât greedily swallowing him whole.
âThatâs it.â Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. âThereâs you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-â
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. Itâs good, unbelievably good, and your body doesnât know what to do with it.
âTight.â Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
âBig.â
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
ââm serious.â He says, low and rough. Like a secret. âWhen I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-â
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You canât stop your smile.
âI know.â You breathe, and he nods.
âLove you.â He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. âSo much.â
You blink, and his eyes widen.
âThatâs- Um- I donât think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-â
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man thatâs somehow, all yours.
âMy brain is soupy too.â You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
âVery soupy. But,â You beam. âI love you too. And Iâm very serious.â
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. Youâd like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
âMake me dumb.â You breathe, and Clarkâs shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. Itâs a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
Heâs fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. Thereâs no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesnât let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
Youâve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clarkâs barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
Itâs too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is yourâusualâmax, and thatâs usually with time between. But Clark isnât letting up. And youâre getting close again.
âCla- Clark-â You whine out, and he fucking growls. âClark, Iâm gonna-â
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than youâd thought. At first itâs nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then itâs more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then itâs too much. Youâre not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, itâs everything. Youâre full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you donât think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because heâs still fully hard inside of you. And with how heâs staring at you, you donât think thereâs a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
Thereâs a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. Itâs the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You donât know how thereâs still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly youâre being flipped over, and Clarkâs impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
Itâs a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, youâre ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isnât a spot in the apartment that doesnât feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, youâd find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When youâd looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like youâd molded him to only fit in you.
Itâs an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clarkâs waiting for you in the living room. Heâs been trying to clean, but you donât think thereâs a point.
âI told you Iâm going to have to move,â you joke, and he sighs.
âWell, I- I really tried, but-â He wrinkles his nose. âI think it got in things. When I- Yeah.â He groans. âI can see it.â
âSee it-â
âX-ray vision.â
âOh.â That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. Itâs going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
âSorry I didnât tell you,â he mutters.
You shake your head. âIt fine-â
âI wanted to-â
âClark.â You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. âItâs okay. Really.â
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
âReally?â He asks anyway, and you nod.
âReally.â You nod to the floor. âI can even start apartment hunting right now.â
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
Itâs the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, itâs still just Clark. And youâre more lucky to have that, than anything else.
âYou could move in with me.â He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
âI-â
âIf itâs too fast, you donât have to, I- Geez, I havenât even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-â
âClark.â You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. âI was thinking the same thing earlier.â
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. âYou were?â
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
âItâs not- Maybe too fast-â
âMaybe.â You shrug. âBut I- Iâve loved you for years.â You look down to your fingers. âAnd we kind of lived together before. For work. And youâre my friend, first, so if you think itâs fine-â
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and itâs barely been a day, but itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âIâm gonna do it right, though.â Clark says against your lips. âTake you out. Woo you.â
You laugh. âBring it on.â
âŚEnd note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary highâŚ
âŚIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŚ
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synopsis: you and clark have a one night stand, but he's determined to see you again
cw: literally no plot just porn, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it babes), creampie <3
wc: 1.2k
a/n: um wtf i'm actually sorry for being so busy. my professors are assholes, and the people at my internship are assholes too. i just miss you guys so much and i actually wish i could marry some rich man just so i can spend all my time writing clark kent smut đŠ also THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 13K HONEYS!!! i love you babies sosososo much <333 you know you're my world đ
A one-night stand hadn't been Clark's intention when he agreed to go out with his friends. He was just supposed to get a drink, hang out a little, and then go home.
He hadn't thought he'd end up in your bed.
He rocks into you slowly, your gummy walls tight around his cock as it stretches you out. Your body trembles under his, the skin of your neck tasting salty with sweat as he kisses over your throat.
âGosh, you feel so good,â he groans, his voice hoarse and thick. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, his eyes half-lidded as he looks down at you while he fucks you.
You just moan sweetly into his ear, your nails dragging down his back, scratching at his shoulder blades. You look so beautiful like this, all blissed out, and he feels honored to be able to give you pleasure.
This hadn't been his plan at all. But when he'd seen you in the bar, sitting with your friends, his heart had stuttered and his mind had gone blank.
You were gorgeous. A being worthy of worship and paintings and hymns.
He'd been unable to look away for most of the night. Clark just stared at you, his eyes always returning to you no matter how hard he tried not to seem like a creep. But you were so beautiful. And then you'd glanced in his direction, your gaze meeting his, and a jolt of electricity shot through him.
When you smiled at him, he knew he was a goner. He had to approach you. Had to talk to you. He's not sure how he got lucky enough for you to want him back, for you to casually invite him to your place. Heâd been almost too eager, too quick, to say yes.
Your bedroom now smells of sweat and sex, the sound of skin on skin loud as he fucks into you. Surely, the neighbors can hear the bed hitting the wall, your moans and gasps, and Clarkâs low groans.
He grabs your thigh, draping it over his waist and changing the angle so he can slide deeper into you.
You squeal softly, your beautiful eyes rolling back as his thick cock drags against your inner walls, sending sharp jolts of ecstasy through your veins. âClark,â you moan. âOh, God.â
"I know, baby, I know," he murmurs in your ear before kissing across your jawline. âFuck, you feel so good.â
He increases his pace, his hips rolling just right, his cock pressing up against your g-spot. You mewl sweetly, slick cunt squelching obscenely each time he presses in.
He groans low, delivering sloppy kisses down your neck and across your collarbone. One of his hands slides down, his fingers deftly working at your clit in slow circles as he continues to pound you.
You whine, delighted, as your hips start rocking against him, matching his rhythm, a hot pressure slowly building in your womb.
âClark, Clark,â you say breathlessly, scratching harder at his back, your thighs starting to shake. Out of all the one-night stands you've had, this one is by far the best. Clark just knows what heâs doing. He fucks you so perfectly, touches you just right, and the weight of his body on you feels like heaven. Youâd stay under him for days if you could.
âI know,â he says again, his mouth trailing down to your breasts, kissing each one reverently before licking over one of your nipples. âI know you wanna come. I'll get you there.â
He sucks on your nipple gently, grazing his teeth over it before swirling his tongue around the hardened peak. His fingers pick up the pace against your needy clit, and suddenly the pressure in your womb feels like molten lava ready to burst.
âFuck,â you gasp, shaking, skin slick with sweat. âPlease!â
You squeeze him tight as you get close, your pussy sucking him in, making him twitch in you as he's suddenly pushed right to the edge.
âAw, fuck,â he grunts, pulling away from your tits. His hips stutter a little as he realizes he's not going to last much longer. He looks at your face, at how beautiful you are, focuses on how good you feel. And, God, this canât be the only time heâs in you or the last time he sees you. He needs more.
âI need a favor from you before you come, honey,â he says, his voice strained. Itâs like the words tumbled out of his mouth, but heâs already spoken them and he might as well go through with it.
You just mewl in response, body squirming under his, desperate for release.
âCan I get your number?â he asks breathlessly, feeling a little sheepish but determined.
You pause for a second before laughing softly, but it ends in a moan as Clark pushes you closer to your orgasm. âYeah,â you gasp, nodding. âYeah, I'll give you my number.â
âThank fuck,â he groans, focusing his mouth on your neck, sucking and biting gently to leave hickeys all over. He takes your thigh from around his waist and presses it up to your chest. His cock slides in all the way, the thick head brushing your cervix, and the feeling of being stuffed full pushes you over the edge.
You mewl his name over and over as you come, your thighs shaking as your orgasm takes over you. It feels like your skin is on fire, the pressure in your womb bursting and spilling all over your body, the pleasure making you see stars. Your back arches off the bed and your eyes roll back, and Clark moans at the sight.
Watching you come while your cunt squeezes him tight is enough to send him right over the edge. He grunts, thrusting hard and fast and deep a few more times before he comes too. You two probably should've used a condom, but in your haste to get into bed, both of you had, admittedly, not cared. So Clark comes in you, his thick, sticky cum warm as it spills into your pussy, coating over your walls and gathering right against your womb.
With heavy, shuddering breaths, Clark places soft kisses against your forehead and nose and lips before pulling out of you and collapsing beside you.
He wraps an arm around your middle, tugging you against him while you both regain your breath.
When he can speak again, he says, âProbably should've waited til after to ask for your number. But I was afraid I'd lose my nerve, so I figured it was a now or never sort of scenario.â
You turn to him with a sweet, satisfied smile. âI'm glad the sex was good enough to prompt you to ask for my number in the middle of it,â you joke, voice breathy.
Clark chuckles, raising a hand to trace his thumb over your lower lip. âSo...the number?â he prompts at risk of sounding desperate. He figures youâre worth all the embarrassment in the world.
You giggle softly. âGive me your phone.â
Clark all but leaps to grab his phone from where he'd left it on the bedside table. He hands it to you and watches with wide eyes as you add your contact.
âThere,â you say, handing it back to him. âYou've got my number. Just don't forget to actually use it.â
He grins a charming, boyish grin, his dimples showing. âOh, trust me, baby, I'll definitely use it.â
⥠please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
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đđđđđđđ - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
Summary: There are very few who have not heard tale of Prince Kal-El. Krypton's Warrior Prince is revered by his people and reviled by his enemies, who grow stronger every day, threatening Krypton's dominance. An alliance between your kingdoms might just be the key to peace â on the condition that he marry you, the King's daughter, to seal the treaty.
Part I Part II Part 3
Tags: arranged marriage, medieval fantasy au, royal au, princess!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, heavy themes of misogyny, references to disordered eating, repression, it will get better y'all I promise
Notes: This idea came to me as a divine vision and I couldn't let go of it. This will be a three-parter! Hope you enjoy!!!!!
If you had been told just how cold Krypton would be, you would have at least asked for sleeves to be added to your dress.
As you enter the grand hall, looking out at a sea of people adorned with fine fur pelts and dyed leather, you feel like the modiste might have played some sort of sick joke on you. Your arms are woefully bare, and this hall, with its vaulted ceiling and tall, stained-glass windows, is woefully airy. Your dress, gorgeous as it is, is in the style du jour of your own kingdom, built to provide breathability even under the excessive layers of fabric that give your skirt its shape. But outside this hall, several feet of snow blanket the ground, and even behind thick walls of stone, the air freezes your skin till your every hair follicle stands on end; youâll just have to hope your groom doesnât mind his bride looking like a plucked goose.Â
Itâs a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle thatâs formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your motherâs voice reminds you, not in front of these people.Â
Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough.Â
Itâs difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. Youâd hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend â a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.
At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.
Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.
The ceremonial robes heâs adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.
Youâve anticipated this day your whole life. Youâre the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom.Â
Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter.Â
At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Kryptonâs position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the galaxy canât bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. Itâs ironic, then, that Kryptonâs beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdomâs strategic value in ending the conflict, despite â or perhaps, especially because of â your peopleâs peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again.Â
For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Kryptonâs protection, as the home of Prince Kal-Elâs bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again.Â
Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like thereâs already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.
You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, heâs turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth youâve felt since you arrived.Â
The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom.Â
Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength youâve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as heâs done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They donât mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak.Â
He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn.Â
Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase â âI will stand firm in my vow to youâ â you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governessâs voice in your head (âDisgraceful! Disrespectful!â). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesnât show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.
The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands youâve tied together to pick it up. Itâs a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you.Â
Heâs careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so youâre prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesnât force it down your throat like you mightâve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers.Â
He thankfully doesnât leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face.Â
Your eyes canât help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and youâre glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again.Â
He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you canât understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then heâs leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.
Itâs not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly.Â
He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.
You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.
Youâre alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room thatâs no less ornate than the hall youâve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors dâoeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.
This is the consummation room.Â
âYouâll break your fast before dinner, privately. Youâll have your fill of amuse-gueules,â You recall your motherâs explanation. âAnd then, heâll have his fill of you.âÂ
You canât even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isnât bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door.Â
For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace.Â
âDo you speak the common tongue?âÂ
Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didnât expect much talking.
âForgive me, I have not had the time I wouldâve liked to learn your native ton-â He continues on.
âI do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.â His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. âMy apologies, for my⌠less than impressive Kryptonian.â
That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. Heâs somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere.Â
âIâm told itâs a difficult tongue to master.â He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. âAre you thirsty? Itâs best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.â
His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?
You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But heâs not even looking at you, instead heâs striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee.Â
When he notices that youâre still frozen in place â notices your fear â he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. âPlease, sit. Weâll only have a few minutes to rest.âÂ
You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands.Â
You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has.Â
Which is not very much.Â
Youâd never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to âwatch your figure!â while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boysâ, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons â your brothersâ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window â youâd taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.
And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself.Â
âWe can stay here as long as youâd like.â The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, heâs gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.
âWe cannot keep them waiting.â You reply, practiced.Â
âThey will wait for me.â He doesnât sound haughty, just assured. Safe.
You nod, because words escape you then. Youâll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life.Â
Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch.Â
The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast.Â
This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end.Â
You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like itâs water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isnât a farce; he loves these people like theyâre his own family.
They are, it occurs to you. Theyâve either seen him grow from a babe in his motherâs arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them â both the men and the women â have likely fought a battle or two with him. Itâs a bond thatâs incomprehensible to you, but itâs evident to anyone with functioning eyes.Â
Despite the platters of food as wide as your husbandâs shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his fatherâs generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away.Â
You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new ladyâs maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind.Â
Your mother waits for you in the hall when youâre finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar.Â
âDid it hurt terribly, my dearest?â She says, in your own language, so even the ladyâs maid standing a few feet away canât eavesdrop on your conversation.
âDid what hurt?â You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.
âThe consummation, dearest.â
âI-I didnât- he didnât-â Youâre trying to get it across, but even youâre confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didnât lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance.Â
Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you donât have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you.Â
âWell, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?â You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. âYou must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.â
âYes, mother. I understand. I wonât-â
âGood!â She switches back to the common tongue, then. âLetâs not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.âÂ
Youâre guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere.Â
You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before youâll ever have to chaperone your own daughter.Â
Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as heâs cleared plate after plate, and yet heâs still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.
Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as heâs stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut.Â
Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace youâre taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart.Â
You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. Itâll take years, youâre sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husbandâs quarters â where youâre sure heâs leading you â is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood.Â
You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. âYour highness, are we returning? Are we not-?â
âWe will make it to our chambers eventually.â He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. âWe are simply⌠taking the scenic route.â
It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.
âOh,â is all you can muster up for a response. âAlright.â
âUnless you wish to retire?â
âNo!â You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governessâs voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. âI only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.â
He doesnât respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again.Â
âI want you to feel comfortable here.â He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like heâs coaxing a feral animal out of its cage.Â
âI will, your highness. You need not worry.â Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.
âYes, but- I understand this isnât- you did not choose this.â He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since youâve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he canât see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. âShould you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.âÂ
You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You donât know what to say. You donât know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home.Â
âThank you.â It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and heâd hear the tears that threaten to close your throat.Â
He falls silent afterwards, thankfully.Â
Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sunâs setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls youâre told plague this kingdom. Youâre a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You donât even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement.Â
âHow?â You ask, looking back at him.
âOur groundskeepers work very hard.â He replies simply, like itâs not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You canât help the breathless laugh that escapes you.
âThis is- itâs incredible.âÂ
Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. Youâd come to accept youâd just have to get accustomed to Kryptonâs snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than youâve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that youâd often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact.Â
âI wasnât aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.â You say it happily, knowing that at least youâll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.
âIt isnât.â He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, heâs smiling fondly. At you. âWhen our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.âÂ
You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. Youâve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, theyâre tears of gratitude. Of relief.Â
âThank you,â You say again. âTruly.â
âIf you wish for anything else-â
âI will tell you.â Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, âAre the berries ripe yet?â
âI will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.â You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. âIf they are, theyâll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.â
âThat would please me very much, your highness.â A genuine smile finally graces your face.
You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdomâs summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though sheâs quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music.Â
When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of whatâs in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest.Â
His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. Thereâs a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace thatâs already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones youâd pick out for yourself. This is the Princeâs room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions.Â
âIs it to your liking?â He asks.
âYes.â You lie easily, but again, your body doesnât cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from whatâs to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.
âAre you warm enough? I can add more firewood-â
âNo, Iâm quite warm, your highness.âÂ
He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious.Â
He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like heâs ashamed. âI will have to undress for bed.â
âAs will I.â Your voice is distant.
âI will turn around while you undress.âÂ
âYour highness,â You shake your head. âItâs no use.âÂ
But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that thereâs no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then youâre left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers.Â
When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. Heâs somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above-Â
You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and thereâs no ladyâs maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look.Â
You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when youâre in such a state of undress, but you remember thereâs no use. He will see much more of you, very soon.Â
âPlease.â You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask.Â
You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.
âIs this alright?â He asks, stilling.
âYes. Itâs fine, your highness.â You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything.Â
He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping heâd get it over with already.
When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber.Â
You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.
âYou may come to bed, if you wish.â He says. âOr sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.â
You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. Itâs expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. Thereâs ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.
âYour highness,â You start, once youâve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. âSurely, you know that- that you must-â
âSleep, my wife.â He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. âBoth of us must sleep. Itâs been a long day, for us both.âÂ
You do not sleep.Â
You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband.Â
He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasnât seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself.Â
When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment heâll transform into the husband youâd imagined youâd have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him.Â
You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man.Â
;) Day 3: pulling funny faces while on a call / âI canât wait to put a ring on your fingerâ (swap)
;) Pairing: Dad!Clark Kent x Mom!Reader
;) Word Count:
;) Content: fluff - domestic fluff - you have a daughter named Vivian with Clark
;) a/n: call your dentist this is toooo sweet. Just like @pinksplace đ
Isla & Pinkâs Galentines Event
The Kent house was quiet.Â
TooâŚquiet.
A sudden, heavy thump then rattle from the hallway then living room shattered the silence.
Your eyes snapped open like popping kettle corn. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in your chest. You glanced at your alarm clock slightly hidden beside you and Clarkâs wedding photo, on the nightstand table.Â
9:58 AM.Â
Beside your shared bed, the crib remained still and empty. Vivian, your eight-month-old daughter, was missing?? Another sound followedânot a cry, but a frantic shuffling and a low, masculine curse.
You slid out of bed, heart thudding like a marching band against your ribs, as you crept barefoot toward the hallway. The door to the living room was ajar. You pushed it open, bracing yourself for an intruder, a broken window, a disaster.
What you found was a different kind of chaos entirely.
Clark was there, hunched over the coffee table, which had been commandeered as a makeshift work desk. He reclined into the sofa, his suit and jacket tight on his arms, his lavender tie hung loosely around his neck, and beneath the table, he was wearing nothing but a pair of faded grey boxers. His glasses were perched askew on his nose as he wrestled with his laptop balanced on his thighs, simultaneously trying to soothe the now screaming Vivian, who was strapped into her bouncer seat beside him.
Vivian let out a high-pitched shriek, her face scrunching up red in distress as she reached a chubby hand toward the glowing screen of Clarkâs monitor and keyboard.
"Shh, shh, sweetie, Daddyâs got you," Clark cooed, his voice strained and raspy. He looked up, catching your eye, and offered a sheepish, lopsided grin. "Morninâ honey."
You couldn't help but laugh at the sight, the tension melting away instantly. "Clark? What on earth are you doing?"
You moved swiftly to your daughter, scooping her up from the bouncer. She immediately buried her wet face in your shoulder, her cries tapering off into whimpering hiccups. You rocked her gently, pressing a kiss to her soft, dark hair.
"I decided to work from home today," Clark explained, watching you rock your daughter with a soft expression. "I wanted you to sleep in. Youâve been so exhausted lately. But..." He gestured helplessly at the laptop. "Vi, decided that my docs to Perry was far more interesting then the stuffed axolotl I got her. Sheâs been reaching for my screen all morning."
"Sheâs at that age Clark, an explorer," you said, smiling down at Vivian, who blinked up at you with long, wet lashes and her fathers bright crystal eyes. "And she knows a distraction when she sees one."
You bounced her on your hip, blowing a soft stream of air against her cheek. The tension in Clarkâs shoulders, he hadnât realized he was carrying, dropped.
"AlsoâŚgood morning," you said to him, stepping closer. You leaned down and kissed him, a lingering press of lips that tasted of coffee and your sweet family. "Youâre a goofball, Clark Kent. A very handsome, very lovable, silly goofball."
Vivian, now fully recovered and eager for attention, reached out toward Clark again, her little fingers grasping at the air.
"Da!"Â
Clarkâs face lit up bright, dimples deep, but before he could take her, the laptop chimed insistently. Perry Whiteâs name and photo flashed across the screen.
"Shoot," Clark muttered, straightening his glasses. "Thatâs him. I have to take this."
"Go," you said, shifting Vivian to your other hip. "Handle the Daily Planet. Iâll handle the tiny dictator."
You moved to the edge of the living room, just out of the cameraâs frame, but close enough to watch. Clark took a deep breath, smoothed his hair back, and clicked 'Join Meeting.' Perryâs gruff voice boomed through the speakers, demanding a status report on the morning edition.
You watched Clark transition instantly from flustered sweet dad to professional reporter. He began answering Perryâs questions, his voice steady and confident now. But as he spoke, his eyes kept drifting to you and Vivian.
You decided to make it harder for him.
With a mischievous glint in your eye, you started to dance and pull funny faces. It was a ridiculous, swaying jig, bouncing Vivian in your arms to a silent rhythm you were making up. You exaggerated your movements, wiggling your hips and making silly faces at your baby. Vivian erupted into giggles, white knuckling your shirt.
Clark tried to maintain his composure. He really did. But as you dipped Vivian low and swooped her back up dramatically, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He stumbled over a word, cleared his throat, and glanced back at the camera.
"Uh, as I was saying, the circulation numbers..." Clark started, but then you spun in a circle, making Vivianâs hair fly out of her bow. Clarkâs stoic facade cracked. A wide, goofy smile broke across his face. He looked at you with such open, unguarded affection that it made your heart ache.
Perryâs voice crackled through the speaker, demanding to know what was so funny.
You couldn't hold back your laughter anymore. It bubbled up, bright and infectious. You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle it, but Vivian was laughing too, her eyes crinkled shut in joy.
"Sorry, Chief," Clark said, his voice thick with amusement as he adjusted the cam. "Just... a technical glitch."
You decided to mercy him. You blew one last kiss toward the camera, caught Clarkâs eye, and mouthed the words, I love you.
You slipped out of the room, carrying your giggling daughter, leaving Clark to his work. As you walked down the hallway to the kitchen to start breakfast, you heard the faint sound of Clark ending the call.
You didn't hear him hang up. You didn't hear him close the laptop.
You only heard him sighâa deep, contented sound that carried through the walls. And though you were already in the next room, you heard him whisper to the empty air, to the screen that had just gone dark, the words soft and full of promise:
summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions⌠and then some.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: soo much fluff. clark is hopelessly devoted to you, but you have no idea. you're a cutie who loves fashion. he is adorable, friends to lovers, funny, domestic clark always! barely proofread, but enjoy xx
Youâre running late. Again.
For the fourth time this week, and itâs only a Wednesday.
Itâs not your fault. Really, itâs not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit youâd initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you arenât too pleased with how you look today.
The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies. There isnât an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.
âPerryâs gonna kill you.â Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.
Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.
âThen we better hurry up, Kent.â you say back, earning a chuckle from him.
You walk through the rain, and you donât notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you donât veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.
You donât even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clarkâs curls are almost soaked and youâre bone-dry.
The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.
âHow was your evening?â
âI ate ice cream for dinner,â you tell him absentmindedly, âAnd I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.â
His eyebrow quirks up, âMust have missed my invite.â
âOh, Iâm sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?â
âHowâd you know that?â
âI watch the news.â
Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. âI still would have come.â
You donât say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, youâre the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.
Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that youâre late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.
Beside her, Jimmy grins. âWhat time do you call this?â he jokes.
âGot held up,â Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldnât decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.
Youâd told Clark to go on; Iâll be like, thirty more minutes. Iâll just see you there! Youâd said, but of course he refused to listen.
Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clarkâs. You donât even have to turn around to know who it is.
âSorry, Perry.â You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.
Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.
âClose call.â he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.
Itâs a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you canât even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but youâre focused.
Youâre a great journalist, and youâve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.
Itâs Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has itâs perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planetâs infamous grump. Over time, youâve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and youâre good to go.
After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.
âHow you holding up?â Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You canât see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.
âSurviving. You?â you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.
âCounting down the seconds until lunch.â
âAre we going out today?â you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesnât skip a beat before doing the same.
The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.
You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.
âYou want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from around the place âround the corner?â
âI can come with you,â you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.
âNo need. Iâve got you.â
You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.
Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.
Itâs not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, youâve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.
No, youâre a little more pessimistic than that. And youâre a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the worldâs most perfect boyfriend.
Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?
Heâs kind. Heâs patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesnât even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like youâve already done him the biggest favour of simply existing.
He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though itâs sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leonâs on Tuesdays but every other day, itâs Libertyâs or nothing.
Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.
He is also in love with someone else.
âJust waiting for her to realise, I guess.â heâd told you once, when you asked him why he hadnât dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.
And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.
Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clarkâs future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.
âWhat if she never does?â you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.
It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.
Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.
âShe'll figure it out. She always does,â heâd said confidently, âOne day.â
âWhat if she takes forever?â
Clark remained unfazed, âThen Iâll wait.â you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.
That, was six months ago.
And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you donât even know what she looks like.
You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.
You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and itâs only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.
Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because itâs what everyone else does.
You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.
âThe usual?â he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.
âPlease. Take my card-â youâre already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.
âNo need. Iâll be back in ten.â He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.
And gives you a peck on the lips.
Itâs quick. Itâs over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.
âText me if you think of anything else you want.â he says coolly, as if he didnât just short-circuit your entire being.
And heâs gone.
Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.
You donât move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.
Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.
âWhat was-â
âI donât know.â
âWhy did he-â
âI donât know,â you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesnât speak, silently begging you to.
But you canât. You physically canât. Because it may have been an accident- itâs not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if heâs feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?
Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, heâs on his way to Libertyâs trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didnât before.
He knows, and heâs disgusted, and you wouldnât be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldnât move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.
You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and itâs all because you couldnât control yourself.
But you know youâre being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you wonât get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesnât. If you were to turn your head, heâd know, and heâd stop.
So why didnât he stop?
Youâre still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and heâs flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.
He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.
Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as theyâre on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.
He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmyâs jaw on the floor.
âThanks,â Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.
He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.
âSo,â he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. âWhat ice cream did you have last night?â
You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasnât just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesnât catch on.
He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. Heâs an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesnât bring up the kiss.
So, neither do you.
Clark keeps kissing you.
And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending youâre not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.
At first you assume itâs a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.
But then he does it again the next day.
Itâs the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now thereâs a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like youâre made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. Itâs gotten deeper since the first, you realise.
And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.
Jimmy has stopped pretending he isnât watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.
Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. Youâre about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.
âBe right back,â he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.
This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.
By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.
But of course, you donât. You donât ask your best friend anything.
Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.
He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.
Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.
Nothingâs changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.
He just⌠kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like itâs the most normal thing in the world.
And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.
Or better. Or whatever this is.
Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.
He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.
Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.
He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.
And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.
Tiny, sweet, blink-and-youâll-miss-it pecks. Like heâs testing you. Like heâs waiting; for what, you donât know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.
By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;
do best friends kiss on lips??
signs of short term memory loss
am I hallucinating long-term?
long term hallucination symptoms
group long term hallucination
do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss
You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. Youâre desperate; completely at your witsâ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.
But then, comes the moment everything changes.
Itâs late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.
Itâs just you and Clark, finishing up an article heâs been helping you with.
Youâre buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasnât really optional tonight.
Youâre tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like youâre not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.
And then- like itâs the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.
Not a peck this time. Not a blink.
A kiss.
A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. Itâs wonderful. Itâs passionate. And above all, it is scary.
You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.
So, you do.
Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly youâre kissing him back.
Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.
And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.
Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.
One day.
You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.
You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you canât even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.
Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment youâre both suspended in.
Clark doesnât move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.
But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.
It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.
âI told youâŚâ Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, âthat youâd figure it out.â
i have a problem with overexplaining things and i really tried not to w this fic - tried something different!! hope you liked <33
summary: youâve known clark kent your entire life. you know him better than you know yourself, if youâre being honest. and you are way too comfortable with him.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut (piv, unprotected sex, handjob(?) idk youâll see, fingering, oral, praise, clark talks you through it, cum.. eating..?, finger licking/in mouth, cute n soft, BIG DICK!clark, size kink/difference, dacryphilia undertones, aftercare, clark gets exposed to a breeding kink, porn with little bit of plot), fluff, shy (at first) and soft!clark, teasing mainly from reader to annoy clark, lowk secondhand embarrassment, reader finally in her last year of university after taking a long fucking time to decide on what she wanted to do with her life, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), no use of y/n, NOT proofread // wc: 7k
yari yaps: iâm supposed to be writing my bwatober fic. but NOOOOO mr. kent has me in a chokehold and im a useless writer that canât focus on deadlines (bwatober will be posted soon i promise i js cant work on it when this was on my mind) // divider credits
âSo, I've been wonderingâ and you donât have to answerâ but is your dick different from humans?âÂ
You say the words without even looking up from your textbook and notebook. A pen continues to twirl between your fingers as you absentmindedly fidget. The choking noise that fills the air concerns you for half a second, forcing you to look over your shoulder and at the man who was quietly going through his articles on his laptop before you rudely interrupted him.
âYou havenât talked in hours,â he mutters, referring to how you crashed his apartment just to study. He removes his glasses off of his faceâ frames that he doesnât even need to wearâ to drag a hand down his face like it would wipe away the absurdity of your question. âAnd this is what you say?â
âMy anatomy class finally moved on to sex,â you say, as if that was supposed to explain anything.Â
â⌠Right.â Clark looks exhausted. He probably wishes he never opened his front door to you, but here you were. Well, even if he didnât, you could always use the spare key that he gave you ages ago. âYou know, I think I like you better when youâre not talking.â
You roll your eyes at his sass, âCâmon. You know why I'm asking this.â
Of course he does. You were the first person to know of his abilitiesâ right after his Ma and Pa. You'd been there to watch him soar into the sky for the first time, finally unafraid. You watched him discover ice breath, and remembered how distraught he was as he looked at you.Â
Clark sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically with the breath. âMy⌠reproductive organs are similar, from what I can tell.â
âFrom what you can tell,â you repeat, raising an eyebrow.Â
âI didnât exactly grow up with Kryptonian anatomy lessons,â he shoots back immediately. âI havenât seen a spliced Kryptonian in a museumâ a body donated for science and research.â
You pause, then shrug slightly. âI guess.â
He huffs. Actually huffs, like heâs throwing a mini tantrum over your lack of thought to your question. Despite it, he still settles back onto the couch. His muscles no longer feel locked in place, he can breathe normallyâ
âSo you donât have an alien dick?âÂ
âSweet lordâ what are you going on about?â he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes. You ignore it in favor of expanding your knowledge on his biology.Â
âYou know,â you say, waving a hand in the air, âSome of the riftsâ thereâs documents on the corpses that come through. talking about how some male presenting aliens have both uterus and testicles, like they can impregnate and be pregnant, tooââ
âI donât have a womb,â he says, followed by your name falling from his lips in exasperation.Â
âBut are you sure?âÂ
âYou know those released documents also included strong evidence that those aliens also had a menstrual cycle,â he quickly says. Clark moves his laptop off of his thighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. Heâs one second away from burying his face into his hands. âI havenâtâ I think I would know if I was bleeding from my pen⌠from my thing.â
Clark's ears are red. Bright red. He canât even hide it.Â
Suddenly, your questions are no longer out of simple curiosity. Now, you want to poke the bear. Except the bear is too sweet and kind to tell you to knock it off, to get out of his apartment, and to leave him the hell alone.
âYour thing?â you tease, a smile spreading across your face. âYour cock, Clark.â
âDo you have to be so vulgar?â
âItâs basic anatomy.â You cross your arms over your chest. âOne that you claim to have.â
âI donâtâ!â He runs his hands through his hair, clearly stressed. You canât help but giggle at the sight. âI donât claim to have regular anatomy, whatever that means.â
âSo you admit that your body is biologically built differently.â
âI mean, yes, but not like that!âÂ
âLike what?âÂ
âPlease,â he groans, nearly desperate now.Â
âOoh, begging,â you say as your grin spreads even wider. âAre you trying to keep Kryptonian biology a secret?â
It doesnât take much for him to break. You knew that. Always have, and always will. Clark was scarily easy to bait.Â
âMy dick is normal!â he finally shouts, face still flushed. You swear heâs sweating, too.Â
âBut how do you know that?â you ask. Youâre not even trying to hide the lilt in your voice. âYou compare lengths in the locker room in school?â
âOh myâ stop. please.â
âSo guys don't do that? Thatâs just a myth said online?âÂ
âYouâre not totally off,â he quickly says, only to pause a moment later. âCan we talk about something else? Anything else?â
You pout at him, giving him your best pleading eyes you could muster. For someone made of steel and ice, this man melted at the sight of you. He always did.Â
A deep sigh escapes his chest as he leans back into the couch. âMy college ex said my⌠penis⌠was above average. I haven't seen other menâs⌠things, but iâm assuming since she didnât have an issue with it then it has to be normal.â
Your eyebrows raise. âDo you not watch porn?â
Your name falls from his lips in utter shock, matching the look on face. âYou do?â
âYou donât?âÂ
Clark stares at you, as if heâd been slapped with a bucket of freezing water. You can only stare back, waiting for his response.Â
â⌠No,â he finally mutters.Â
âHuh,â you say, taking in the sight of him. Even seated, heâs large. If you stood in front of him right now, youâd barely be taller than him. âWell, it makes sense that youâd be above average. with your height and all. Do you think that is also Kryptonian?â
âI don't know.â Clark shrugs, and it seems like the embarrassment of the topic is slowly melting off of him. âProbably?â
You hum, contemplative. âSo, your dick doesnât have ridges on it? Like spiky nubs along the shaft? Do you think your sperm count is higher than the average human male? Must be stronger, too. I wonder if a normal human woman would be able to carry your children to term without complications.â
A frown takes over his face at your rapid fire questions and commentary. Though he doesnât look as bothered as he was earlier. It's as if heâs really thinking about it this time.Â
âI would really hope that whoever carries my children wonât have any complications, but thatâs another thing that I wouldn't know until the time came.â Clark's pointer finger taps thoughtfully on his knee as he continues to think, âAll of your questions have to do with research that hasnât been conducted on me.â
âYou didnât answer my question about the appearance of your cock, Clark.â
This time, a pretty red takes over his face. âWhy are you so intrigued?âÂ
âJust answer, or I'm gonna demand you to just show me so I can find out,â you groan.Â
âIf I do show you, would you stop asking?âÂ
Itâs your turn to freeze in place, blinking at him. He's still the shade of a tomato, but heâs not cringing at his words. If anything, he seems determined. like this would really shut you up.Â
âTake your pants off then,â you dare.Â
Clark, ever so obedient and kind, moves. his hands reach for the button of his jeans, so certain and sure.Â
Suddenly, you realize how close the two of you really are.Â
You grew up together with neighboring farms in Smallville. The two of you used to sleep in the same bed as children when your parents dropped you off at Kent's for a sleepover.Â
As a child, the two of you used to change right in front of each other. Even as a budding teenager, you didnât feel the need to hide away from him, though he was always a respectful kid and began to turn his head away on his own.Â
Clark went off to college first to pursue journalism. It didn't stop your contact with each other, even when he went off to Metropolis first. You simply told him youâd follow him soon. And you did.Â
You had your own place in the city, no longer dorming as it was your last year in university. Still, you spent more time in Clark's apartment than on your own. You had a key to his place, welcoming yourself and making yourself at home even when he was at work on the Daily Planetâ especially when he was at work as superman.Â
Youâd fussed over wounds you knew would heal at the sight of first light, and he would let you take care of him. Clark knew it calmed you down.Â
Clark always let you do what you wanted, and would always do as you asked.Â
And now, he was unzipping his pants.Â
âWait,â you say quickly, as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his briefs. âAre you okay with this?â
Clark's eyebrows pull together, eyes flickering up to you. âYouâre the one who asked, and now youâre the one backing out?â
âI just⌠I don't want to make you uncomfortable if you donât actually wannaâŚâ you murmur slowly.Â
âItâs you.â His words are said like itâs normalâ like being you was a good enough reason to do anything. In this caseâ take his pants off. âI don't mind.â
You swallow, a weird rush of sentimental feelings going through you. Then, you nod, steeling yourself. âShow me your weird alien cock.â
âIt's not weird,â he grumbles, âYouâre lucky I love you.â A moment later, heâs lifting his hips off the couch slightly as he pushes both underwear and pants down his thighs.Â
Your jaw drops, and you suddenly canât breathe.Â
The sight before youâ he was right. His cock isnât weird. If anything, itâs the prettiest dick youâd ever seen.Â
Maybe it was the mix of him being carefully groomed as well and the fact the man before you was already pretty everywhere else, but you donât think youâd ever seen a dick as nice as his.Â
Clark's soft, but heâs still big. His skin is smooth, resting against his pelvis, dormant and asleep. You wondered if he was a growerâ if he got bigger than the estimated seven inches you were staring at.Â
Even his balls were fucking nice to look at. The seam of itâ oh my God. You were going insane.Â
âSo?â he questions, breaking the silence and your thoughts. He sounds nervous, âWhatâs the verdict?â
You lick your lips, taking a deep breath. âYou're actually really beautiful, Clark."
He stares at you, and youâre certain it was the last thing he expected you to say. So, you clear your throat.Â
âI mean,â you start, âI've seen a good amount of cock. Yours is, by far, the best.â
Clark blinks at you, still digesting your words. â⌠Thanks. I guess.â
âIs it as soft as it looks?â you ask, finally getting a grasp of yourself again. âIt looks soft. Likeâ your skin.â
He pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Then, he reaches.Â
You lied. You donât have a grasp of yourself. Your sanity is gone, thrown out the window at the sight you were witnessing.Â
Clark, sitting there on the couch, pants pulled down, with his hand wrapped around his cock. He's still flaccid, but heâs running his hand along his dick, trying to get the best answer for your question.Â
âJust feels like⌠the rest of me,â he murmurs, frowning as he concentrates. âNothing really different. You wanna feel?â
Youâre a dead woman.Â
You brought up this topic. At first, it was genuine curiosity. Upon seeing his reactions, you moved onto some lighthearted teasing. It wasnât supposed to progress to whatever was happening now. In the back of your mind, youâre wondering if heâs doing all of this now just to mess with you like you did with him.Â
The curious look on his face tells you heâs not even thinking about it.Â
You should tell him itâs a bad idea. That thereâs boundaries in friendships, and even though youâre so comfortable with him, maybe thereâs things you shouldnât be doing.
But your feet are moving, and youâre standing in front of him within a few steps.Â
âYou sure?â you ask, hoping your voice comes out steady.Â
Clark releases himself, then nods.Â
Youâre leaning forward before you have the chance to allow more rational thoughts to invade your mind. Itâs as if your hand wasnât connected to the rest of your brain, moving before you could even stop yourselfâ and holy shit your hand is small compared to him. He's warm to the touch, skin smoother than you originally thought.Â
His cock jumps in your hand, and Clark flinches. The gravity of the situation just dawned upon him, and blood was rushing throughout him, coloring his cheeks and hardening his dick.Â
âWait,â he whispers, breath catching in his throat. âIâm sorryâ I didnâtâ I'm not meaning toââ
âYou really are pretty, Clark,â you cut him off, a little mesmerized.Â
You can feel his eyes on your face, but youâre not looking back at him. You still canât tear your eyes off the annoyingly pretty sight of his cock. Then again, you shouldâve expected it. The rest of him was just as gorgeous.
There's a vein popping on the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing against your palm. His skin is still smooth despite losing the soft feel of it. And you were shockedâ he was a grower. Both length and girth filled out with the rush of blood, and your mind wandered.Â
His ex was fucking wrong. This man wasnât above average. He was far from itâ this was off the scale. He was Godly.Â
âI donât think youâd be able to fit.â
The words slipped out of your mouth softly, mainly spoken to yourself more than him.Â
Clark's breath hitches. âWhat are youâŚâ
âJust, theoretically, if we had sex, I don't think youâd fit in with me. You'd probably rip me apartâ my hand barely can hold all of you when youâre soft, let alone hard. I don't know if it would even feel good to have you inside of me.â
âOh my⌠You really canât be saying these kinds of things while youâre still holding me,â he groans, head dropping back against the cushions as he shut his eyes.Â
âIâm not wrong,â you argue. âLogistically speaking, thereâs no way this would feel pleasurable for meâ youâd tear me in half before I even get to cum.â
He lifts his head, and you look up at him. He's still flushed, but now he looks offended. âIf we had sex, I wouldn't just stick it in you. I know itâs bigger than average so I'd make sure youâre prepared first. I'd need to fit at least three fingers in youâ comfortablyâ before either of us could imagine me inside you. Besides that, who says I wouldnât make you cum at least twice before I even want my dick in you?â
You canât help the warmth you feel in your nether regionsâ like a sudden zap that went between your legs to make you feel weak at the knees.Â
Clark notices. He always does.
He swallows, visibly nervous as a whisper comes from his lips. âDid I make it weird?âÂ
Youâre surprised you can even suck in a breath. You shouldnât be able to breathe. Your autonomic nervous system should be failing, but here you are.Â
âOnly weird if you think itâs weird, Kent,â you murmur.Â
âYou smell different.â
Fuck him, and fuck those super senses of his. You shouldâve known betterâ he could easily spot every single twitch in your body, the change of scent as pheromones exit your body, and the feel of the light tremble of your hand against him.Â
But despite all of that, a smile comes to your lips.
âNow youâre making it weird,â you tease.Â
A devastating grin spreads Clark Kent's face. âMy apologies. Thought we passed weird when you didnât take your hand off me,â he hums.Â
âYou want me to?âÂ
The smile falters, and his eyes meet yours. He's reading you. Your face. reactions. Anything he can use to figure out whatâs going through your head. You're doing the exact same thing to him.Â
Finally, he speaks.Â
âNo. Want you closer, actually.âÂ
You donât fight him when his hands reach for you, landing on your hips. You donât fight him as he guides you towards him, your knees resting naturally on either side of his thighs.Â
Youâve released him now, but only in favor of your hands sliding up his chest before finding home on the broad expanse of his shoulders. He's looking up at you, blue eyes swimming with an emotion you see every dayâ love.
Only now youâre realizing that the simple love you!âs that youâve been throwing at him meant something else entirely for him.Â
âThere you are,â he murmurs, thumbs rubbing circles into your hipbones. âYou only notice me when my dick is out and between us?â
âThought you didnât like that word,â you say, a little breathless.Â
Clark smiles a bit wider, eyes sparkling. âI donât mind it every once in a while.â
A laugh falls from your lips as you stare down at him, taking in every ounce of affection he was oozing out at you. You want to say something to acknowledge his feelings, but not yet. Not when youâre currently hovering over him, his cock still out and slowly, but surely getting more firm as the seconds pass.Â
âYou gonna show me how youâll fit?â is what you say instead.Â
Youâre in his bedroom within a blink of your eyesâ comfortably beneath him as he hovers over you.Â
âSorry. âm a little excited,â Clark confesses, breathless as if moving at the speed of light was difficult for himâ of course not. It's you. You're the entire reason his heart rate picked up, that his hands were slowly turning clammy, and why he feels like he canât breathe.Â
âI can see that. feel it, too,â you grin at him, and a groan pulls from his lips as he shuts his eyes. Still, he doesnât move away. If anything, he presses closer, slotting himself perfectly between your legs, dick pressed right against your aching core.Â
âYou're lucky I love you,â he sighs.Â
Clark descends on you, lips meeting yours in what you can only explain as home. Heâs warm, always is, but never in a suffocating way. Heâs like the first warmth of spring after a long winter.Â
âTake this off,â he murmurs against your lips, but is already moving to remove your shirt for you.
His hands slide under the fabric leaving goosebumps in his wake, and breaks the kiss for just a moment to pull it completely up and over your head. Itâs discarded without another thought, tossed somewhere to the side.Â
He cups both breasts through your bra, lips trailing from the corner of your lips, down to your jaw, and finding their place on your neck.Â
âGosh,â Clark sighs against you, peppering tickling kisses down to your collarbone, âIâve dreamt about this moment before.â
âDo I live up to your expectations?â you ask, breathless. You arch, pushing your chest further into his palms.Â
He groans, and if you didnât know any better, youâd say this entire situation causes him pain. Except you do know better, and heâs in heaven.Â
âBetter,â is all he says before his kisses move even lower.Â
Youâre certain he used his x-ray vision to locate your nipples over the thin padding on your chest. Thereâs no other way, you think, that he managed to be so precise. In the back of your mind, you wonder if heâs ever used this ability to feed some of his darkest desires.Â
No, you decide. Your sweet, kind Clark wasnât like that. Though you really wouldnât have minded it.Â
A soft moan slips out of you, cautious and shy. His response? To smile against your chest, and reach beneath you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a single manipulation of his fingers.Â
âYou practice that a lot in college?â you whisper as he tugs the fabric off your chest.Â
âMm⌠Not lots of practice, but enough,â he hums, eyes taking in the sight of you. He looks in awe, unable to believe this was truly happening to him. Soft hands run down your sides, just needing to feel you. âSo pretty, sweetheart.â
Your heart flutters in your chest, and you can feel your skin warming. Just one compliment, one silly little nickname, and youâre melting for him. Maybe heâs got you wrapped around his finger more than you realized it.Â
âWant this gone,â you tell him, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt in attempts to gain some form of control over the situation.Â
Clark chuckles, and gives you a small nod. âYes, maâam.â
He doesnât give you any time to appreciate the beauty of himâ the sculpted muscles that lay beneath the slightly baggy clothes he wears in hopes it hides his superhuman physique. Usually, he keeps his shoulders pulled in, a slight slouch to his posture, but in this moment heâd never looked larger. Confident. Yours.Â
Your sweatpants and panties were being removed from you, joining whatever corner your shirt was thrown into.Â
Without hesitation, Clark fit himself right between your legs. His hands wrapped around your knees, moving you to hook over his shoulders comfortably. Of course, not without him pressing a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh.Â
âYou smell so good,â he whispers against your skin, lips trailing higher and higher up your leg until he was hovering right above where you needed him most. âGoodness⌠Already dripping for me and I havenât even done anything.â
âYou gonna hurry up and do something, Clark?â you ask, impatience pulling from you without realizing it.Â
âEasy there.â His eyes lock onto yours from below, a sparkle on them. âGotta make sure youâre ready for me, baby.â
Before more whines of complaints can form in your head, his flattened tongue licks a slow strip between your folds, parting them and giving him perfect access to your aching clit.Â
A moan vibrates through your core, unabashed and utterly delighted.Â
âTastes so good, too. Could stay here all day,â he mutters against you, breathing hot and heavy.Â
âClarkââ
âYeah, yeah. I know,â he huffs. âOne day.âÂ
Clark didnât verbalize the rest of his disappointment. Honestly, with the way he thoroughly laps at your core, you might have to reconsider your decision.Â
Itâs as if he had been dying of thirst for his entire life. He dips his tongue in and out of your core, groaning in absolute joy, before moving to suck on the sensitive little nub thatâs begging for his attention. You canât help it when your legs start trembling around his head, threatening to close and trap him there. In the back of your mind, you realized that he wouldnât care if you did. Heâs able to hold his breath for over an hour, after all.
The sensations are all too much for you to handle, sparks flying behind your eyes as Clark seems to struggle to pull himself away from you. Eventually, he gives in. Tonight mercy is granted to you as you stop tugging on his hair to begin pushing him away instead. From the way his eyes are blown out, nearly every part of his eyes covered with black instead of blue, you know that youâll find yourself back in this position another day.
But not right now.
Right now, you need himâ all of himâ
âSlow down,â he mutters to you as you yank him up your body. Clark rests beside you now, free hand helping him prop his head up to give himself a good view of your entire body. âHavenât even started to stretch you out.â
You whine, heart still pounding from being brought to heaven and pulled back down to Earth. âClark, you need to hurry up.â
âWe have all the time in the world,â he coos at you in an attempt to try and soothe you. It doesnât work. What does work is his fingers gliding up your thighs, reaching the warmth between your legs, and pushing in.
You always knew Clarkâs hands were big. It matched the rest of himâ long, slender fingers that seemed like they could whole the entire world with ease. If you verbalized any of this to him, he would tell you that he was doing exactly thatâ holding his world safely in his hands.
The introduction of a second finger has you squirming beneath him.
âYouâre so soft,â he says, pressing a soft kiss to your foreheadâ a stark contrast from the filthy way his fingers were spreading you open with a scissoring motion. âSo wet for me, arenât you? Gosh⌠Can you hear yourself?â
Of course you can. The squelching noise coming from your lower half was hard to ignore, after all.Â
You coated his fingers in your essence, and Clark was certain you were seeping into his skin, marking him as yours. You wouldnât be able to smell yourself on him, but he would still be able to smell you on his skin for days to come.Â
His digits curled slowly within you, rubbing against that extra soft, spongy part inside of you. His eyebrows shot up in amusement as you gasped out his name, hips lifting slightly off the bed.Â
âRight here, honey?â The low baritone, gravely whisper of his voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine. He was invading your every being, just as youâd done to him for years on end.Â
The stretch of his ring finger made the air in your throat catch.Â
âEasy,â he orders, clicking his tongue softly in disapproval.Â
âItâsâ fuck, thatâs⌠A lot,â you manage to stutter out, eyes screwing shut.Â
âIf you think this is a lot, how can you ever imagine taking me?â he asks, almost teasingly.Â
A shaky breath exits your lips. âYouâreâ youâre enjoying this.âÂ
âAnd youâre not?â Clark shoots right back at you before plunging all of three digits into your fluttering holeâ right down to his knuckles.Â
Your best friend doesnât wait for your answer. Instead, he begins to work into you, the length of his fingers slowly massaging in and out of you. You twitch beneath him, mouth falling open in a wordless moan.Â
Try as he might, his actions were only making you clamp down tighter around him. You were trying to suck him in, keep him deeper within you.Â
With one more slight curl, you were coming undone. Your fingernails digs crescent marks into his wrist, trembling as you attempt to keep your sanity intact.Â
Slowly, his fingers exit you.Â
âMm⌠I donât think you can take me tonight,â he mutters, more to himself than you. You nearly missed his words, all of your body paying attention to the way his fingers moved upwards to lazily circle at your clit. He presses a kiss to your temple, âNext time, hm?â
Your heart nearly stops in your chest as you look up at him, wide eyed and pleading.Â
âWhat?â you ask, voice hoarse and dry from the moans you gave him. âClarkâ No, need youââ
âIâll just hurt you if we do it today.â He shakes his head. âNeed to spend more time. One night of prep isnât enoughââ
âWhat if I want it to hurt?â you cut him off, head spinning. Clark looks at you, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. âJust need you in meâ need you to stuff me full. Need it so bad, Clarkie.â
Heâs not convinced yet. You know it for a fact. Heâs still thinking too rationally for your liking. But heâs pulled his hand away from your legs, resting it on top of your stomach insteadâ if he was truly unaffected by your words, he wouldâve continued his ministrations. No, he was trying to keep his control by limiting his touch.Â
You couldnât have that.
Your hand finds his cock again, eyes still locked with his. His lips part to suck in a tight breath of air as you slowly palm at him. You run your hand up and down his length slowly, then reach the tip. To your delight, heâs leaking.Â
âLook, baby. Heâs crying for me,â you whisper to him, swiping your finger across the head of his dick, picking up a bead of precum in the process.Â
For the first time that night, Clarkâs gaze breaks away from your eyes. His eyes drop down to your lips, watching as your fingers enter your mouth to lick off his arousal. His breathing picks up, ever so slightly.Â
You release your fingers with a pop, then move to rest them on his lips. He opens his mouth without any instruction or order, tongue wrapping around your fingers and licking, sending a new wave of excitement crashing through your body.Â
âSo big, so hard for me,â you sigh, almost pouting at him, âAnd youâre not gonna fill me up?âÂ
Clark moans around your fingers like it pains him, like heâs trying his best to hold onto the restraint that youâre chipping away from him.Â
âYou know Iâm on birth control,â you tell him, pulling your fingers from his lips. He moves forward slightly, as if trying to chase them. Once again, his eyes meet yours. âYou wanna indulge me in some more research? This one would be an experiment, really.â
He swallows. âWhat kind of experiment?â His voice is broken.
You smile sweetly at him, resting your hand against his chest. You can feel his heart beating rapidly under your touch. Heâs waiting, on the edge of whatever sanity he has left.Â
Finally, you whisper, âI want to see if Kal-Elâs sperm can beat the efficacy of my daily pill.â
Within a breath, Clark pulls you to the cusp of his bed. Your legs only dangle off the edge of the bed for a few seconds before he pulls you to rest them against his hips. He shadows you, cock resting on your tummy as he leans over and presses a hard kiss to your lips. His teeth catch and tug, demanding entrance that you happily give him.Â
His hands rest on the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him as he pulls back his hips slightly. The length of his cock drags against your skin, leaving a trail of burning desire and want. He coats himself in your slick, depositing a moan into your throat as he does.Â
The tip of his cock is right at your entrance, parting your puffy folds, and stops. Youâre about to whine against his mouth, grab at his shoulders or wrap your legs around him, but he doesnât leave you waiting for long.
Clark Kent is a fucking liar.
Three fingers and two orgasms was not enough to prepare you, prepare anyone, if you were being honest. Even with the fact you were quite literally dripping for him, it still wasnât enough to ensure a smooth entry. Then again, he did warn you. This was partly your fault for egging him on until he couldnât stop himself anymore.
Your lips still against his, eyebrows stitched together as you try to adjust to the foreign body entering you. Clark noticesâ of course he doesâ the way your muscles lock beneath him. Your lungs stop pulling in air, and youâre gripping his forearms so hard he actually registers a small nip of pain.
His voice cuts through the cloud in your mind. âBreathe, honey.â Clark showers you with kissesâ your nose, cheeks, eyes, neckâ anywhere he could reach. âI know itâs big, baby, Iâm so sorry.â
With his words snapping you out of it, you suck in a greedy gulp of air as you open your eyes to look at him. âF⌠Fuck, Clark,â you gasp out.
âI know, I know,â he reiterates to you, patient and so understanding despite the fact you were the one that begged him for this. âTry to relax for me, okay?â Another kiss gets pressed to your eyes, his lips catching a stray, salty tear that slipped out. Your heart skips as you watch him swipe his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting your tears.Â
âYouâre so bigâ God,â you say, voice cracking.Â
âNot God,â he corrects with a chuckle, âBut yes.â
âFuck you,â you whine, unsure how he can find this situation funny. Still, the way he lets out another small laugh above you does ease your body just a little bitâ probably from the familiarity.Â
You focus on Clark, deciding that he will be the best way to distract yourself from his cock, as ironic as it may sound.
The way thereâs a slight crinkle around his eyes as he smiles at you. If you focus, you can see yourself in the reflection of his eyes. There you lay beneath him, skin flushed with a light layer of sweat all over you, hair touselled and mussed up, yet he still holds a love for you that you donât think youâre worthy of carrying.
His skin is warm under your touch, always is, but goosebumps are left behind wherever you touch. His body is reacting to you, showing you that the littlest things you do leaves a mark on him both physically, emotionally, and mentally.Â
How he touches you with extreme care, though you know itâs easy for him to break even the toughest of metals in his hand without even breaking a sweat. Heâs always treated you delicately. Always a gentleman, opening every single door without complaint or annoyance, pulling out your chair whenever you have a meal together, and holding your hair back whenever you end up drinking a little too much. So kind, thoughtful, and nice. You wonder how much youâd have to push him to fully break you.
Itâs only when your mind trails back into its sinful desires do you register his hips fully flushed against yours, his length sheathed within you.Â
Clarkâs pulling in shaky breaths, hands resting on your hips with his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. His forehead rests against yours as he closes his eyes, trying to get a grasp on his bearings once more.Â
âI⌠Sweetheart,â he grunts. âYouâre still so tight around me.â
As if his words were to be a reminder of your situation, your walls flutter around him, sending pleasure through both of your bodies.Â
âMove,â you tell him, breathy. âPleaseââ
âHang on,â he cuts you off, shaking his head. âIâm not paused right now for you. I mightââ Clark cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might curse aloud for the first time in years. Instead, he swallows thickly. âI might lose it right away if I donât give myself a break right now.â
Pride swells in your chest. âSuperman is a minuteman?â you tease softly.Â
âHeyââ
A shared moan stops whatever rant he was about to go on, thanks to your hips rolling against his. And you can feel it, how his dick twitches deep inside of you, already so close to the edge even though he just got there. You can also feel him pressing up right against your cervix.Â
His fingers dig into your hipboneâ not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn. Clark pulls back, looming over you as he takes in a deep breath.
âYouâre playing dirty,â he accuses, voice as tight as how he holds his jaw.
âSo what if you cum fast?â you grin at him, hands moving to rest on his abdomen. âDonât tell me Superman canât go a couple rounds.â
His eye twitches, and you know youâve hit him somewhere personal. Then again, baiting Clark Kent was always your favorite pastime.Â
âOf course I can,â Clark says with a tone you know all too wellâ one that lets you know heâs about to prove you wrong.
His hips pull back, cock dragging out of you so painfully slow until just the tip of him is left within you. You mistakenly believe that heâs going to slam back into you without any warning. He doesnât.
Clark pushes back inside of you slowly, giving you the chance to properly feel the ridge of his tip as it meets the shaft of his dick. You can feel a pulsing vein on the underside, matching the rapid beat of his heart. You can feel him separating your gummy walls with each new inch of him, forcing you to accommodate his size. And you can feel the bulge in your lower abdomenâ himâ deep inside of you.
âShit,â you gasp out, but you donât have time for anymore words. Heâs pulling out once again before thrusting back into you, setting an easy, comfortable pace. Despite it, you canât even begin to form any thoughts. Heâs splitting you apart, filling you in ways that youâve never felt before.Â
âThatâs it,â Clark chuckles from above you. You catch a lazy, nearly fucked out smile paint his face as he watches you. âYou know, I think I like you better when youâre not talking.â
You whimper in response, unable to properly respond to him.
He hums, leaning back down to kiss you, his movements never stopping. âI got you, baby. Donât worryâ Youâre so pretty like this.â
Clark swallows all your moans and whines like heâs desperate to have them. All you can feel is himâ his hands running up and down your body to map you, the feel of his cock piercing in and out of you, his tongue brushing against yours, his muscles rippling and flexing whenever your hands find somewhere new to hold onto.Â
âYou look so good like this. So perfect, so beautifulâ gosh, you look so pretty with me inside you,â he murmurs against your lips, voice strained ever so slightly. He moans out your name when your walls flutter around him again, giving him one brief warning. His hips snap harder into yours, efforts renewed as he urges you to your doom. âCâmon, baby. Give it to meâ need you to make a mess all over me.â
As one final push, Clark presses a hand onto your stomach, snapping the last bit of pressure within you. âGodâ Clark!â you cry out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you begin to tremble beneath him.Â
All the while, he never lets up. If anything, the pace is faster, chasing your high with everything he hasâ prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible.Â
One more time, your name falls from his lips, this time strangled and needy before you feel a warmth deep inside of you. Heâs coated you from the inside, both of your sticky juices mixing together into one substance as he lodges his cock deep inside of you, poking at your cervix.
Clark collapses over you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. Still, his chest is pressed against yours, allowing you to feel the thumping beneath his skin.Â
He collects himself faster than you, lips trailing all over your neck and collarbones as his cock jumps within you, hard once more. When you look at him with disbelief, he gives you a stupid grin that you nearly melt for.Â
âWhatâs with that look?â he asks, nipping at your lips. âYou only have yourself to blame for this.â
âI didnât do anything just now.â You frown at him, though not entirely upset.Â
âNo,â he agreed, âBut you did challenge me to put a baby in you. Iâm feeling competitive tonight.â
You almost wish you never said those words out loud, never teased or poked him until he broke. Almost.Â
Warm water sloshes around you as Clark lowers himself into the bath behind you. He instantly engulfs you with his size, his body granting you more heat than the tub you both sit in together. You lean back against his chest, closing your eyes.Â
Exhaustion ran deep in your bones. You donât fight against Clark as he begins to scrub your skin with soap, cleaning off the sweat and stickiness that accumulated during your time together. Still, you know he canât get rid of the markings he left behind.Â
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror when Clark carried you into his bathroom earlier. Purple, manmade flowers had grown across your skin, effectively ensuring youâd be wearing high neck clothing on days you didnât feel like doing your makeup.Â
You should be mad. You should scold him for losing control, but frankly⌠you donât really care, especially not when he lowers his head slightly to press a delicate kiss to your shoulder.Â
âHow do you feel?â he murmurs against your skin.Â
âGood,â you sigh, content. âMight be sore tomorrow, thanks to someone.â
âYou asked for it,â he reminds you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.
âYeah, yeah,â you dismiss, but youâre smiling too.Â
Tomorrow, you both will have a discussion. A long talk on where you both stand in each other's lives, and how to ensure your relationship with each other wonât end up in flames. But all of that is for your future self to deal with.Â
Right now, youâll revel in his touch, allow him to wrap his arms around you, and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.Â
clark kent taglist: @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @iamthatonefangirl @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover
⤡ to be eligible for my taglist, you must have your age stated somewhere on your blog!
Jimmy believes he's sitting on a goldmine, the scoop of the century as he calls it. And it is; the perfect shot of Superman locking lips with some mystery girl. You'd be very happy for him if the mystery girl wasn't you. (wc: Âą1.2k)
You've barely made it to your desk before Jimmy has you, a hand to your lower back as he guides you to his desk instead. "Good morning to you too," you smile, but he barely pays you any mind, only responding with a half-assed mhm as he frantically searches his messy desk for something. He finds it swiftly, placing the manilla folder underneath his arm before he's once again guiding you towards the staff room.
"Okay, what's this all about?" you ask, trying to keep up with his rapid pace. "You really took your sweet ass time getting here," he says, disregarding your question and stoking a fire of irritation already settling inside you. "I'm actually early," you say, checking your wristwatch with a disbelieved huff.
Once he reaches the staffroom, he pokes his head inside to check if it's empty and quickly pushes the two of you inside. "Jimmy," you huff, well beyond irritated by now, "what's your deal? What's all this abâ" You're swiftly silenced with a raised hand, and before you can chew him out about how rude it is to just do that to someone, he's grabbing the manilla folder from underneath his arm and pushing it into his grasp.
You give him a questioning look, and he only tells you to open it, practically vibrating with excitement as he watches you tear at the seal. When you finally get your hands on the folder's content, your blood instantly runs cold, eyes bulging out of your head like a cartoon character's.
Right there in your hands, printed out rather largely onto eight by eleven inch of paper is a picture of Clark (well, Superman) and you locking lips on your balcony, taken from below. It's a little blurry because of the distance, but the bright blues, reds and yellows of Clark's suit are as clear as day. You can't really see your face, but you know that it's you. You are the only person Clark's been sneaking away nightly patrol from to kiss, after all.
A million thoughts are running through your head, yet none of them verbalize, all stuck in your throat like bile. You want to cry, you want to ask Jimmy where the hell he was even hiding when he managed to capture this, you want to rip up the damn picture and then run for the hills and never come back. But you do none of that, you simply stare at the picture in complete silence.
"It's great, right?" Jimmy's voice makes you jump, almost forgetting he was still stood in front of you waiting for a response to the absolute bombshell he just dropped onto you. "It's uh," you swallow thickly, shaking your head in disbelief as a nervous laugh escapes you, "it's a big scoop." You manage after a few moments of stuttering. "It's a huge scoop, yeah," Jimmy laughs, moving so that he now stands next to you. He taps the image a few times. "This'll have people buzzing for weeks," he starts, "can you imagine what all his fangirls will be saying when they see he has a girlfriend?"
You grimace a little at the mention of all of Clark's fangirls. You already have an idea or two of what they will be saying, and the thought alone leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You've seen the rather vulgar and borderline obsessive things people have said about him on social media, so you can't imagine that this will go down smoothly with that crowd. "They won't be too happy," you say more to yourself, turning to Jimmy, "why are you showing me this anyway?"
"I want you to write an article about it."
This day can't possibly get any stranger.
"Excuse me?" you ask, mouth hanging to the floor in utter shock. "I can't do that." Jimmy scoffs at that. "Why not?" he exclaims. "It doesn't even have to be anything big. Just a quick tabloid, maybe a teaser on the front page. C'mon," he practically whines, "It'll get people talking, maybe even get Perry off your ass." The offer's tempting, in all honesty. Perry really has been on your ass about your writing lately, says it's "not captivating enough" (as if he isn't the one that's been assigning you these absolute yawn worthy stories), so this his might be just what gets you out of this apparent rut.
You look down at the picture still clasped in your hands, gut twisting in apprehension. You look at Jimmy, practically glowing with excitement at this catch. You sigh before you're carefully shoving the picture back into the folder. "I'll think about it," you finally say, trying not to smile at how Jimmy pumps his fist in victory.
When you tell Clark about it later that night, he's ecstatic.
"This isn't funny Clark!"
He's doubled over on your couch, grabbing at his middle as if it hurts as he laughs at the ridiculous situation you've found yourself in. You take the same manila folder Jimmy had given you earlier and use it to hit him over the head a few times. This only worsens his giggling, but he soon regains his composure when he sees the way you pout at him angrily. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry honey. I'm done, I promise," he says as he straightens himself, apologetic look in his eyes even if his smirk tells you he still wants to laugh.
"This is not funny, it's awful!" you say, pulling the picture from the folder and placing it on the nearby coffee table. You both stare at it intently. "How did Jimmy even get this photo? When did he even get it?" you ask, eyes analysing every detail. "You didn't ask him?" Clark inquires and you shrug. "I was too shocked at seeing a picture of my boyfriend, who is Superman, kissing me on my balcony. I was convinced he was confronting me about it until I realized you can barely see my face."
Clark slides the picture closer to him with a finger, hunching over as he gives it a closer look. After a few seconds of silence, he turns to you with a smile. "Honestly?" he starts, "I don't really mind if you want to write the article," he says with a shrug. You stare at him with a look of disbelief. "Seriously?" you ask, arms crossing in apprehension. He only shrugs again, shuffling closer to you on the already too-small couch. His shoulder bumps into yours and his hand finds home on your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"I don't mind," he says again softly. "Like you said, you can't see your face. And it certainly is a juicy story," he adds with a suggestive rise of his eyebrows, making you roll your eyes in return. "A juicy story that'll probably have all your fangirls devastated for the foreseeable future," you say a little bitterly. His smile only widens further at that. He bumps his shoulder into yours on purpose this time, head dipping down closer to yours like he's getting ready to share a hot piece of gossip. "Let them be," he says matter-of-factly, "it's about time they see Superman's off the market." You try not to let your satisfaction smile show at his words, chest puffing out unknowingly.
So, you finally relent and write the damn article. It's published just a few days later, the salacious picture making the front page just like Jimmy had predicted, and you make a mental note to not check your emails for at least a few days.
â ⪠âŠâŠ:âŠâŠ ⍠ďšclark starts avoiding you after a wet dream and you hate that.
đđđđđđđđđđ coworker!clark x f!reader. suggestive. clark has a wet dream. heavy makeout. reader doubts herself for a while, but soon it turns to horniness. clark has silly hands touching all over you. ă 3,002 words
â^. .^ââ ďš my first clark requesttt!! i'm so happy! i hope you like it, my pretty cherry <3 (idk how to feel about the square pics...)
IN A SUDDEN, BREATHLESS MOVE, CLARK SAT UP.
the sheets clung to his skin, damp with sweat. his heart hammered in his chest, too loud, too heavy, and his hair stuck messily to his forehead. he ran a trembling hand through it, trying to catch his breath, but the images wouldnât fade.
then he looked downâoh no.
the unmistakable ache straining against his sweats. the dark patch where heâd cum.
golly. his pulse jumped all over again, mortification flooding him. how in the world was he supposed to face you at work now? after a dream like that?
you!
you, who smiled so kindly at him every morning. who brought him his coffee when he was too buried in copy edits to move. who always remembered to ask if heâd eaten. you were gentle, warm, genuineâsweet in a way that made clarkâs chest ache.
and yetâ
the dream.
his breath stuttered. he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, but it was no use. the memory was seared there, vivid and cruelly tender. the way your thighs had trembled around his head. the soft, broken sounds youâd made against his mouth. the taste of your pussy so sweet on his tongue. the way youâd whispered his name like it meant something sacred. so helpless, he swore he could be some sort of salvation for you.
clark groaned quietly, ashamed at how his body reacted to the thought.
he wasnât supposed to think of you like that. not you.
you deserved someone confident, someone who didnât lose composure over a dream. someone who could tell you what you meant to him without tripping over his own words.
but still⌠the ghost of it lingered. the way youâd looked at him in the dreamâlike you knew him, really knew him, and wanted him anyway. it left him aching with something deeper than lust. something he couldnât quite name.
he needed to stop thinking about it. immediately.
but he didnât.
he sat there for a long time, the sunrise leaking through his curtains, his hands buried in his hair, fighting a losing battle against his own thoughts.
clark kent had never been bad at conversationâjust careful. his words always came out soft, polite, thoughtful. the kind of voice people leaned into without realizing. he had that giant gentle charm, the small smiles, the way heâd glance up from behind his glasses just to check if you were alright.
but he was shy. hopelessly so. he hid it behind neat ties and over-ironed shirts, behind small nods and the habit of laughing a second lateâjust to make sure he wasnât interrupting.
maybe that was why you liked him.
your relationship with clark lived in that quiet, comfortable in-between. not just coworkers, not quite friends. you shared lunches sometimes. stayed late working side by side. heâd bring you tea when you looked tired, and youâd tease him when his hair curled out of place.
it wasnât much, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter every time he smiled at you.
and then, suddenly, it wasnât.
it started right in morning at the daily planet.
he came in with coffees, as always, balancing them carefully in his arms. greeted everyone. smiled that polite, nervous smile. handed yours to you like it was nothingâexcept this time, he didnât meet your eyes.
you frowned.
he usually lingered, leaning against loisâ desk with you and jimmy, talking about everything and nothing before the workday began. but today, he didnât.
instead, he mumbled a quiet âmorning,â retreated to his own desk, and started typing like his life depended on it.
âuh⌠alright,â jimmy murmured, watching him. âdoes anyone know what happened?â
you and lois exchanged a look. both shook your heads.
âmaybe heâs just in a bad mood?â lois offered, though she didnât sound convinced.
âlois,â you said, pouting slightly. âthatâs clark. he doesnât do bad moods.â
the day stretched on like that.
a project you usually handled togetherâhanded off to lois. lunch? he took it at another table, murmuring something about a call. even at the printer, where your small jokes had once filled the air, he only gave you a stiff nod and quickly slipped away.
the shift was too sharp to ignore. too uncomfortable.
you couldnât stop replaying every moment from the last week, wondering if youâd said something wrong. maybe youâd been too obvious. maybe heâd picked up on your crush and⌠recoiled.
meanwhile, clark was malfunctioning.
he couldnât stop thinking about you. couldnât stop remembering the dream, the warmth of it, the shame tangled with longing. every time you smiled at him across the bullpen, his stomach twisted. his hands shook.
how could he sit next to you in a meeting when heâd imagined how your lips wrapped so perfectly around his cock. how could he stand by the printer when heâd dreamed about you bouncing on his cock, drooling and babbling because you were so full.
he felt sick with guilt.
because underneath all that want was something pureâsomething that terrified him even more. affection. admiration. the simple, dangerous truth that he cared for you.
and so he did what clark kent always did when the world felt too big.
he hid.
he thought he was protecting you from his own foolishness. protecting himself from the look on your face if you ever found out.
but you werenât the type to let things go forever.
and soon, youâd notice. youâd ask. youâd reach for him the way you always didâwith that gentle steadiness that made him forget the world could ever be cruel.
and when you did⌠clark wasnât sure heâd be able to lie.
the bullpen was thinning out for the night, the hum of computers fading one by one. lois was gathering the last of her folders when she glanced up at you.
âyou really donât know what happened?â she asked, slipping papers into her bag.
âlois, iâm telling you.â you rubbed your forehead, frustrated. âand itâs not like i got blackout drunk and forgot one of our interactionsââ you stopped mid-sentence, the realization dawning on you like a slow, creeping light.
your eyes went wide. âoh my god.â
âwhat?â lois straightened immediately.
you covered your mouth, words tumbling out between your fingers. âwhat if he noticed my crush and now heâsâheâs uncomfortable? avoiding me?â
lois blinked, then her expression softened.
âhe doesnât like me back,â you muttered, dropping into her chair and dragging your hands down your face. âthatâs it. he doesnât like me. iâm so stupid.â
lois crouched down in front of you, taking your hands gently. ânow youâre being stupid,â she said, quiet but firm.
you gave her a look. âoh, yeah, thanks.â
she laughed under her breath, shaking her head. âi canât believe youâre this oblivious.â
âexcuse me?â
âyou really never noticed how clark looks at you when youâre not watching? or how he always greets you first? or how he got your coffee order right the very first time?â
ânot like mineâs that complicated,â you mumbled.
âand yet he still gets everyone elseâs wrong,â she said, arching an eyebrow. âtoday he messed up perryâs.â
âoh.â
âyeah, oh.â she gave you that investigative stare only lois lane could pull off. âlook, in about five minutes itâll just be you two left here. you should talk to him. really talk to him.â
you shook your head violently. âi donât think i can.â
âthen youâll never know if he likes you back,â she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. âbecause a little birdie told me somethingâŚâ
âwhat birdie?â you demanded, sitting upright.
but she was already backing toward the elevator with that infuriating grin. âgoodnight, sweetheart!â
âloisââ your voice rose just enough to make clark glance over from across the bullpen. you froze, smiling awkwardly, pretending to check something on your desk as your heart tried to beat its way out of your chest.
you exhaled shakily and buried your face in your arms.
for a while, the only sounds were the faint clatter of keyboards and the soft hum of the city outside the windows. everyone else was gone now. only you and clark remainedâtwo late souls pretending not to notice each otherâs presence.
you turned your head, watching him from the corner of your eye. his sleeves were rolled up, tie loosened, glasses sliding down his nose. he was typing stiffly, like he was afraid to move too much.
it hurt a little. seeing him so close yet feeling so far.
youâd spent all day trying to guess what you did wrong. but maybe it was time to stop guessing.
you stood before you could overthink it again.
âclark,â you said softly.
he jumped, like youâd caught him mid-crime. âohâhi! i was just, um⌠finishing this pieceââ
âdonât.â you crossed your arms, voice steadier than you felt. âdonât pretend nothingâs wrong. youâve been avoiding me all day. did i⌠do something?â
his hands hovered uselessly over the keyboard. âno. no, you didnât.â
âthen why?â the words cracked a little. âwe used to be fine, clark. and now you wonât even look at me. if you donât want me around, just say it. just⌠donât leave me guessing like this.â
he stood so suddenly his chair rolled back a few inches, his expression almost pained. âitâs not that,â he blurted, voice thick. âitâs not that at all.â
âthen what?â
for a long, fragile second, he just looked at youâeyes darting between yours and the floor, lips parting and closing like he couldnât find the words.
when he finally spoke, it was a whisper, rough and trembling.
âi⌠had a dream,â he said. âabout you.â
you blinked, confusion flickering first. â...a dream?â
his breath faltered. he pushed his glasses up with a shaking hand, eyes fixed on the floor. ânot the kind of dream i shouldâve had. not about you. and i didnât know how to look at you after. i thought if you found out, youâdâŚâ he swallowed hard. âyou mean a lot to me. i didnât want to ruin it by letting you see how wrong my thoughts were.â
you stared at him, heart stuttering. the way he said itâquiet, desperateâmade something in you ache.
âclark,â you whispered, stepping closer. âyou thought iâd hate you? for dreaming?â
his silence was answer enough.
you laughed softly, disbelieving. âgod, clark. do you even realize how hard iâve been crushing on you? i thought you were avoiding me because you didnât feel the same.â
his head snapped up, eyes wide behind his fogging glasses. âwhat?â
you took another step closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. âi like you,â you said simply, honestly. âand iâd never think badly of you for⌠dreaming. if anything, it makes me feel less crazy.â
he looked like the ground had disappeared under his feet.
you could see itâthe way his breathing turned shallow, the way his hands twitched at his sides, the faint tremor in his jaw as he tried to hold himself back. his eyes dropped to your lips, darted away, then found them again.
âreally?â he asked, so softly you almost missed it.
âreally.â
your hand brushed against his. the contact was barely there, but it sent a current straight through both of you. his fingers flexed, hesitated, then closed around yoursâgentle, trembling, reverent.
his breath hitched.
âyou shouldnâtââ he started, but the words dissolved when you stepped closer, your free hand resting lightly on his chest. he was warm. impossibly warm.
âi think i should,â you murmured.
his glasses fogged, his pulse quickened beneath your palm. you saw every detail nowâthe soft bow of his mouth, the nervous tilt of his head, the way he seemed to forget how to breathe when you leaned in.
and then, before he could retreat into apology again, you kissed him.
it was soft at first, almost hesitant. his lips parted in surprise, then answered yours with a care that felt like devotion. his hand came up, hovering by your cheek, not daring to touch until you pressed closer. when he finally did, it was with trembling fingers tracing the line of your jaw like you were something holy.
the kiss deepened by accidentâby want. a quiet, helpless sound slipped from him, and you felt his restraint melt, piece by piece.
when you pulled back, both of you were breathing unevenly, eyes half-lidded, hearts racing.
âthat wasnât⌠very professional,â you whispered, smiling faintly.
âno,â he said, voice low, almost reverent. âbut i donât think i care.â
it started small. soft. tentative. like he was testing your wants, careful not to break it. and then he exhaled against your mouth, a low, shuddering soundâand something inside him shattered.
his hands were bold before his mind even caught up. one cupped your cheek, warm, insistent, thumb brushing the corner of your lips. the other slipped to your hip, pulling you flush against him, and he froze for a heartbeat, heart hammering. heâd imagined this so many times, but the reality was sharper, heavier, louder. donât mess this up. donât scare her away.
âclark,â you murmured, soft and low, almost a question.
that sound of your name broke him. all the careful restraint heâd built all day evaporated. the kiss deepened slowly. his thumb traced the path his lips had just left, while the hand at your hip pressed a little more, testing, claiming, desperate for confirmation that you were real, that you were here.
he pulled back just a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breathing fast, shallow. âiâve⌠thought about this more than i should,â he admitted, voice roughened by nerves and want.
you smiled faintly, brushing your fingers along the edge of his collar and down his neck. âthen stop thinking,â you whispered.
he swallowed hard, eyes searching yours like they were a lifeline. when he found no hesitation, he kissed you againâdeeper, surer, a kiss that drew a startled, helpless sound from your throat. his fingers slid boldly, one to your ass, the other threading through your hair, anchoring you like he might vanish if he let go.
the newsroom disappeared around you. lights dimmed, city hum pressing against the windows. every brush of skin, every touch of fingers, felt electric, urgent. he pressed into you in ways that were both careful and daring, like he was still learning how to exist this close to you without losing himself entirely.
your hand slid to his chest, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his shirt and he felt it too, his fingers tightening slightly against your ass.
he kissed you again, slower this time, memorizing you. then he pulled back just enough to rest his nose against yours, voice low, rough. âyou have no idea how hard it is to stop,â he murmured.
âdonât stop yet, please,â you breathed.
he laughed softly, breathless and disbelieving, before kissing you once moreâlonger, bolder, hands roaming like heâs trying to memorize every inch of you. one hand slid over your hip, holding you close, the other tracing the line of your spine with deliberate insistence. he shivered under your fingers, and you felt itâevery hesitant desire, every suppressed thought finally spilling over.
your fingers found the edge of his tie, tugging slightly, and he let out a soft, almost stunned sound. his chest pressed against yours, trembling, as if he could barely believe this was real.
âthis doesnât feel real,â he murmured.
âthen stop trying to make it logical,â you whispered against his jaw. he stilled for a heartbeat, then leaned in, pressing into your touch, surrendering to sensation instead of thought.
space vanished between you. his jacket slipped off his shoulders, his shirt carrying faint traces of cedar soap and paperâand something undeniably, entirely him. his hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, grounding himself, grounding you, needing to feel it all, need to remember it.
when you tilted your head back, he followed without question. lips brushing the curve of your throat, hands pressing against your waist, sliding over your back, anchoring you, holding you like letting go was impossible.
âtell me if i should stop,â he whispered, breath hot, voice ragged.
ânever,â you said, small but firm.
he kissed you again, lingering, a kiss that blurred time and thought. fingers exploring boldly, brushing over your back, tracing your sides, mapping you as if heâd never get another chance.
city lights glinted on his glasses as they slipped to the edge of his nose. you laughed softly against his mouth; he smiled too, that shy, tentative clark kent smile, and your heart lurched because it was still himâthe same gentle, golden-retriever clarkâbut braver now, bolder, desperately, achingly here with you.
when he finally pulled back, voice low, rough, quiet: âif we stay here, i wonât be able to stop.â
you looked up at him, cheeks warm, breath ragged, hair tangled from your fingers, and brushed your hand over his cheek, gentle but certain. âthen take me home.â
he blinked, stunned for a moment, then nodded. thumb brushing your lips once more, a promise in the smallest movement.
âokay.â
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synopsis : clark sees the marks he left on your skin and remembers exactly how they got there⌠and how you begged for more. (wc : 908)
a/n : first post on this blog ⥠first time writing for davidâs version of clark (bear with me)
warnings 18+ mdni : soft dom!clark, unprotected sex (p in v), size kink (clark is big and it's known), missionary, overstimulation, mentions of hickeys / bite marks / bruising (affectionate), creampie, praise, crying during sex, cum inside
the love marks. faint now, but still thereâjust under your collarbone, one near your hip. hickeys scattered where his mouth had lingered too long. where heâd kissed too hard. where youâd gasped his name and arched up into him like you couldnât stand to be anywhere else.
and god, he hadnât meant to get carried away.
he always tries to be careful. always slows down when youâre gasping too sharp, always holds your hips like theyâll shatter if he squeezes wrong. but last night, you kept whispering that you could take it. kept wrapping your legs around his waist, tugging him deeper. kept begging him not to stop, even when you were crying from how full you feltâhow good it was.
you kept asking for more. and clark⌠he gave it to you.
slow and deep and dizzying. missionary, like he was trying to see every little tremble in your expression, trying to memorize the exact way your face crumpled when you came so hard around him you nearly passed out. his hand had cradled the back of your neck, his other one gripping your thigh to hold you open. his lips on your skin, worshipping, murmuring âthatâs it, sweetheart⌠just like thatâŚâ
he remembers the heat of your body. the slick sounds between you. how long you stayed trembling underneath him, gasping every time he rolled his hips forwardâhow tight your hands clutched at his hair when he finally leaned down and bit into your shoulder, panting like he couldnât help himself.
and now, in the light of day, seeing those marks again?
he feels himself twitch hard in his jeans.
he doesnât mean to interrupt you. youâre just folding laundry, humming something quiet. but his handâs already on your waist, fingertips slipping under your shirt.
âbaby,â he says, voice thick in his throat. âiâm sorry, but⌠i need you again.â
and when you turn to himâsoft-eyed, flushedâheâs already lifting you into his arms like you weigh nothing.
heâs gentle when he lays you down, even if his breathingâs already gone rough. even if thereâs a sharp tension in the way he pushes his jeans down just enough, cock flushed and heavy, bobbing up against his stomach as he leans over you again. big hands cage your hips. your legs fall open easy.
âyou sure?â he asks, low and thick.
you nod, chest rising fast. âplease, clarkâŚâ
his cock twitches at that.
and then heâs pressing in, thick head nudging through your folds, dragging slick as he slowly splits you open. the stretch knocks the breath out of youâheâs big, he always isâbut tonight feels worse, somehow. maybe because youâre still tender from last time. maybe because heâs already got you worked up, flushed and soft and pliant under him.
his eyes flutter as he pushes deeper.
your hands find his forearms, digging in as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours. your walls flutter around him, overstuffed. itâs too much. but so perfect.
he doesnât move at firstâjust stays there, buried deep, staring down at you like heâs trying to hold back from falling apart too soon.
but then you whimper.
and he starts to roll his hips.
slow and controlled. each stroke heavy and dragging, his cock brushing something inside you that makes your toes curl. itâs overwhelmingâthe size of him, the way he fills you, the way his voice goes soft and low and wrecked every time you clench.
âthatâs it, sweetheart⌠â
his hand slides under your thigh, lifting it higher against his side. the angle shiftsâsuddenly heâs hitting even deeper, even slower, and your breath catches.
he leans down to kiss you, tongue sliding past your lips as he grinds in. his pelvis rubs up against your clit now with every thrust, and your thighs twitch helplessly in response.
clark pulls back, panting, and rests his forehead against yours.
âyou gonna come for me again?â he whispers. âstill sore from earlier, huh? but youâre squeezing me so tight⌠â
you nod, desperate, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. your whole body feels like itâs buzzing.
he kisses you againâsoothing, tenderâbefore his hips pick up pace.
not too fast, but rougher. deeper. your hands scramble for something to hold ontoâhis arms, his back, the sheets. your orgasm builds fast and hard, the pressure unbearable.
âclarkââ you gasp. âclark, iâiâm gonnaââ
âi got you,â he breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, the bruised mark on your neck from last time. âlet go for me, sweetheart. i got youâŚâ
you do. it hits like lightningâyour back arches, your mouth opens in a silent cry, and your cunt clamps down so tight around him he groans into your skin, hips stuttering.
he doesnât last long after that.
youâre still shaking when he buries himself deep one last time and moans your name into your neck, his cum spilling inside you in long, hot pulses. itâs thick and messy. so much you can feel it dripping when he finally pulls out, slow and careful.
his eyes stay on your face the whole timeâsoft, in awe.
ââŚsorry,â he whispers after a moment, thumbing the fresh bloom of red forming where his mouth had just been. âi said i was gonna be gentle.â
you smile, dazed. âyou were.â
he grinsâsheepish, lovesick, like he canât believe his luck.
âstill,â he murmurs. âmaybe i should clean you up⌠and then do it again. real slow this time.â
summary: itâs been this way since collegeâyou drink, get drunk, you fight, and then you fuck. and now youâre chasing storms in rival crews, slipping in and out of motel rooms between tornado sirens, swearing every morning after that this time was the last time. but denial gets heavier, tyler gets suspicious, and jealousy hits harder than any storm. and suddenly youâre realising⌠maybe it was never just sex. (based on this song)
notes: this took so long and it turned into a character study, but oh my goodness, i love it so much. i honestly love this man, this character, with all my heart and writing this was so much fun. you have no idea! i'm sorry it's so long but please give it a chance, it's probably my favourite thing i've written??? and as always, please let me know what you think! (i also made a whole playlist)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, italics, mentions of drunk sex, lots of tension and banter, lots of denial, jealousy, a little angst, some likely incorrect storm science (and a lot of lines stolen directly from both twister movies), lots of arguing, it gets a lil dramatic (but in a good way), and SMUT (making out, dirty-ish talk, unprotected p in v, and kind of rough? also don't come for me if some parts get repetitive, smut is hard) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 16644 (28029)
â§âË⧠PART TWO â§âËâ§
Youâve seen this before.Â
Your black dress lying on the floor. A few feet away, a white shirt. Pants. Boxers. Definitely not yours.Â
Your lashes flutter, eyes slowly adjusting to the stream of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains, painting the room in warm golden hues of morningâÂ
Shit.Â
You roll overâand of course, heâs there. Arm slung across your waist, legs tangled with yours, his body taking up more of the bed than youâd normally ever allow a sleeping partner to occupy. His lashes rest dark against his cheeks, a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, full lips parted just slightly as he breathes steady and slow. Heâs so prettyâalmost unfairly soâbut that doesnât make you want to kick him out any less.Â
âScott,â you hiss, tapping his cheek. âWake the fuck up and get the fuck out.âÂ
He stirs, brow furrowing as he mumbles something low and incoherent.Â
âScott, I am so serious right now, itâs likeââ You reach for your phone on the nightstand, tapping the screen to light it up. The time flashes back at you, and your stomach drops. You bolt upright. âItâs seven oâclock! You need to get the fuck out of here before my crew start waking up.âÂ
He groans and rolls onto his back, lashes fluttering as his eyes blink against the morning light. âYeah, âm awake.âÂ
The gravel in his voice first thing in the morning always makes your heart stutter. It's ridiculousâreallyâthat a man so irritating, so endlessly infuriating, can be this sexy without even trying. Which is exactly why you donât blame yourself for giving in. To him. His stupidly sharp wit. His stupid blue eyes. That stupidly talented tongue that never fails toâÂ
âThinking about round two?â he asks, lips curved into a sleepy smirk.Â
You roll your eyes and turn away, planting your feet firmly on the grey motel carpet. âPretty sure weâre well past round two after last nightâbut for the record? No. Iâm actually thinking about the exact opposite.âÂ
The mattress dips as he sits up. âYeah? And whatâs the exact opposite of another round of back-breaking sex?âÂ
âThe fact that itâs never going to happen again,â you say, standing and turning to face him. âEver.âÂ
His brows lift, lips still curled into that smirk. âEver?âÂ
Your eyes narrow. âNever.âÂ
âHeard that before,â he chuckles, swinging his legs off the bed and stretching his arms out wide.Â
âYeah, wellââ you pick up his shirt and toss it at him, ââthis time I mean it.âÂ
âSaid you meant it last time too.â He glances over his shoulder, eyes sparklingâand God, you canât decide if you want to punch him or kiss him.Â
âJust get dressed and get out,â you mutter, bending down to scoop up his boxers.Â
It isnât long before heâs fully dressed, StormPAR printed across the left side of his chest and a smudge of your mascara staining the collar. He slips his shoes onâdoesnât bother lacing themâsets his cap on his head, and heads for the door, where youâre waiting with your arms crossed.Â
âTomorrow night, then?â he asks, hand on the doorknob, lips twitching.Â
You give him a flat look. âFunny.âÂ
âOh, Iâm not being funny.âÂ
Before you can fire back, he steps in close, fingers catching on the hem of your shirt. He tugsâjust enough to pull you off balanceâand then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. The kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to buckle. The kind of kiss that says he knows exactly what heâs doing.Â
When he finally pulls back, he chucklesâsoft and low and infuriating. Then heâs gone, leaving you alone in the old motel room that smells like sex and mothballs, pulse racing, glaring at the door like itâs the problem.Â
But itâs not. And neither are you. Itâs himâalways him. Every time. Heâs impossible. Insufferable. With that flat scowl that seems permanently carved into his face, those ridiculously broad shoulders that never seem to relax, and the way his eyes can pin you across any bar, any tavern, any crowded room like youâre the only thing worth looking at.Â
Itâs like dĂŠjĂ vu.Â
The same damn pattern on repeat.Â
You drink, you get drunk, you fightâand then you fuck.Â
Every. Single. Time.Â
It started back in college. You first spotted him across the lecture hallâhead and shoulders above the rest, dark hair catching the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows, blue eyes sharp as they scanned the room. He looked like he was on his way to audition for Superman, not sit through a lecture about the physics of oceanic and atmospheric circulation. There was something about him, something impossible to ignoreâsomething that made your pulse skip and your stomach flip.Â
Needless to say, you thought he was gorgeous. You fell for it. Obviously. Who wouldnât?Â
But that was before he opened his mouth.Â
He kept to himself mostly, always quiet and serious, never wasting words unless the professor called on him. But with you? It was different. From the moment you first spoke, he was on the attackânitpicking your storm-tracking analysis, insisting your projections were sloppy. And when you snapped back, he gave you this smirkâsmall, sharp, knowing. Like he knew exactly how to get under your skin. And maybe he did. Because Scott wasnât like that with anyone else. To the rest of the world, he was just grumpy, closed-off Scott. With you, though, he was cocky, quick, infuriatingly sure of himself. Like he saw something in you that no one else did, and enjoyed poking at it just to watch you light up. Â
Maybe thatâs why you fell into the rhythm so easily. It had nothing to do with you, not reallyâit was him, always him, pushing, prodding, picking fights just so he could be the one to watch you burn. Thatâs why every party turned into another argument, another kiss, another night. Why every time a drop of liquor touched your tongue, you ended up flat on your back with Scott on top of you. Because he always managed to draw that side of you outâthe one that wanted to prove him wrong, even when it meant proving him right in all the worst ways.Â
After college, you thought youâd broken the curseâthat youâd finally escaped whatever time loop kept you falling into bed with him. But then StormPAR showed up one tornado season, and just like that, you were right back where you started. Under him. On top of him. In the shower, on the couch, the kitchen counter, sometimes even in the bar bathroom. All his fault. Obviously. But now you have to be careful, discreet, because the last thing you need is your team finding out that youâre sleeping with the enemy.Â
Not that itâs happening again. Ever. Last night was the last timeâyou're sure of that. You mean it this time. You have to. Youâre not going to let him get to you ever again. You canât.Â
âDonât you look chipper this morning,â Tyler says, grinning like hangovers are a myth heâs never believed in.Â
You shoot him a look. âHow are you not hungover?âÂ
He shrugs. âYears of practice. Healthy liver. Ohâand I wasnât the one chasing tequila withâŚÂ more tequila.âÂ
You roll your eyes, even though it makes your skull throb, and turn toward the self-serve coffee machine. The rest of the group are crowded around a table in the middle of the dining hallâall except Boone, who is busy loading his plate with everything the continental breakfast has to offer. He always gets excited when you stay at a motel with complimentary breakfast.Â
âIâm surprised you were up so early,â Tyler says, leaning a hip against the counter.Â
You frown. âEarly? Itâs almost ten.âÂ
He shakes his head. âNoâearlier. I heard you moving around at, like, seven.âÂ
Your stomach drops, but you keep your eyes fixed on the coffee machine. Usually youâre more careful than thatâif your motel room is too close to someone elseâs, youâll go back to wherever Scott is staying. Or find somewhere in between. But youâd completely forgotten Tylerâs room was directly below yoursâwhich means he probably heard a whole lot more than just footsteps at seven oâclock this morning.Â
âOh, yeah,â you mutter. âIâuh, I ran out of toilet paper and had to go down to the front desk.âÂ
He nods, slow and sceptical. âRight. Toilet paper.âÂ
You bounce your heel impatiently while you wait for the coffee to fill your mug. Tyler doesnât say anything else. He just stands there, waiting, sipping his own coffee like heâs got nothing better to do than silently interrogate you.Â
When your mug finally fills, you scoop it up and turn toward the table where the others areâdesperate for a conversation that doesnât make you want to throw up... more than you already do.Â
âHey.â You drop into the empty seat between Lily and Javi. âHow are you guys this morning?âÂ
Kate, Dani, and Dexter are already deep in conversation about todayâs chase, but itâs still way too early for you to start thinking about wind shear and hodographs.Â
You exhale slowly and lean back in your chair. âIâve been better.âÂ
Javi chuckles. âNot gonna lie, Iâm impressed youâre even out of bed.âÂ
âMe too,â you mutter into your mug, sipping carefully so you donât upset your stomach.Â
Thereâs a pauseâa brief lull where Kateâs voice suddenly carries louder than it should, chatting excitedly about a monster cell forming over the plains.Â
Then Javi turns to you, amusement still bright on his face. âYou and Scott were really going at it last night, huh?âÂ
You choke. On nothing. Not coffee or spit or air. You just chokeâbreath catching, chest seizing, throat tight.Â
âWoah.â Lily lays a hand on your shoulder. âAre you okay?âÂ
You cough into your hand, haphazardly setting your mug on the table as you try to breathe. ââm good,â you manage, waving a hand dismissively. âIâIâm okay. Justâwrong pipe.âÂ
You swallow hard and clear your throatâeven though thereâs nothing to clearâbefore turning to Javi, brows drawn tight. âUh, what do you mean, Scott andâand me?âÂ
He tilts his head. âLast night, at the bar. I mean, Iâve seen you two fight before, but that wasâwow.âÂ
You exhale softly, shoulders sagging as relief washes over you. âRight. At the bar. Yeah, it was... intense.âÂ
Heâs not wrong. Last nightâs argument was pretty badâbut last nightâs sex? That was something else entirely. You wouldnât be surprised if the whole motel had heard you come that third time.Â
âWhy are Scott and his crew even back this season?â Kate pipes up from across the table. âI thought theyâd be hiding with their tails between their legs after what happened last year.âÂ
âThey're not working with Riggs anymore,â you say, picking up your mug and taking a short sip. âThey've got new investors, new funding streams. They're refocusing their whole missionâlike, actually doing legit work now. Scottâs got them running tighter sorties, logging wind shear and convective parameters with insane precision. Most of them are still MIT-level assholes, yeah. But theyâve got the equipment, the drones, the timingâŚÂ theyâre terrifyingly efficient. And somehow Scottâs still running interference like itâs a game.âÂ
Silence. The whole team exchanges curious glances.Â
Javi leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. âAnd exactly how do you know all that?âÂ
You hesitate, holding your mug to your lips for a beat too long before swallowing slow. âIâuh, I spoke to one of them the other night. Donât remember his name, but he was telling me... stuff.âÂ
Kate frowns. âStuff?âÂ
Dani leans in. âYou had a conversation with someone from StormPAR without yelling, shouting, or throwing drinks?âÂ
You roll your eyes. âCome on, Iâm not that bad.âÂ
She winces. âYou kind of are, though.âÂ
Your eyes widen. âWell, Iâm not violent, at least.âÂ
Javi chuckles. âPretty sure I heard you tell Scott he wouldnât be able to walk straight once you were done with him.âÂ
Heat floods your cheeks, and you have to hide behind a generous sip of coffee.Â
âNot violent, my ass,â Boone says, grinning over his three full plates of food. âI bet youâd throw hands with that StormPAR poser if he wasnât two feet taller than the average person.âÂ
You donât know what to say to that, so you just laughâshort, clipped, awkwardâand keep your mug at your chin.Â
Thankfully, the conversation moves on quickly. Kate starts wondering aloud whether StormPAR will be after the same cell as your team today, and soon everyone is talking about the weekend chase. Itâs supposed to be a strong couple of days, which is good. You could use the distractionâand so could Tyler. Because right now heâs looking at you across the table with narrowed eyes and a small frown that makes you think he knows more than youâd like him to.Â
After breakfast, everyone gathers their things and piles into the two vehicles. Dani, Dexter, Lily, and Javi take the RVâLily and Javi settling in the back with their laptops to monitor live data. Which means youâre in Tyler's truck with Kate and Boone in the back. You donât always ride up front, but today, Tyler insisted.Â
It isnât long before rain starts hitting the windscreen in rolling sheets. The whistle of the wind grows louder outside, and you can see Tylerâs knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. This is when the adrenaline starts to kick inâwhen the clouds drop low and the sky turns a bruise-dark shade of purple and grey.Â
Kate snatches up the radio, holding it to her chin. âTalk to me, Javi. Where are we headed?âÂ
The radio crackles before Javiâs voice cuts in. âEast-northeast. Stormâs picking up rotationâyouâve got maybe ten minutes before it tightens. Stay on thirty-six, then cut north at the county road.âÂ
âCopy that,â Kate says.Â
âHold on,â Tyler barks suddenly.Â
The truck jolts through a flooded dip in the road, and you quickly brace yourself against the dash.Â
âShit.â You squint through the rain-streaked glass. âIs that StormPAR?âÂ
Tyler leans forward, eyes narrowed. âLooks like it. How the hell did they get ahead of us?âÂ
âNo idea.âÂ
In the back seat, Boone whoops at a streak of lightning splitting the horizon, while Kateâs got her nose buried in the laptop balanced on her knees. âShearâs climbing. Weâre threading a needle here,â she warns, eyes flicking between graphs and radar.Â
Tyler grins, wide and wild. âHell of a morning commute.âÂ
Another burst of static crackles through the radio, voices bleeding over one another as the RV crew calls updates and warnings. When you finally hit the country road, Tyler yanks the truck northward, cutting through a field of tall grass toward the building storm.Â
You glance over your shoulder at Kate. âHow big is it supposed to get?âÂ
âInitially I had it pegged at an EF-1,â she says. âBut the velocityâs climbingâit could be an EF-2 if weâre lucky.âÂ
You turn back to face the front, hand flying up to grip the âoh shitâ handle above the door. âLooks like an EF-2 to me. Letâs get in there before StormPAR.âÂ
âAtta girl!â Tyler exclaims, slamming his foot down on the gas.Â
The truck lurches, Boone cheers, and Kate grumbles something about how Tyler better not kill you all before you even make it to the tornado. You glance in the side-view mirror and spot the white StormPAR truck just a few yards behind now, their LEDs flaring so bright they nearly blind you in the reflection.Â
âWait,â Kate says, eyes wide as she snatches up the radio again. âJavi, are you seeing this?âÂ
âYeah,â he comes back quickly. âItâs shifting directionâbut I canât pin the path yet.âÂ
âStop the truck,â Kate orders. âWe need to wait and see where itâs headed.âÂ
Tyler nods once. âCopy. Stopping now.âÂ
He slams on the brake, and the truck shudders to a violent halt. Everyone lurches forwardâBoone gasps, Kate yelps, and you throw your hands against the dash to stop the seatbelt from strangling you.Â
âJesus Christ, Tyler,â you mutter. âShe didnât mean stop rightââÂ
âWhat the hell do they want?â he cuts in, scowling past you out the window.Â
You whip around to see the StormPAR truck pulled up right beside yoursâbarely two feet of space between your door and their driverâs side. The tinted window rolls down slowly, and your heart stutters. Traitor.Â
Scott gestures for you to lower your window, and you roll your eyes before cranking it down.Â
âWhat?â you shout over the roar of wind and rain.Â
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. âYou better turn backâthis oneâs out of your league.âÂ
You frown, shifting in your seat to lean out the window. âYeah? I didnât realise you were moonlighting as a weatherman and my babysitter!â you exclaim, your voice pitching up on the last word, jagged with frustration.Â
His mouth curves higherâa little closer to that smirk you know too wellâand his eyes gleam even under the bleak grey sky. âSomebodyâs gotta keep you alive,â he calls back.Â
And then he's gone.Â
You barely even have time to blink before the StormPAR truck is disappearing into the distance ahead. You drop back into your seat, wind the window up as fast as you can, then let yourânow wetâhead fall back against the headrest and let out a long, strained groan.Â
You roll your eyes. âIt wasnât loadedâheâs just a prick. Now letâs fucking go before we miss this thing!âÂ
Luckily for you, Tyler doesnât have time to argueâbecause youâre right. If you donât keep moving, youâre going to miss the storm. He hits the gas and youâre all pressed back in your seats as the truck starts cutting through the field again. Javi radios in with new instructions, and Tyler follows. Kate leans forward with her laptop, flashing you the screen and asking for your opinion on the rotational velocity sheâs reading.Â
Itâs like clockworkâeveryone falling into their roles, the chase running through you like instinct. But today it doesnât matter how well you all work together. It doesnât matter how sharp Javiâs calls are, how fast Tyler drives, how excited Boone isâit's all useless.Â
By the time you hit the spot the radar promised, you see itâa thin funnel dangling from the clouds, twisting like it can't quite make up its mind. For one sharp second, your pulse spikes. But then the clouds pull back, and the funnel collapses in on itself, gone before you can even blink. Too high, too short, too weak to count.Â
Boone groans. âYouâve got to be kidding me.âÂ
Kate snaps her laptop shut with a sigh. âAll that for a glorified dust devil.âÂ
Tyler thumps the steering wheel once, muttering under his breath, and you sink back against your seat, jaw tight. Across the field, just over the crest of the hill, you catch sight of the StormPAR truck, barely visible through the thinning weather. You tell yourself itâs just coincidence that your eyes find it so quicklyâbut deep down, you know better. Itâs like youâve got a sixth sense for Scott, like your body knows when heâs near even if you wish it didnât.Â
The drive back to the motel is quiet, heavy with the disappointment of unpredictable weatherâbecause no matter how much you think you know from hook echoes and velocity scans, the storm always has the final say. Itâs that mysterious moment before the funnel drops that one no one can forecast except Mother Nature herself.Â
Once Tyler parks the truck, you all climb out. Kateâs already talking about tomorrowâs predictions when the others meet you in the parking lot, all grumbling about todayâs lack of successâuntil Javi points out the CAPE numbers spiking and dewpoints climbing into the upper sixties. Then the mood shifts, just a little, because tomorrow could be the real thing.Â
The rest of the afternoon is filled with talk of tomorrowâs potential and an early dinner at the diner around the corner, then you all head back to the motel. Javi and Lily start tinkering with their latest drone modifications while Tyler, Dani, Dexter, and Boone all settle into their lawn chairs with a beerâbut you and Kate both decide to call it a night.Â
You take a long shower, letting the water run over you until your skin turns redâbut it still doesnât wash him away. The image of him, the memories of last night. They loop endlessly in your head. Even when you try to watch a movie on the tiny TV in the corner of the room, you end up staring through it more than you actually watch.Â
Eventually, you flick off the lights, sink into bed, and try to sleep. Try. But it doesnât come easy. You toss and turn, restless, your mind circling back again and again no matter how hard you try to shove it away. Every time you shut your eyes, last night flickers behind your eyelidsâthe heat of it, the sharp edges, the way he looked at you. And worse? The smell of him is still here, stubbornly clinging to your sheets like heâs burned into the fabric, into you. You hate it. You hate that it makes your chest tight, that it makes you want more instead of less.Â
And when you finally do fall asleep, your dreams betray you. Because heâs thereâalways there. His mouth at your throat, breath hot against your skin, his hands holding you in place like he canât stand the thought of letting you go. The way he touches youâconfident, hungry, reverentâburns into you, every brush of his skin making your breath stutter. He groans when you arch against him, a sound that drags heat straight to your core, and itâs unfair, so unfairâhow good it feels to have him pressed against you, filling you, claiming you like you belong to him.Â
You wake in a sweat at three a.m., pulse racing, skin still buzzing. And youâre furious. Furious that heâs invaded your head, your subconscious, the one place he has no right to be. Furious that your body is betraying you, aching for him even now, when you swore last night was the last time. Because you donât want him. You canât want him. And that is exactly why it has to stopâwhy you canât keep letting him crawl under your skin, into your bed, into your goddamn dreams.Â
Sleep mostly evades you after that. You drift in and out, caught between restless half-dreams and the stubborn ache of wakefulness, until finallyâeventuallyâyou manage to fall under again. But then your phoneâs alarm starts blaring and your eyes snap open after what feels like only twenty minutes of actual sleep.Â
You let out a sigh, rub your eyes, and throw the covers back, dragging yourself into the shower. After a quick rinse and brushing your teeth, you pull on a pair of shorts and an oversized MIT shirt, then head out the door. The moment you step outside, the air hits youâthick and heavy, humidity clinging to your skinâand a spark of excitement flickers in your chest. Because warm, moist air means one thing: today, you're going to chase a real storm.Â
âAre you feelinâ this?â Boone calls from below, standing beside Tyler and the truck.Â
You grin. âOh, yeah, baby! Itâs tornado weather.âÂ
You hurry along the balcony and down the stairs, skipping the last few steps with a jump. Tyler is already packing gear into the truck, and Boone is beaming as he slides new rockets into the chutes at the rear of the cab. Javi, Lily, and Kate are crowded around a laptop, murmuring excitedly and pointing at something on the screen, while Dexter quietly finishes his cup of coffee, eyes fixed on the sky.Â
âWeâre gonna get a good one today, I can feel it,â Tyler says as you approach, tightening a bolt on the truckâs cage. âThen I thought weâd head down to Texas tomorrow. Amarilloâs looking promising for the next week.âÂ
You nod slowly, watching the wrench instead of his face. âSounds good. Is that where everyone else is headed?âÂ
His hand stills, head tilting, brow furrowing. âSince when are you worried about where other chasers are going?âÂ
You shrug, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. âJust asking.âÂ
His eyes narrow and he straightens slowly, mouth opening to press furtherâbut before he can, Boone pops up, saving you from the interrogation.Â
âSo,â he says, eyes bright as they bounce between you and Tyler, âwhoâs riding in the truck today?âÂ
âMe, obviously,â you reply quickly, eager to change the subject. âAnd I call shotgun.âÂ
Boone frowns. âBut you had shotgun yesterday.âÂ
You lift a shoulder. âYesterday was a bust. Iâm owed a decent storm.âÂ
He turns to Tyler with a pout. âT, tell her sheâs being unfair.âÂ
Tyler chuckles. âShe called shotgun, Boone. Not much I can do about that.âÂ
Boone huffs but doesnât argueâhe just turns away, sulking as he walks over to the others.Â
âWe should get going,â Tyler says, dropping the wrench back into his poor excuse for a toolbox. âI need to get gas before we head out, and I know Booneâs hungry.âÂ
âThereâs a little diner-slash-truck stop about five minutes up the road,â you offer. âPretty sure I saw a sign that said they serve breakfast burritos.âÂ
Tyler slides his aviators up his nose and grins. âBreakfast burritos it is. Letâs wrangle the wranglers.âÂ
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you turn away from him. You canât give him the satisfaction of laughing at something so dumbâTyler Owensâ ego is already big enough.Â
It isnât long before everyoneâs piling out of the vehicles at the diner. Boone and Dani head straight for the door, arguing about hot sauce on breakfast burritos, while Kate and Lily trail just a few steps behind. Tyler parks his truck at one of the gas pumps, and Dexter helps Javi manoeuvre the RV beside another.Â
âHey, Ty,â you say as you slip out of the passengerâs side. âHave you seen my sunglasses?âÂ
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the pump. âTheyâre not in the centre console?âÂ
âNo,â you sigh. âIâve looked all through the truck.âÂ
âDidnât Lily borrow them the other day?âÂ
âOh.â You turn toward the RV. âYeah, she did. Thanks.âÂ
He mumbles something you donât quite catch as you start toward the RV. Dexter is standing near the rear of the vehicle, holding the pump while Javi rambles about lifted index and dewpoints. You flash them both a quick smile before yanking the door open and climbing up the few steps into the RV that looks more like a meteorologistâs lab than a home on wheels.Â
It takes all of ten seconds to spot your sunglasses sitting on the dash. You grab them and push them on top of your head, checking your reflection quickly in the rear-view mirror before turning back toward the door.Â
But then you hear Javiâs voiceâand freeze.Â
âHey, man, how are you?â he says, too brightly for it to be directed at one of your crew.Â
âIâm good, how are you?âÂ
You know that voiceâalmost too wellâand youâre not in the mood to get caught in a conversation with the person it belongs to.Â
âYeah, Iâm good,â Javi replies. âDid you catch that bust yesterday?âÂ
You creep toward the doorâignoring the mix of dread and nausea curling in your gutâand lean closer, peering through a tear in the faded curtain covering the little window.Â
âYeah, we caught that,â Scott says. âWatched it collapse.âÂ
Javi sighs. âYeah, total letdown. But heyâlooks like redemption weather today.âÂ
Scott chucklesâsoftly, but you can still hear it. Hell, you can practically see it. You know exactly what he looks like when he does that little half laughâthe way his mouth quirks, the way his eyes drop like heâs trying not to let it show, but the small shake in his shoulders always gives him away. Youâve seen it too many times, memorised it without meaning to.Â
âHow is it, anyway?â he asks. âChasing with Owens.âÂ
You lean a little closer to the door.Â
âHonestly?â Javi says. âItâs great. Theyâre a great crew. Everyoneâs sharp, theyâve got their own things, and we all work so well together. I mean, even the techâitâs dated, sure, but it works. Itâs like a well-oiled machine, man. You should see these guys out on the field.âÂ
Through the tear in the curtain, you can just make out the movement of Javiâs hand clapping Dexterâs shoulder.Â
âWow,â Scott says. âSounds great.âÂ
To anyone else, his tone might sound sarcasticâbut you know better. You know what Scott sounds like when heâs really being derisive, and so does Javiâhe worked with him long enoughâbut this isnât that. Scottâs genuinely happy for his former business partner.Â
âBut what about you, man?â Javi says, voice bright. âIâve been hearing all kinds of things about StormPAR. You dropped Riggs, right? And now youâre running interference like itâs a damn sport? Sounds like youâve got that place dialled in.âÂ
Your eyes go wide and your pulse spikes, panic rushing through your veins.Â
âIâuh, yeah,â Scott says, and you can almost see the confused frown on his face. âWe dropped Riggs. Thought we should try doing things the right way. Butâum... whoâwho told you all that?âÂ
Your stomach drops when you hear Javi say your nameâand before you can stop yourself, you shove the door open and stumble out of the RV. You almost lose your footing on the last step, but manage to catch yourself on the door handle.Â
âSpeak of the devil,â Dexter chuckles, hooking the pump back into place on the side of the bowser.Â
You straighten, looking anywhere but at Scott as you slowly shut the RV door.Â
âThereâs my girl,â Javi grins. âI was just telling Scott about what you were saying at breakfast yesterday. How impressed you are withââÂ
âI never said I was impressed,â you cut in, stepping toward them both.Â
Javi chuckles, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his sideâand you can almost swear you catch the flicker of something sharp in Scottâs eyes. But he masks it quickly, hiding it behind that infuriatingly familiar smirk.Â
âSo,â he says, folding his arms, âhow dâyou know so much about StormPAR?âÂ
You narrow your eyes. âI had a brief conversation with one of your teammates the other night.âÂ
His brows lift. âYeah? Who was it?âÂ
âDidnât catch his name.âÂ
âDescribe him,â he presses. âIâm sure Iâll know who youâre talking about.âÂ
Frustration coils hot in your chest, lighting your skin on fire from the inside out.Â
You fold your arms to match him. âHe was tall and obnoxious and completely full of himself.âÂ
He smirks, voice dropping low. âPretty sure you were full of him too.âÂ
Your pulse jumps, heat flooding your cheeks as your eyes dart to Javi, whoâthank Godâis too distracted by an alert on his phone to catch what Scott said. When you look back, Scottâs head is bowed, his shoulders shaking just slightly as he tries to hide his amusement behind the brim of his stupid StormPAR hat.Â
âYouâre impossible,â you hiss.Â
He glances up, blue eyes shining, and opens his mouth to retortâbut Javi cuts in.Â
âDamn, have you seen this?â he says, holding up his phone. âCAPE numbers are climbing fast. Looks like weâre getting a storm earlier than we thought.âÂ
You drag your eyes away from Scott to survey Javiâs phone screenâand heâs right. CAPE values are rising, and the radarâs showing stronger rotation. With conditions like this, youâll see a cell before midday.Â
âShould we tell the others to hurry up?âÂ
Javi shrugs. âWouldnât hurt to hit the road sooner.âÂ
You nod. âIâll go round them up.âÂ
You shoot Scott a scathing look before marching right past him toward the diner. Youâre so frustratedâand, okay, a little flusteredâthat you donât even notice youâre being followed until a hand beats yours to the door handle.Â
Scott pulls the door open before you can protest, gesturing with his other hand for you to go first. You know itâd be stupid to refuse, especially with how many chasers are milling aboutâpeople you knowâso you settle for another scowl as you step inside the diner.Â
It isnât big or fancy, but itâs cleanâand it smells like coffee and maple syrup. There are only four booths in the dining space and a few stools at the counter, which has left most of the clientele on their feet. But your crew, of course, managed to secure one of the booths in the far corner.Â
âNice shirt, by the way,â Scott says, voice low but still loud enough to cut through the chatter.Â
You glance over your shoulder. âThanks. Are you so self-involved that you forgot I went to MIT too?âÂ
He hums, almost a laugh. âNo, I remember.â His eyes flick down, then back upâsteady, deliberate. âI remember very clearly.âÂ
You turn to face him, folding your arms as your pulse picks up. âDonât look at me like that.âÂ
âLike what?âÂ
âYou know what.âÂ
He tilts his head, feigning innocence. âIâm not looking at you like anything. Just noticed that shirt looks a little big.âÂ
You school your expression quickly. âYeah? Well... I bought it oversized.âÂ
âMm.â His mouth curves. âSure you did.âÂ
You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to fire backâbut he beats you to it.Â
âItâs just thatââ he steps closer, voice dropping lower ââI had a shirt just like that, but it went missing a couple weeks ago.âÂ
Your pulse spikes. A couple of weeks ago, in Dodge City, youâd been stuck in a motel room right next to Tylerâsâso youâd gone to Scottâs instead. The next morning, you hadnât felt like putting your own clothes back on, so youâd left wearing a pair of his boxers and... an old MIT shirt.Â
âLook,â you mutter, lifting a hand to press to his chest before quickly remembering where you are and letting it fall. âItâs my shirt now. Because thatââ your eyes search his, and you hate the way your heart thuds harder, ââis never happening again. Ever.âÂ
His mouth twitches like heâs about to say something clever, but then his eyes flick over your shoulderâand the playfulness fades. His expression shutters back into that blank, guarded calm he always hides behind.Â
âWhatâs never happening again?â Tyler asks, startling you.Â
You whip around, face burning. âNothingâI mean, wellâyeah, nothing. Because itâs never happening again.â You turn back to Scott, eyes wide. âRight?âÂ
His brow creases just slightly. âRight,â he mutters. âIâll never ask you for a wind reading ever again.âÂ
You stare at him for a beat, eyes wide, lips parted like youâre about to say somethingâbut all that comes out is a quiet scoff as you shake your head.Â
âWind reading?â Tyler echoes.Â
âYep!â you reply, too fast and too bright. âNever giving StormPAR any of our data ever again. Now letâs get the othersâJavi said conditions are picking up and we donât want to miss it.âÂ
Tyler frowns. âButââÂ
âNo buts,â you cut in quickly. âCome on, letâs wrangle the wranglers!âÂ
He doesnât have time to protest again before you grab his arm and steer him through the diner toward the rest of the crew. You quickly fill them in on the changing weather conditions, and you donât even need to ask before everyoneâs scrambling to leave.Â
You keep your eyes fixed on the clip in the back of Kateâs hair as you make your way out, determined not to look back. You donât need to know if heâs watching or following. You donât even care if he is. Because today isnât about Scottâitâs about the supercell forming east over the plains.Â
In fact, nothing is about Scott. Not today, not yesterday, and especially not you.Â
Youâre about storms, and chasing, and your crewânot drunk motel sex that you have to keep a secret. No matter how good it is. Because itâs just sex. Great sex, sure, but replaceable. You can find great sex somewhere else. You just need to stop falling for his stupid little trapsâlike that cocky smirk he saves just for you, or the spark in his eyes when he baits you and you rise to it every damn time. Or the way those same eyes darken when his mouth is on you, when he looks up through his lashes with that lazy sort of focus, his lips slick withâÂ
âHello?â Tyler waves his hand in front of your face. âAre you even listening?âÂ
The truck jolts and you quickly grab the door to steady yourself. âYeah,â you lie. âIâm justâjust trying to watch for wind direction... and stuff.âÂ
Tyler shakes his head, eyes fixed on the rain-splattered windscreen. âThat was a bad lie and you know it. Whatâs with you today?âÂ
âNothing,â you mutter. âIâm fine.âÂ
He shoots you a sidelong look. âYouâve been weird since yesterday.âÂ
âNo I havenât,â you lieâagainâkeeping your gaze focused on the dark grey sky ahead.Â
âYes, you have,â he starts, âyouâve beenââÂ
âSpeaking of yesterday,â Boone cuts in, leaning forward over the centre console, âI forgot to mention it because I was so bummed about the storm, but I went into the front office when we got back and the receptionist said we had a noise complaint.âÂ
Your pulse stutters.Â
Tyler tilts his head to look at Boone in the rear-view mirror. âNoise complaint?âÂ
âYeah,â Boone says. âFrom room 2C.âÂ
Tyler glances at you. âYouâre in 2B, arenât you?âÂ
Your cheeks flush, your mouth opensâbut nothing comes out. Shit.Â
âDid they say what kind of noise?â Tyler asks.Â
âBanging, moaning, groaning,â Boone says, brow furrowing. âApparently they thought the place was haunted until the noises stopped in the early morning.âÂ
âThatâs so weird,â you say, a little too fast. âI didnât hear anything.âÂ
Tylerâs brows lift, his eyes still on the road. âSo, it wasnât you?âÂ
You scoff, but itâs so forced you might as well be holding up a flashing neon sign that says guilty. âNo, it wasnât me. Whyâwhy would it be me? How would I even make all those noises?âÂ
Boone snorts. âUnless you were watching pââÂ
The truck hits a ditch in the dirt road, and all of you lurch forward.Â
âShit,â Tyler hisses, gripping the steering wheel tight with both hands.Â
The rain outside is brutal now, rolling in sheets against the windscreen and making it almost impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.Â
âWeâve got hail,â Javiâs voice crackles through the radio, bright with excitement. âMake the next left and hit the gasâthe capâs about to break!âÂ
Tyler presses his foot down, urging the truck faster and squeezing the wheel until his knuckles turn white. Adrenaline and relief flood through you, a thin sweat breaking over the back of your neck. You know youâre not out of the woods yetâTyler won't let this go that easilyâbut at least youâve bought yourself some time to come up with a defence.Â
By the time the storm breaks, itâs everything the radar promisedâa clean cap, perfect rotation, a funnel that almost kisses the ground before pulling back into the clouds. Tylerâs whooping, Booneâs halfway out the window trying to film it, everyoneâs cheering over the radio, and for a while, itâs easy to forget everything else. For a while itâs just you, your crew, the chase, and that rush in your veins that feels like purpose.Â
Hours blur into one anotherâdark clouds chasing light, wind roaring so loud it drowns out thought. By the time you roll back into the motel parking lot, youâre soaked through and buzzing, boots squelching with every step. The skyâs gone that bruised purple-grey, lightning still flickering at the edges, and the air hums with the heavy, metallic scent of rain and dust. Itâs been a good dayâa great one, even. Almost enough to make you forget about the twisted feeling in your gut you still donât have a name for.Â
âHey,â Kate calls, jogging across the parking lot to catch you. âYou coming out tonight?âÂ
You turn to face her, brows drawing tight. âWhatâs tonight?âÂ
âA bunch of chasers are going to one of the bars in town,â she says, âto celebrate todayâs storm.âÂ
Your pulse quickens. âOhâuh, yeah, sure.âÂ
She beams. âGreat.âÂ
You give her a tight smile and turn back the way you were going, hoping she doesnât notice the colour rising in your cheeks. âJust let me shower and Iâll meet you back down here atââÂ
âSix,â she calls after you. âEveryone will be ready at six.âÂ
You glance over your shoulder. âRight. Six.âÂ
The grin on her face is a little too wide to be casual, and thereâs a spark in her eyes that makes you think sheâs up to something more than just wrangling the team for a night out. Kate doesnât usually come out when you all go drinkingâsheâs a special occasions kind of girlâwhich, you suppose, is something you could label tonight as. It is technically a celebration.Â
But thereâs something more. Something else hiding behind her smile. Something youâll worry about after you get out of these wet clothes and soggy boots.Â
You take an extra-long, extra-hot shower, letting the water soak your skin until itâs pink and pruned. Then you step out, dry off, get dressed, and decide to take a little longer than usual getting ready. You do your hair, fix your clothes in the mirror, and carefully apply a red lipstick that matches your top.Â
You donât usually put much effort into drinks with the crewâbut tonightâs effort has nothing to do with your crew and everything to do with which other crews might be at the bar. Even though you know youâre not going home with anyone other than your friends. Especially not anyone from StormPAR.Â
âNo Scott,â you tell your reflection sternly. âNot too many drinks, no absinthe, and no sex.â You pause, staring yourself down like thatâs somehow going to give drunk you some self-control. âNo Scott. Got it?âÂ
You nod once, firm, then turn around, grab your purse, and head out the door. Everyone else is already waiting in the parking lot, gathered and chatting excitedly beside Tylerâs truck, the energy still buzzing from the dayâs successful chase.Â
âFinally!â Boone calls. âIâm dying of thirst out here.âÂ
You roll your eyes as you start down the stairs, listening to the rest of them argue about whoâs going in which vehicle. When you reach the truck, Kate ushers you into the front seat before she climbs into the back between Lily and Booneâand while you know thereâs some ulterior motive, youâre not about to argue.Â
âSo,â Tyler says, turning the ignition, âwhereâs this bar, Kate?âÂ
âEast side of town, just past the strip malls,â she says. âYou canât miss itâitâs got the most insane amount of fairy lights all over the front terrace.âÂ
Tyler snorts. âSounds classy.âÂ
âOh, it is.â Kate leans forward over the centre console. âItâs technically a cantina.âÂ
âA cantina in the middle of Norman, Oklahoma?â Boone pipes up.Â
You glance at Kate. âIs it offensive?âÂ
She tilts her head. âIf youâre asking whether they wear sombreros and fake moustaches? No. Itâs mostly just Mexican cuisine and some inspired decor. The original owners actually were Hispanic, but they sold it and retired.âÂ
âAnd how do you know so much about this place?â Tyler asks.Â
Kate shrugs. âI went a few times with my friends, years ago. Jeb loved itâhe said we had to go back any time we were chasing near Norman.âÂ
You donât often hear about Kateâs late friendsâespecially not Jebâbut lately, sheâs been better. Sheâs been opening up more, telling stories, less afraid of her past. Itâs partly thanks to Javi, because being close again means theyâve been able to work through some shared trauma, but you also know Tyler has a little something to do with it. Youâre not exactly sure whatâs going on between them, but you know itâs definitely something.Â
âAnyway,â Kate says, shaking her head quickly before turning to you. âI want to talk to you about something.âÂ
Oh, God.Â
You lift your brows. âHere?âÂ
She rolls her eyes. âYes, here. Itâs not a secret, itâs just...â She trails off, pursing her lips as she tries to think of a way to lessen the blow of whatever sheâs about to say. âOkay, donât be mad.âÂ
You frown. âWhy would I be mad?âÂ
âWell, you know how weâre all on YouTube?âÂ
Your frown deepens. âYeah. Iâm pretty familiar with Booneâs camera in my face.âÂ
Boone chuckles to himself.Â
âOkay, so,â Kate goes on, âI have this old friend from Muskogee State. We occasionally chat about weather stuffâexchange articles, send storm photos, nothing crazyâbut when I told him we were in Norman, he asked to catch up.âÂ
You lift a hand to interrupt. âUh, Iâm failing to see how this has anything to do with me?âÂ
She leans further forward. âIâm getting there, okay?âÂ
âOkay,â you mutter, dropping your hand. âGo on.âÂ
She nods. âRight, soâheâs actually a chaser too, kind ofâand he watches Tylerâs channel, so I asked him to come to the bar tonight. I thought itâd be cool for him to meet everyone, butââ She hesitates, taking a deep breath. âThen he told me heâs got this, like, massive crush on youâfrom seeing you in Tylerâs videosâand he asked if Iâd set you guys up on a... date.âÂ
Heat floods your chest, panic prickling beneath your skin as your heart starts beating too fast and too hard.Â
âYou set me up on a surprise blind date?âÂ
âTechnically,â she says, âitâs not a surprise because Iâm telling you right now.âÂ
Your eyes widen. âWeâre on our way to the fucking bar, Kate.âÂ
She winces. âI know, I know! Iâm sorry, I justâheâs such a nice guy, and I knew if I asked you, youâd say no, but I honestly think you might really like him.âÂ
âYou knew I'd say no, so you tricked me?âÂ
âTricked is a little dramatic,â she mutters.Â
You drop your head back against the headrest. âIâm allowed to be dramatic when Iâm being forced into a date I didnât agree to.âÂ
She sighs. âItâs not really a date. I just agreed to introduce you, andââ She hesitates. âWell, I mightâve said you were excited to meet him.âÂ
Your head snaps toward her. âExcited? Seriously? The only thing Iâm excited about is a shot of tequila and some fucking tacos.âÂ
Tyler chuckles. âThis is going even worse than I thought it would.âÂ
You lean past Kate to look at him, brow furrowed. âYou knew about this?âÂ
âOf course.â He lifts a shoulder. âI also knew youâd hate itâbecause youâre clearly hung up on someone else.âÂ
Your stomach drops, breath catching in your throatâand for a second, your lungs forget how to work. Tyler glances at you, his lips twitching, and Kate tilts her head, brows knitting.Â
You clear your throat. âWhatâwhat do you mean?âÂ
âYou know what I mean,â Tyler says, his tone almost too casual. âI donât know who, but I knowââÂ
âWeâre here!â Kate cuts in, pointing out the windscreen.Â
Just like sheâd described, the barâs front terrace is draped with strings and strings of fairy lightsâbright enough to light up half the street. Tyler turns the truck into the gravel driveway, tyres crunching as he rolls into the last free parking spot in the lot.Â
âDamn, itâs busy,â Boone says as he pushes open his door.Â
You all climb out and start walking around to the front of the bar. Youâre careful not to walk too close to Tylerâor even look at himâin case he decides to start interrogating you about whoever it is he thinks youâre hung up on.Â
Which youâre not.Â
Youâre not hung up on anyone. Tylerâs just misinformed, or overly suspicious. Heâs convinced himself of something completely ridiculous just so he has some kind of explanation for your weird behaviour. But heâs wrong. Very wrong. Youâre not hung up on anyone. Especially not Scott.Â
âReady?â Kate asks, bumping her shoulder against yours.Â
You narrow your eyes at her. âReady for the date I didnât agree to?âÂ
âCome on,â she sighs. âItâs not a date, itâs an introduction. And heâs great, I think youâre going to love him.âÂ
You roll your eyes as she links her arm through yours, guiding you toward the barâs front door behind the rest of the crew. You have no idea where Dexter, Dani, and Javi came fromâor where they parked the RVâbut theyâre all chatting excitedly as they cross the brightly lit terrace.Â
Inside is almost jarringly dim, lit only by the warm glow of multicoloured lights casting soft patterns across the terracotta walls. There are dark wooden tables and chairs scattered between small booths, potted plants clustered in corners, and brightly coloured prints that make the whole place feel alive. Behind the bar, bottles of tequila and mezcal catch the light, stacked haphazardly on tiered shelving beside other bottles of liquor you donât recognise. The air smells faintly of lime, grilled peppers, fried corn chipsâand sweat, because the place is absolutely packed with storm chasers.Â
âHoly shit,â you mutter, leaning into Kate. âHow are we even supposed toââÂ
âGuys!â Lily calls over the music and chatter. âThis wayâTyler's got a booth!âÂ
You and Kate exchange a dubious lookâbrows drawn, eyes narrowedâbut then she sighs and starts tugging you toward where Lily had gestured. âThat damn Tyler Owens effect.âÂ
You both squeeze through the crowd until you spot your crew crowded around a corner booth, chatting with another chaser you donât recogniseâprobably the person who gave up their table the second they saw Tyler Owens walk in.Â
âI need a drink,â you mutter.Â
âIn a sec.â Kate pulls out her phone and squints at the screen. âCaleb texted saying he just parked.âÂ
You roll your eyes but keep your mouth shutâyouâre not in the mood to keep arguing about this stupid surprise date. All you want is good food, a strong drink, and to stay as far away from Tyler as possible. You donât need an inquisition into your dating life on top of a date you didnât even ask for. Â
âHeâs here!â Kate announces, looping her arm through yours. âI told him weâd meet at the bar.âÂ
You let her drag you back through the crowd, tryingâunsuccessfullyâto keep your eyes down. To not search the room for someone familiar. Someone head and shoulders above the rest, probably standing at the edge of the crowd, blue eyes finding you too easily in the overpacked room.Â
God. You hate that you want to see him here. You hate that right now, heâd be your escape from all this. And you hate more than anything that youâre disappointed when you donât find him.Â
âCaleb!â Kate exclaims, dropping your arm.Â
She moves ahead of you to hug the man before stepping back with a wide grin.Â
âCaleb, this isââÂ
âI know,â he chuckles, offering his hand. âItâs so nice to meet you.âÂ
You force a smile, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels. âHi. You too. Kateâs told me... so much.âÂ
Heâs cute, sure. Tallâbut not that tall. Nice smileâno dimples, though. Green eyesâyou've always preferred blue.Â
âDo you want a drink?â he asks.Â
You nod. âAbsolutely.âÂ
Kate steps up to the bar first, and you squeeze in beside her. You order a drink and a shot of tequilaâfor courage, of course, which Caleb laughs at awkwardlyâthen move aside to make space for someone else. Caleb finds a free tall table, and Kate mutters something about checking on Tyler before slipping away quickly, leaving you with the date you never asked for.Â
âSo,â he says, leaning in slightly, âhow's the season been so far?âÂ
You shrug. âPretty good. Yesterday was a bust, but today made up for itââ you gesture toward the crowd, ââhence the celebration. What about you? What are you doing in Norman?âÂ
He chuckles softly, gaze dropping to the table. âIf you feel it, chase it, right?âÂ
You frown. âYouâre with a crew?âÂ
âOh. No, not like that.â He shakes his head. âNo, Iâum, Iâm just trying to get out of my comfort zone, you know? Take chances I wouldnât normally take. Live a little. Embrace the universe.âÂ
Your brows lift. âOh?âÂ
Great. Kateâs set you up with a human TED Talk.Â
âYeah.â He smiles softly, scratching the back of his neck. âSometimes I need a little push to do something that scares me.âÂ
You snort into your drink, almost spilling it. âYeah, right. And thatâs... me?âÂ
He lifts a shoulder. âMaybe. Iâm not sure yet. You seem⌠complicated. Dangerous in a very specific way.âÂ
âDangerous?â you echo, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up. âMe?âÂ
âMaybe,â he says again, leaning back just slightly, âbut I kind of like it.âÂ
You have to look away, drawing a deep breath to push down the laughter building in your chestâand then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him. Stepping through the doorway, scanning the room. Not smiling. Not even close. His eyes catch yours, just for a second, and then he looks away. His expression doesnât change, he doesn't even blinkâhe just turns and starts cutting through the crowd.Â
And you hate it. You hate that your heart starts racing, that heat floods your skin, that you want him to react. You hate that he has such an effect on youâand that you donât seem to have any effect on him at all.Â
Caleb nudges your arm. âAre you okay?âÂ
You whip back around, blinking fast. âYeahâyep, sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew, butââÂ
âThose StormPAR guys?âÂ
You tilt your head. âYou know StormPAR?âÂ
He nods. âOf course. I actually tried to reach out to them last year for a research paper I was working on, but theyâre not particularly friendly. Or at least, that Scott guy isnât.âÂ
You snort into your drink. âYeah, heâs a dick.âÂ
âYou know him?âÂ
âNot really,â you replyâtoo fast. âI mean, Iâve met him, but Iâum, I don't really know him, you know? Just heard things.â You tip your drink to your lips and drain the glass before smacking it on the table. âAnyway, letâs talk about you. What do you do for work?âÂ
It isnât hard to keep Caleb talking. With the right questions, you barely have to do anything more than nod and hum every few minutes so he thinks youâre paying attention. But really, the only time you are paying attention is when he asks if you need another drink. Thatâs when you say yes, tell him youâll go to the bar, and order a shot of tequila alongside your next drink.Â
By your thirdâor sixthâdrink, youâre feeling a little giddy, and thatâs when you try to convince yourself you could go for Caleb. Even just for one night. Heâs not unattractiveânot that youâre that shallowâand thereâs nothing overly off-putting about him, heâs just... nice. Boring. A little shorter than youâd like, with green eyes and no dimples. But you could get past that. He doesnât have to be your exact type for you to sleep with him. You can always just close your eyes and picture what you wantâthatâs what you always used to do.Â
Before Scott.Â
But Calebâs looks arenât the problem. The problem is that even when you try to have funâwhen you crack a joke or try to start a bit of banterâhe doesnât get it. He just stares at you, blankly, as if trying to decide whether youâre being mean or if your sense of humour is really that bad.Â
You honestly have no idea why Kate thought youâd hit it off with this guy, but you definitely plan on asking her what the hell she was thinking the second you see her again.Â
âHey,â Caleb says suddenly, nudging your elbow. âAre you sure you donât know that StormPAR guy?âÂ
You turn to follow his gaze across the barâand the moment you see him, your breath catches.Â
Heâs standing by the far wall, half-lit by a string of multicoloured lights, blue eyes locked on you across the crowd. His face is unreadable, carved into something calm and careful, but then you see itâthe tiny twitch in his jaw, the way his gaze narrows just slightly.Â
The noise of the bar dulls, everything blurring around the edges until itâs just him.Â
You know youâre drunk nowâor at least halfway thereâbecause now, you want him. And youâre not about to admit it out loud, but you are about to do something stupid just to get his attention.Â
âBe right back,â you tell Caleb, already sliding your empty glass off the table. âI need another drink.âÂ
You donât wait for a responseâyou just slip off your stool and start weaving quickly through the crowd, heart beating too hard behind your ribs. You donât head for the nearest end of the bar like any normal person wouldâno, you keep going. Through the noise and across that imaginary line you know you shouldnât cross. All the way to the far end of the bar.Â
The end closest to him.Â
You tell yourself itâs because itâs quieter over here. Less crowded. Easier to get a drink.Â
Itâs not because of Scott. Definitely not. Why would it be?Â
You squeeze between two guys in denim jackets and plant your hands on the sticky bar top, exhaling hard. The bartender catches your eye, smiles, and lifts a fingerâwait.Â
Thatâs fine. You can wait. Youâre calm. Youâre composed. Youâre totally not standing here hopingâÂ
A shift in the air beside you makes your skin prickle.Â
You donât even have to look.Â
You just know.Â
He doesnât say anything as he steps up next to youâdoesnât even look at you at firstâjust rests his forearms on the bar and scans the liquor shelves like he didnât just suck every molecule of oxygen out of your lungs with his presence alone. Heâs closeâclose enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his body. Close enough that every cellâevery want, every needâin your body turns traitorous.Â
You keep your eyes forward, and force a breath. You can do thatâyou can breathe. You've been doing it your whole life. In. Out.Â
You donât look at him. You refuse to.Â
But you want to.Â
God, you want to.Â
Youâre drunk and you want to.Â
You want him.Â
You want him with a hunger that feels stitched into your bonesâmessy, reckless, selfishâbut you still force your expression blank, trying to cage whateverâs clawing inside your chest. You canât want him. Youâre not supposed to want him. Not anymore. Not ever. Because last time was the last time.Â
Right?Â
âYou move on fast.âÂ
Your pulse jumps at his voiceâlow, even, almost bored, but edged with something sharp. Something that slides under your skin and makes your spine straighten. Â
âDidnât realise I needed your permission.âÂ
He huffs out a quiet breath. âNever said you did.âÂ
âNo.â You keep your eyes fixed on a bottle of absinth across the bar. âBut you felt the need to comment.âÂ
He still doesnât look at you. âJust surprised, thatâs all.âÂ
You finally glance at himâand instantly regret it. Heâs relaxed. Casual. Like this is just another Saturday night and not another stupidly dangerous game youâre both playing. His expression gives you nothing. No irritation. No jealousy. No trace of the last time he had you pinned against his bedroom door breathing your name like a warning and a prayer.Â
So maybe you imagined it. Maybe youâre just reading into things that arenât there.Â
âWhy do you care?â you ask.Â
âI donât.âÂ
You scoff. âSounds like you do.âÂ
He doesnât bite. He doesnât rise to it. He just shrugs, gaze still on the bar shelves as if he has never once in his life been affected by you. âYou can do whateverâwhoeverâyou want. Just didnât think he was your type.âÂ
âReally?â You lean an elbow on the bar, heat flickering in your chest. âAnd what exactly do you think my type is?âÂ
That finally gets him to look at you. Slow. Controlled. Like heâs already decided heâs going to ruin you and is just taking his time. His eyes drop to your mouthâjust for a heartbeatâbut itâs enough to make heat curl low in your stomach.Â
âYou donât want me to answer that,â he says.Â
âTry me.âÂ
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His gaze drags over youâneck, mouth, eyesâbefore he leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.Â
âThat guy over there? He has no idea what to do with a woman like you,â he says, voice low enough that no one but you could possibly hear him. âI saw the way you looked at him. And I see the way youâre looking at me now.âÂ
Your pulse stutters.Â
His mouth curvesânot a smile. Something sharper. Something possessive. Something certain.Â
âSo no,â he murmurs. âIâm not jealous. Because we both know who you really want to go home with tonight.âÂ
Your skin feels too hot, too tight, like your pulse is lodged in your throat. You can barely breathe. Barely think. And you hateâmore than anythingâthat heâs right.Â
But he canât know that. You canât let him know that.Â
âYouâre out of your mind,â you say, forcing your eyes away from his to find the bartender. âI donâtââ Your voice catches. âI might not want him, but I donât want you either.âÂ
His gaze flickersâsharp, assessing. He doesnât believe you. He doesnât even pretend to.Â
âNo?â he says casually, as if youâre discussing something as menial as the weather.Â
You meet his gaze again, keeping your expression carefully blank. âNo.âÂ
He hums, unconvinced. âCouldâve fooled me.âÂ
You grit your teeth. âNot everything revolves around you.âÂ
âNever said it did.âÂ
âThen drop it.âÂ
But he doesnât. Of course he doesnât. His eyes stay on yours, steady and unblinking, like heâs the only person whoâs ever truly seen you.Â
âJust one question,â he murmurs.Â
You hate that you answer. âWhat?âÂ
He tilts his head, voice softeningâdangerously soâand lifts a hand, his knuckles skimming just beneath your jaw, light as breath. âWhy is your pulse racing?âÂ
Your breath stutters. Heat floods your chest, crawling up your neck until you forget how to breathe entirely. Heâs closer nowâcrowding you in a way that only makes your heart beat harder, faster. Every nerve ending is suddenly awake, aware of him, of the brush of his skin, of how impossible it is to pretend you donât want this. Donât want him.Â
You almost forget where you are. You almost lean in.Â
But thenâÂ
âSorry, folks. What can I get you?âÂ
You startle, turning toward the bartender too fast and stumbling back a stepâright into the man standing on your other side. He grumbles something, clearly annoyed, but before you can mutter an apology, Scottâs hand closes around your elbow, pulling you back to him. Steadying you. Anchoring you. In more ways than you care to admit.Â
âTwo tequila shots,â he tells the bartender. âAnd two beers.âÂ
He doesnât look at you. Doesnât even spare you a glance. He just keeps his hand on your arm, thumb brushing onceâabsent, thoughtlessâwhile you stand there like an idiot, staring up at him.Â
Close. Way too close.Â
Close enough to see the tiny crease between his brows as he watches the beer pour. Close enough to see the faint scar along his cheekâold, healed overâfrom when he fell off his bike as a kid. He told you the story one night, somewhere between argument and orgasm. Youâre close enough to count the darker flecks in his blue eyes, watch his lashes lower as he speaks, trace the shape of his mouthâGod, that mouth.Â
Your gaze drifts without permissionâfrom the curve of his bottom lip to the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and down the line of his throat where it disappears beneath his shirt collar. You hate that your breath trips. You hate that your body betrays you. You hate that heâs not even looking at youâand somehow that makes it worse.Â
âThanks,â he says to the bartender, finally releasing your arm.Â
And only then does he glance down at youâcasual, unbotheredâlike he didnât just reach into your chest and close a hand around your lungs. Thereâs a flicker of something in his eyes, something that feels too close to a promise.Â
He steps back, mouth curving into that almost-smirk. The one he wears when he canât help himself. Subtle. Smug. Like he knows exactly what heâs doing to you and heâs enjoying every second of it. Â
âBe good,â he murmurs, his arm grazing yours as he turns to leave.Â
It shouldnât sound like a warningâbut it does.Â
He doesnât wait for a response. He doesnât even look back. He just walks away, cutting through the crowd with ease, drink in handâand youâre left with both tequila shots and an overflowing pint of beer.Â
For a second you just stand there, staring at the empty spot where heâd been, trying to convince yourself youâre not actually affected. You drag a hand through your hair and pretend your pulse isnât still racing, that your body isnât still tuned to the space he occupied seconds ago. God. You hate this. You hate that one manâthat manâcan reduce you to static and adrenaline with nothing but a look and a stupid two-word warning.Â
But you donât want him. You donât. Not really. Youâre just drunkâand Scott is just being Scott. Cocky. Infuriating. Getting under your skin in the way only he knows how.Â
You reach for the first tequila shot and knock it back, then the second before you can think too hard about it, heat burning down your throat. Then you grab the beer and square your shoulders, willing your heartbeat to slow as you turn to head back to the table.Â
You make it about halfway before someone steps in front of you. Someone youâre really not in the mood to deal with right now.Â
âWhat was that?âÂ
You look up at Tyler, your nose inches from his chest. âWhat was what?âÂ
âThat.â He nods toward the bar. âWhatever the hell just happened between you and StormPAR.âÂ
Heat creeps up the back of your neck. âNothing. He was justâyou know how he is. Being a dick. Trying to annoy me.âÂ
âYou didnât look annoyed.âÂ
You tip your chin up. âThatâs because Iâm mature.âÂ
Tyler snortsâloudly. âMature?âÂ
You narrow your eyes. âYes. Mature.âÂ
âYou and Boone giggle every time the temperature hits sixty-nine degrees.â He leans in, lowering his voice. âAnd Iâve never seen you look at anyone the way you were just looking at StormPAR.âÂ
âHis name is Scott,â you say before you can stop yourself.Â
You roll your eyes, hoping the bar is too dim for Tyler to notice the colour in your cheeks. âIâm not defending him, I justâhe has a name. You know his name.âÂ
âAnd Iâd be willing to bet you know a whole lot more than just his name.âÂ
Your stomach drops. âIâwhat? Whatâre youââÂ
âHey,â Caleb interrupts, his hand landing on your shoulder. âI was looking for you. Thought youâd gotten lost.âÂ
You donât even look at him. You keep your eyes locked on Tyler. His mouth is quirked into a small smirkâchallenging, smugâand his stare is unwavering. Heâs looking at you like he already knows, like he doesnât need a confession to see right through your lies.Â
âOh, sorry,â Caleb says. âAm I interruptingââÂ
âNo,â you say quickly, whipping toward him. âTyler was just offering to buy another round.âÂ
Caleb frowns. âDidnât you just get one?âÂ
You shrug. âIâm not going to say no to a free drink.âÂ
Tyler gives you a lookâone you donât recognise, which is strange considering how long youâve known him. But you donât react. You donât let him see that he might actually be onto something. You just reach out, grab his arm, and start dragging him toward the barâassuming Caleb is somewhere in tow.Â
- Scott -Â
Heâs not watching you. Not really.Â
Heâs justâŚÂ aware of you.Â
Aware of the scarlet lip stain on the rim of your beer glass. Aware of the warmth in your skin under the dim glow of the bar lights. Aware of the way the crimson fabric of your top shifts when you move.Â
Youâre still at the bar, with Tyler on your left and Caleb on your rightâbut Caleb might as well not exist. Youâre half-turned toward Tyler, your hand on his arm and your head tipped back so you can meet his gaze. Too close. Too comfortable. Youâve got that same spark in your eyes you get when youâre trying too hard not to care. He knows what that looks like. Heâs seen it before.Â
He takes a slow sip of beer, eyes lingering just long enough to catch your reflection in the mirror behind the bar. You tilt your head, smiling at something Tyler says, clearly biting back a laugh as you lean in a little closer. Itâs easy. Natural. A familiarity born of long days, longer nights, near-death experiences, and years of friendship.Â
He tells himself itâs good. Itâs normal. You should be smiling. Laughing. You should be able to talk, touch, lean in to whoever the hell you want.Â
He doesnât care.Â
He really doesnât.Â
Itâs justâhe knows you better than most. He knows what that smile looks like when itâs real, and what it looks like when itâs armour. And the one youâre wearing now? Itâs the latter.Â
He glances away before he can read any more into it, fingers drumming once against his glass.Â
Heâs not waiting for you to come find him again. He just knows that you will.Â
That youâll trip back into him by the end of the night.Â
You always do.Â
âWhoâs that?âÂ
Scott turns to the man standing beside himâMateo, the newest member of StormPAR.Â
âWho?âÂ
Mateo nods toward the bar. âThe girl in red.âÂ
Scottâs gaze drifts slowly back to you. âShe chases with Tyler Owensâ crew.âÂ
âTyler Owens the YouTube guy?â Mateo asks.Â
Scott nods. âYep.âÂ
âI thought you hated him.âÂ
âI do,â Scott mutters, his eyes narrowing at Tylerâs hand resting on your lower back.Â
âThen what about her?â Mateo presses. âYou two seemed kind of... friendly.âÂ
Scott drags his eyes away from you, back to Mateo. âWe went to college together. Weâre friends.âÂ
Something in Mateoâs expression shiftsâexcitement, maybe. âJust friends?âÂ
Scott nods again, lifting his beer to his lips and hoping thatâs the end of the conversation.Â
A beat passes. Mateo shifts on his feet. And thenâÂ
âSo you wonât mind if I talk to her?âÂ
Scottâs jaw flexes. He takes another slow sip of beer, eyes flicking onceâjust onceâback to where youâre standing. Then he looks at Mateo.Â
âSure,â he says, voice even. âGo ahead.âÂ
He pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.Â
âTry.âÂ
Then he tips his head back, drains the rest of his beer, and drops the empty glass on a nearby table. When he looks back at the bar, youâre goneâbut it doesnât take long for him to spot you weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway.Â
And thenâof courseâMateo moves. Undeterred.Â
He stops you just before the hall, only a few feet from where Scott is standing. Scott doesnât need to turn or edge closerâhe just tilts his head slightly, listening in. He can hear enough over the hum of the barâthe clink of bottles, the muted bassline, the way Mateoâs voice pitches low and smooth.Â
âHey,â Mateo says. âYouâre with Tyler Owensâ crew, right?âÂ
You glance up, caught off guard, your tone coming out sharper than you probably mean it to. âYeah. Why?âÂ
âJust wanted to say hi,â Mateo replies, his grin audible. âDidnât realise chasers could look like you.âÂ
You pause, staring at him for a moment, your expression flat. âWow. Original.âÂ
Scottâs mouth twitches.Â
Mateo chuckles awkwardly, trying again. âI thought maybe I could buy you a drink. Do youââÂ
âNo, thanks,â you cut in. âIâm good.âÂ
Then your gaze flicks over Mateoâs shoulder, meeting Scottâs. Your eyes widen, brows pulling tight, and Scott canât help but smirk. He knows that look. Youâre about five minutes from starting a fight thatâll end with his head between your legs.Â
âSee you around,â you say to Mateo, voice tight, as you step around him.Â
You head straight down the hall toward the bathrooms, disappearing into the darkâand it takes a lot more self-control than usual for Scott not to follow. Not to take you right here in this bar, in the narrow bathroom stall, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. Itâs not like the two of you havenât done it beforeâjust never with both your crews so close by. Never with Tylerâs eyes following you like youâre his.Â
Scottâs never questioned your friendship with Tyler before. Not once.Â
He knows the historyâhow you met in your last year of college, how you started chasing storms together, how youâve been part of his crew ever since. He sees the way the two of you move around each other in the fieldâquick, in sync, like a rhythm youâve practiced for years. Heâs always chalked it up to familiarity. Trust built on adrenaline and close calls.Â
But lately... it feels different.Â
Everything feels different.Â
It doesnât bother him. Not really. Not the way Tyler leans in when he talks to you, or the way you look at him with that easy, practiced grin. The two of you have always been close. Thatâs all it is.Â
But one question keeps looping back, uninvited.Â
Has Tyler ever touched you like he has?Â
Has he ever had you pinned beneath him, cheeks flushed, lips parted, panting his name?Â
God. He hates this feelingâwhatever it is. This green-eyed, gut-wrenching twist in his stomach that he refuses to name.Â
He takes a slow breath, jaw tightening as he watches you reemerge from the hallway. Youâve still got that look on your faceâhead high, mouth set, eyes daring anyone to try againâhe knows it better than most. Heâs seen it a hundred times. Hell, heâs probably caused it more than anyone else.Â
Something shifts in his chest as he watches you move through the crowd, and he hates that it feels almost like pride. Like he has any right to be proud of you. Like he has any right to thinkâeven for a secondâthat youâre his.Â
It doesnât matter, though. None of it does. Not Tyler, not Mateo, not any of the other guys whose eyes youâve caught tonight. You can do whatever you want. Be with whoever you want.Â
It doesnât matter.Â
But... truth is, itâs getting harder to believe that.Â
Harder to ignore the pull in his chest every time youâre near, the way his thoughts still circle back to you long after heâs told himself to let it go.Â
Itâs not just about sex anymore. He knows that.Â
Heâs not sure itâs ever been just about sex.Â
But heâs not ready to admit that. Not yet.Â
Especially not when youâre storming toward himâeyes blazing, shoulders tense, cheeks almost as red as your lips. You stop right in front of him, close enough that he can smell the tequila and salt on your breath.Â
âWhat the fuck was that?âÂ
Scott blinks, slow and deliberate. âYouâre going to have to be more specific.âÂ
Your brows draw tighter. âDonât do that.âÂ
âDo what?âÂ
âThat thing where you play dumb. You sent your little StormPAR rookie over to hit on me.âÂ
He keeps his voice even, almost bored. âI didnât send him anywhere.âÂ
âOh, please.â You laugh, sharp and humourless. âHe walks up to me not ten minutes after you told me to âbe goodâ? Come on. You wanted to see what Iâd do.âÂ
Scott exhales through his nose, gaze flicking briefly toward the bar before finding yours again. âYou handled it fine.âÂ
âThatâs not the point.âÂ
âThen what is?âÂ
âThe point is you donât get to play games with me like that,â you snap. âYou donât get toââÂ
âTo what?â he cuts in, stepping forward. âTo see how fast it takes you to lose your shit?âÂ
Your eyes narrow. âIâm not losing my shit.âÂ
âI donât know,â he says, voice low. âSure seems like you are.âÂ
You laugh, incredulous. âYouâre unbelievable.âÂ
He smirks. âYou keep saying that like itâs a bad thing.âÂ
âGod, youâre such an ass.âÂ
âYeah?â His eyes drop to your hands, balled into fists at your sides. âAnd youâre shaking. Whyâs that?âÂ
Your jaw tightens. âMaybe because Iâm trying not to punch you.âÂ
His gaze flicks back up, and he leans inâclose enough to feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. âYeah, thatâs what youâre trying not to do.âÂ
For a second, neither of you speak. The air between you feels thick and electric, the noise of the bar fading until all Scott can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. Youâre close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, can hear the faint hitch of your breath when he leans in just enough to test you.Â
You donât back down. Neither does he. Your gaze flicks between his mouth and his eyes, like you canât decide what you wantâand itâs driving him insane.Â
He shouldnât want you this much. Shouldnât need it this badly.Â
But he does.Â
âHey,â Javi says, appearing beside the two of you. âYou two good?âÂ
Scott doesnât look awayâhe just shifts slightly, easing back half a step and forcing a breath that feels a little too shaky. âYeah,â he says, voice smooth. âJust catching up.âÂ
Your cheeks flush even deeper, and a small, smug smile tugs at his mouth before he can stop it. You glare at him, jaw tight, eyes sharp, like youâre daring him to say one more thingâand he almost does, just to see how far youâll take it.Â
But then you move. Just a small step forward, close enough that he feels it. Feels something. A faint brush against his hip, the slight tug of fabric. Itâs subtle enough that Javi doesnât notice, but Scott does. His brow furrows for barely a second before youâre already stepping back.Â
âIâm tired,â you mutter, eyes still locked on his. âIâm heading out.âÂ
You donât look at Javi. You donât even wait for a response. You just turn and push through the crowd, disappearing into the noise and haze of the bar. Scott watches you go, something tight pulling in his chest, and itâs only when the room starts to blur around the edges that his hand brushes his pocketâand he realises whatâs missing.Â
Then he sees it.Â
Your hand, slipping through the last gap in the crowd, his motel key glinting between your fingers.Â
For a moment, everything else fadesâthe noise, the lights, the people pressing in on all sides. Itâs just that image, sharp and bright in his mind. The curl of your fingers. The slow burn of anticipation settling low in his chest.Â
Scott exhales, slow and steady. He shouldnât still be smiling, but he is.Â
âDamn,â Javi mutters beside him. âKinda wish I knew what happened between you two.âÂ
Scott huffs out something close to a laugh, shaking his head. âNothing happened.âÂ
Javi raises a brow. âYeah, sure. And Iâm dating a Victoriaâs Secret supermodel.âÂ
Scott looks at him, forcing his mouth into a flat line. âDrop it, Javi.âÂ
âAlright, alright.â Javi lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his mouth. âJust saying, manâwhatever that was, whatever it is you two are always arguing about? Itâs not nothing.âÂ
Scott drops his gaze to the floor, unsure how to respond. Whatâs he supposed to say to that? Youâre right, Javi, weâve been sleeping together for years, and every time weâre within fifty feet of each other the sexual tension is suffocating. Oh, and Iâm pretty sure thereâs something else I canât admit to myself, so Iâm just gonna keep pretending Iâm fine with this mess of a situation.Â
Pfft. Yeah, right.Â
He drags a hand along his jaw and glances back up, eyes flicking once more toward the crowd where youâd disappeared. âIâm gonna hit the bathroom,â he says, keeping his voice evenâcasual.Â
Javi lifts his chin, still grinning. âGo for it.âÂ
Scott meets his grin with a brief nod before turning away, slipping into the crowd before the conversation can go anywhere else. He keeps his pace easy, unhurriedâlike heâs actually heading for the bathroom, not the back door. The bass thuds through the floor beneath his boots, lights flashing over faces he doesnât bother to look at.Â
The noise dulls as he moves farther from the bar, replaced by the low hum of the overhead lights and the echo of footsteps on tile. Heâs halfway down the hall when the menâs bathroom door swings openâand Tyler steps out.Â
For a moment, they just look at each other. Tylerâs brow lifts, curious, maybe suspicious, but Scott doesnât give him anythingâjust a single nod, the kind that ends a conversation before it startsâand keeps walking.Â
He can feel Tylerâs gaze linger on his back as he reaches the end of the hall, but he doesnât turn around. The exit door pushes open with a low creak, spilling the sounds of the bar out into the night. Cool air rushes in, brushing against his skin and chasing away the heat thatâs been sitting under it since you left.Â
He steps outside, the door closing behind him, and finallyâfinallyâhe feels like he can breathe.Â
The walk to his truck is a blur of gravel crunching beneath his boots and breath fogging the air. His pulse thrums in his ears, alive in every inch of his skin. Itâs not that cold. Not really. Scottâs just warmâtoo warmâand a little flustered.Â
Maybe itâs the adrenaline. Or maybe itâs that thing he still refuses to admit.Â
He shakes his head as he reaches the truck, yanking the door open and climbing inside. The cab still smells damp from todayâs chase, a mix of rain, sweat, and asphalt clinging to the seats. He turns the key, clips his belt, and lets the engine idle for a few seconds before pulling out of the small parking lot.Â
He doesnât speedâhe doesnât need to. He just rolls down the road slowly, eyes scanning the sidewalk.Â
It takes all of ten seconds for him to find youâand when he does, his stomach flips hard enough to make him feel a little sick.Â
Thatâs new.Â
He slows to a stop beside you, one hand loose on the wheel as the other hits the button for the window to roll down. âYou planning to walk the whole way?âÂ
You look at him, eyes narrowed. âMaybe I am.âÂ
He smirks. âSuit yourself. Itâs a long walk.âÂ
You roll your eyes, muttering something under your breath as you yank open the passenger door. Your scent hits him the second you climb inâtequila, night air, and that sweet vanilla bodywash that always makes his pulse skip. The cab suddenly feels smaller when you slam the door shut, and for a heartbeat, neither of you says a word.Â
Then you move.Â
You lean across the console, grab a fistful of his shirt, and your mouth finds his like youâve been holding your breath for hours. The impact steals it from him completely. Itâs fast, rough, desperateâthe kind of kiss that leaves no space for thought. His hand slides up to your jaw, fingers tangling in your hair as you climb over the console, straddling him without breaking contact.Â
Itâs cramped, clumsyâbut neither of you care. You taste like salt and adrenaline, every breath a ragged sound against his lips. His hands find your waist, dragging you closer, and you make a sound that goes straight through him. When you finally pull backâjust far enough for airâyour voice is wrecked and breathless.Â
âTook you long enough.âÂ
Scott laughs low, voice hot against your lips. âDid it?âÂ
You donât answerâyou just kiss him again, harder this time, and he lets you take what you want, lets himself get lost in the heat and weight of it. The cab feels too small, the air too thick, the world narrowing to the press of your body and the slick slide of your mouth on his.Â
You gasp against him when his fingers dig into your hips, a sound that makes his control slip another inch. You grind down, desperate, and his hands tighten instinctively, holding you there. Your hands move restlesslyâgripping his shoulders, sliding up his neck, tangling in his hair until his StormPAR cap falls somewhere between the seats.Â
Itâs only when you roll your hips again, harder this time, that he pulls backâreluctantlyâbreathing hard against your lips. âDo you really want to do this here?âÂ
You tilt your head and start tracing kisses along his jaw, your voice muffled against his skin. âProbably not.âÂ
He chuckles, the sound vibrating between you as you lift your head and rest your forehead against his, both trying to catch your breath. The air between you humsâthick and unsteadyâthe second-hand taste of tequila still sharp on his tongue, the sound of your mingled breathing louder than the low idle of the engine.Â
His hands linger at your waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded circles against the warm stretch of skin just below that damn crimson top. He could sit here for hours, he thinks, just breathing you in. But reason creeps back in, hazy and reluctant.Â
He clears his throat. âWe should probably move this somewhere else before someone walks by.âÂ
You donât move. If anything, your weight settles a little more fully against him, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips when you murmur, âYou worried about getting caught?âÂ
He huffs, low and amused. âNot really.â His fingers tighten at your hips, keeping you there for one more beat before he exhales. âIâm lucky I made it out at all, actually. Your boyfriend almost stopped me.âÂ
That gets you to lift your head, eyes narrowing. âMy what?âÂ
Scott shifts in his seat, trying to play it off like he hadnât said it just to see how youâd react. âTyler,â he says, keeping his tone carefully even. âHe saw me leaving out the back. Looked like he was going to say something, but I didnât stop.âÂ
You blink, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. âTylerâs not my boyfriend.âÂ
âHe acts like it,â Scott mutters, jaw tightening.Â
You tilt your head, searching his face, that same small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth like you can see straight through him. âYou jealous, Scott?âÂ
He rolls his eyes, fingers flexing at your waist. âNo.âÂ
You hum softly, unconvinced, and finally start to shift off his lap. The movement is slow, deliberateâyour hips dragging over his, the slide of denim against denim leaving heat in its wake. Scottâs fingers twitch like he wants to pull you back, but he doesnât. He just watches you settle into the passenger seat, hair tousled, lips swollen, the faintest smirk playing on your mouth.Â
The silence that follows feels different now. Not awkwardâjust taut, stretched thin over everything neither of you is saying.Â
Scott clears his throat, shifting in his seat to discreetly adjust the tightness in his jeans before gripping the wheel. He shifts the truck into gear and glances at the mirrorsâcatching your reflection. Your head is tipped against the window, your expression a little dazedâthanks to the tequila, no doubtâbut your smile is smug, like you know exactly what youâve done to him.Â
The drive to the motel is mostly silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the soft crackle of the radio. Scottâs pulse never really settlesâbecause every time you move, every shift of your leg or tilt of your head, his eyes flick toward you and all the blood in his body rushes south again.Â
Youâre still leaning against the window, lashes low, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. And there isnât anything he wouldnât give to know what youâre thinking right now. To know if your pulse is still racing. To know if youâve got your thighs pressed together for the same reason that his knuckles have gone white on the steering wheel.Â
God. This is dangerous.Â
Maybe you were right when you said it has to stop. Maybe you had a point.Â
Maybe he should put a stop to this before somethingâor someoneâbreaks.Â
But then your reflection tilts toward him again, lips still red and swollen from his kiss, and he knows heâs lying to himself.Â
The rest of the drive blurs by in flashes of passing headlights and rough-edged silence. You donât speak. Neither does he. The air feels thick enough to touch, charged with the ghost of every breath you shared in that front seat. When the motel sign finally glows into viewâfaded neon cutting through the darkâScottâs grip tightens on the wheel like itâs the only thing tethering him to sense.Â
He pulls into the gravel lot and kills the engine, the sudden quiet ringing in his ears. You unbuckle fast, fingers fumbling with the seatbelt before you shove the door open.Â
Youâre out of the truck before he can reach for the handle. He climbs out a beat later, rounding the truck in a few long strides until heâs behind you. The space between you hums with static, and when you glance up at himâthatâs all it takes. He leans down and catches your mouth in a quick, hungry kiss thatâs more breath than contact, a promise of whatâs coming.Â
You pull back just enough to whisper, âRoom number?âÂ
âSeven,â he says, voice low.Â
You nod once, already turning away, the sway of your hips an invitation that makes it hard for him to remember how to walk straight. He follows close behind, eyes fixed on you, jaw tight. By the time you reach the door, youâve already got the key in hand, fumbling it into the lock while his breath ghosts over the back of your neck.Â
The second you both step inside, Scott kicks the door shut with a dull thud. The room smells faintly of dust and motel soap, the only light coming from the flickering lamp beside the bed. You barely make it two steps before his hand catches your wrist and pulls you back.Â
Then his mouth is on yours again.Â
Itâs messy and hungry and too much all at once. You stumble until the backs of your knees hit the bed, his body pressing into yours as you fall back onto the mattress. His hands brace on either side of your head, and he kisses you like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he stops.Â
Because he is. He can admit it now. Heâs afraid that if he stops playing the game, youâll disappear.Â
Your hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hairâdragging him out of his thoughts. He mutters something low against your lips, something that sounds like your name, then trails kisses over your cheek, along your jaw. His stubble scrapes against your throat as he drags his mouth lower, teeth grazing your pulse point.Â
âScottââ you whisper, but it comes out more like a sigh.Â
He hums against your skin, the sound low, almost a growl. His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing bare skin, and he can feel your body trembleâfeel how much you want this. And itâs intoxicating, knowing heâs the reason for the way youâre whimpering right now.Â
Then, between one kiss and the next, his voice drops low. âJust so weâre clearâŚâ His breath hitches, lips brushing your jaw. âYou and Tyler neverââ he swallows hard, ââyou know?âÂ
You laugh, the sound breathless, your fingers curling in his shirt. âGod, no.â It slips out fast, automatic, like the question doesnât even register as serious. And thenâstill chasing his mouth, still drunk on tequila and himâyou add without thinking, âI havenât been with anyone since you.âÂ
Scott stillsâcompletely.Â
You donât notice. You just find his mouth again, like nothingâs happened, while heâs frozenâheart pounding, brain short-circuitingâtrying to decide if he really heard what he thinks he did.Â
And by the time he can finally breathe again, youâve already pulled him back under.Â
- You -Â
Itâs dĂŠjĂ vu.Â
The kind that settles heavy in your chest before youâve even opened your eyes. The sheets are twisted around your legs, the air smells like stale sweat and tequila, and your mouth tastes like regret and toothpaste that isn't yours.Â
You donât have to look to know where you are. Or whoâs beside you.Â
Itâs pathetic, reallyâhow easy it is for you to fall back into him. How easy it is to tell yourself this is the last time while his arm is still heavy across your waist, his breath slow and even against the back of your neck.Â
Itâs not your fault. Not really.Â
Itâs his faultâand the tequila. Because if heâd just left you alone at the bar, you wouldnât be here. If heâd just let you finish your bad date, youâd be waking up alone in your own motel room.Â
Not beside him.Â
Again.Â
With a heavy sigh, you quietly untangle your legs and slip out from beneath Scottâs arm. He stirs, but doesnât fully wakeâjust shifts a little further onto your side and buries his face in your pillow.Â
For a moment, you just stare. You trace the angle of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulders. Down the pale expanse of his back until his body disappears beneath the sheets. You donât realise youâre holding your breath until your chest starts to acheâand only then do you turn away, shaking your head.Â
This canât happen again. Ever.Â
Itâs too dangerous.Â
You find your clothes a few feet from the bed and reluctantly pull them back on. Then you duck into the bathroom, splash your face with water, and try to make your hair look less like you just had your brains fucked out.Â
When you step back into the room, Scottâs awake. Heâs sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at his boxersâand it takes every ounce of your self-control to meet his eyes instead of letting your gaze drift lower.Â
âHey,â you mutter, dropping into the small lounge chair to put on your shoes.Â
âHey,â he mumbles, finally leaning forward to pick up his boxers.Â
This morning feels strange. Different. Like something broke last night, and now whatever it is you two have been doing feels wrongânot just wrong because youâve been sneaking around, but because something in it has shifted.Â
You just donât know what.Â
âThis canât happen again,â you say, voice firm. âIâm serious this time.âÂ
He glances up at you, eyes wide, expression unreadable. Youâre not sure youâve ever seen him not acting like a smug prick the morning after. But today? He doesnât look smug at all. Thereâs something else in his gaze you canât quite name. Something sincere. Something real. Too real.Â
You clear your throat. âItâitâs too dangerous. Tylerâs already onto us. Itâs just not worth it.âÂ
His brows lift, just slightly. âNot worth it?âÂ
âYou know what I mean,â you sigh.Â
He braces his elbows on his knees. âYeah,â he mutters. âYouâre right.âÂ
You almost trip on your way to find your second shoe. âYouâre... agreeing with me?âÂ
He shrugs, but something about itâs too tense to be casual. âItâs dangerous. We should stop.âÂ
Something twists deep in your chestâsharp, sudden, gone before you can name it. The back of your throat burns and thickens, as if youâre about to cry. But noâthat would be ridiculous. Youâre just hungover. Sleep-deprived. Probably hungry.Â
You swallow hard. âGood. Then weâre on the same page.âÂ
He doesnât answerâhe just watches you, quiet and unmoving, his hands clasped between his knees, knuckles white. His jaw works once, like heâs biting back something he wonât let himself sayâand for a heartbeat, you almost ask what it is.Â
But the look in his eyes makes your chest feel too tight, so you move instead.Â
You tear your gaze away, slip on your shoe, and start searching for your phone tangled somewhere in the sheets at the bottom of the bed. Once you find it, you straighten, adjust your shirt that doesnât really need adjusting, and head toward the door.Â
âI guess Iâll... see you?âÂ
He nods once. âSee you around.âÂ
You hesitate, hand resting on the doorknob, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. For a second, you think heâs going to say somethingâhis head lifts, his brows draw tighterâbut the silence stretches, heavy and unbroken.Â
Why does it feel like this?Â
Before you can give in to the stupid, aching urge to stay, you force yourself to open the door and step out. And it hurts. For some reason, it hurts.Â
Your chest gets tighter the farther you walk from his motel room. Your head feels fuzzy, your hands wonât stop shaking, and thereâs a voice buried deep in the back of your mind screaming at you to turn around.Â
Youâve never felt like this before. Not with Scott. Not with anyone. And you have no idea why.Â
All you do know is that thisâwhatever this wasâreally does feel like the end.Â
Like that really was the last time.Â
â§âË⧠PART TWO â§âËâ§
Š 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.
Aside from someone swiping your parking spot in the morning, something much more peculiar was afoot. And it involved one, six-foot-something somebody, boring holes into your back like he might actually beam lasers into you.
Which, in this particular case, was possible. Not that you knew.
Clark couldn't help himself, really. But this was the only natural response. He'd been hovering around you, wary and unsure when he could strike up a conversation. It wasn't that he was a hindrance for you, per se â his proximity helped, mostly in the getting people out of your personal space aspect when you'd gotten on the elevator to get coffee, with him following you like a shadow and effectively blocking everyone else.
Even that hadn't crossed the odd territory. Because you'd always gotten coffee with Clark Kent.
Except this time, he was friendlier-than-necessary.
You'd noticed it first when you walked into the building.
He was already there, all leaned up next to the receptionist counter, chirping happily with Jenn. When he sees you, he greets you with the same, dorky sweet smile felt far too bright for the current hangover you were dealing with.
"How are you soâŚbright at 8 am?"
Clark looks over to you, a confused look taking over his expression. "Bright?"
You stare at him deadpan, wincing at the metaphorical rays growing even more blinding at the taut smile that curls at the corner of his lips, two deep indents furthering your point.
"⌠Never mind."
The folders that were stacked in your arm were quickly lifted off you, purse coming off next. You blink and watch the taller man beside you awkwardly shuffle the straps of his messenger bag to make space for the feminine intruder.
"Don't worry about it." He assures, pressing the lift door open for you.
Huh. It felt weird not carrying anything.
His odd behaviours hadn't stopped there.
Clark was always nice to you, but this felt much. Territorial even. Sure, you appreciated him offering to help edit your copy.
ButâŚ
"Kent. Quit following me."
He jerks upright behind you â sounds of paper crumple in his fists.
"I-I'm not!" He protests, looking at the papers he just so happened to be carrying, lifting them like a trophy, far too excitedly. "I'm justâŚwe're headed the same way. So."
You frown as you look ahead to the door marked for the Copy Room, and a far too smug Clark who saunters in ahead of you, keeping the door open for you with the heel of his shoe.
"Right. Sorry." You mumbled, awkwardly shuffling past him. He shuts his eyes, and you don't notice how he'd taken a quiet inhale of your fluttering scent.
Maybe you were imagining things.
[2:20PM]
Clark Kent: I bought you the pastries you liked. Come to the pantry!
[2:25PM]
Clark Kent: Did you take them?
[2:30PM]
You: No.
You: I think Olsen is eating them.
"Gosh-darnit. Olsen!"
You snort at the voice that rings in the bullpen as you grab your usual gear after setting your phone to airplane mode â recorder, notes and a phoney smile in preparation for your 3 pm interview.
[3:10PM]
Clark Kent: Bought them againâŚAndie told me you were at a meeting.
Clark Kent: Left them on your desk. đŹ
[3:30PM]
Clark Kent: Covered the box it in the blue post-its so no one steals them.
[4:10PM]
Clark Kent: Are you free after work?
Clark Kent: I know somewhere quiet we can grab a bite.
Clark Kent: Saved the owners before.
Clark Kent: I mean. I know them. From somewhere.
[4:30PM]
Clark Kent: Anyways, let me know. đ¤Ż
[4:40PM]
Clark Kent: Scratch that. I'm sure you're tired.
Clark Kent: I'll walk you home instead.
[5:02PM]
Clark Kent: <2 Missed Calls>
âŚMaybe not.
The second you'd turned your phone back on, it damn near buzzes out of your hands. What must've been ten text messages in barely an hour â and a now flashing contact image of Clark dressed as Big Bird for the Halloween Party lights up. You click on the green button.
"Hello?âŚ"
"Hi! Gosh. Hi, sorry. You weren't answering, so I thought I'd.."
"I just wrapped up. De-brief took long. Did you need something?"
"NoâŚââŚyes. Have youâŚum, seen the messages I sent you?"
Your gaze darts to your desk, squinting at an ominously blue Post-it-covered box. Slowly, you peel it off the plastic to reveal pastries neatly tucked in it.
"âŚHow could I not? They were covering my lock screen entirely."
He snorts out a rather unglamorous laughter, and then it dies down abruptly, "sorryâŚI don't like texting. I wanted to walk you home."
"âŚ.Why?"
"I thinkâŚit's what boyfriends do, right? I haven't done this in a while."
You pause, pulling the phone away from your face. Staring at it blankly.
"Be down in ten."
Boyfriend?
Slowly, you back into your desk, slumping into your chair with a dazed look. Crap. It was about yesterday, wasn't it?
"L-Look, I need to be clear before I â mmph, do this!"
Think. Think harder.
Shaw's. Lots of tequila. Bathroom.
"Get. Em. Off." You'd rustled the larger man against the sink, yanking his belt off with such force that he jerks forward.
Between the heavy panting into each other's lips and the dire need you had for his pants to be on the ground, you were pretty sure you just agreed to whatever he was saying at that point. But what exactly was it?
You rub your forehead in concentration.
"P-Please. Wait. I want to do this properly. T-The orders â haaahhâŚa littleâŚmessed up."
Nope. Not that. Fast-forward.
"D-Does this meanâŚwe're together? Mm?"
"Yes, god," you moan brokenly, drooling over the fingers he had stuffed in your mouth, fucking you hard into the sink from the back. "â ngh, Clark, yes, yes, yes!"
âŚIn your defence, who asks someone something like that in that sort of situation?
Clark's face lights right up when he spots you leaving the building. Crossing over to you in a few long strides. He's quick to take your purse off you, and you feel a twinge in your chest.
There was no letting him down easy. It was a bandage-ripping-off sort of situation at this rate. Because this? This was like looking at a child right in the face and telling them that Santa doesn't exist or that Christmas hype was merely a scheme created by greedy men profiting off the holiday industrial complex.
You hadn't even realised you both had walked all the way up to your front door when he finally stops, bouncing at the balls of his feet.
Eager to be let in.
Oh fuck it.
"LookâŚClark, I â"
"I-I know you think I can't keep up," he interrupts. Taking a step forward with a white knuckled grip around the straps of your purse. "ThatâŚI could be too soft. ButâŚI want to learn you. What you like, i-if you'd let me."
You quirk a brow.
"âŚClarkâŚI don't exactly think we're on the same pace."
"WhyâŚnot?"
Damn him and his dejected puppy dog look.
"I'm more of a fuck on the first date sort of girl." You admit. He visibly stiffens at your words, moving like a doll to make way for you as you open your door.
"And you're sweet. I'd hate to lose you as a friend."
When you don't hear a peep from him, you'd safely assume he somehow understood.
"SoâŚ"
What you don't expect is how quickly he has arm snaked around your waist before you can even register it. Lifting you up and crossing the thresholds of your apartment.
The lock clicks shut, the purse thudding to the ground when all semblance of his politeness snaps away. You'd instinctively gripped around his shoulders in surprise. Blinking.
Clark leans in, slow enough to give you time to say no. But you lean forward instead, giving him the answer he so desperately needed.
He grunts into your lips with a familiarity â the sounds rumbling into your throat at the prolonged hum of content.
Then, he pulls back breathlessly, looking at you.
"I can keep up." He promises, placing a peck and another.
His glasses gently bumping into your nose every single time he tilts his head to get a deeper kiss. It felt far too good, and far too natural for your body to reject the notion, so you melt into him completely, curling your arms around his broad back.
Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader Word Count: 24k gold (sorry)
Description: After an attack on the Baxter Building threatens the family, every trace of evidence points to you being a traitor. Johnny is torn between believing you, the one heâs been in love with since day one, or his own blood. And while they question your loyalty, no one knows what youâre really hiding: a secret growing inside your belly, one that has Johnnyâs name written all over it.
Tags: fem!reader, angst, idiots in love, secret pregnancy, the F4 think you betrayed them, more angst, johnny cries a lot, regret, resentment, it gets better eventually, fluff, baby is described to look a lot like Johnny.
This was inspired on Taylorâs Swiftâs album Evermore, so you will find lyrics from it on every divider đ
Note: This is a Part One. I really didnât want to split this up but it ended up longer than expected and I went over tumblr's word limit đââď¸ Part two will be posted soon! This story has been the bane of my existence for the past 3 weeks (lovingly) so Iâm very happy to finally share it with you!! Get cozy, and pretend Iâm holding your hand while you read it bc this one is a rollercoaster of feelings đŤśđź Special thanks to the lovely @breadcheese444 for beta reading this đ youâre the best ily đŤśđź enjoy!
Youâd lived in the Baxter Building long enough to feel like part of the family.Â
What once was a hard earned internship to work with the greatest minds of New York, turned inevitably into the Fantastic Four taking you in as one of their own.Â
From Reedâs speeches when you assisted him in the lab, to Sueâs gentle reminders to take care of yourself, and Benâs kindness that always managed to warm your chest, it was impossible not to let them enter your life as they let you enter theirs. Being around them felt comfortable, safe, everything you couldâve ever wished for.Â
And part of that was Johnny, who always managed a way to set your perfect little world on fire.Â
The main problem was, Johnny Storm was nothing and everything all at once. He was the spark that lit every room, the one who made you laugh when you didnât want to, the one who winked across the lab when Reed was being too serious, the one who leaned just a little too close when you were working on something.Â
But Johnny was just a friend, and that was it.
A friend who flirted too much, but never went past that, no matter how much you wished him to. It was the kind of will-they wonât-they thing that made Sue smile knowingly, Ben shake his head, and Reed mutter under his breath about unresolved tension in his lab.Â
And the kind of thing that made you want to jump from a high place just for him to come and catch you.Â
And then kiss you.Â
YesâŚyou were down bad.Â
And then came the gala. The kind of night where champagne tasted like water at some point and the city blurred behind the tall glass windows of the building. You shouldnât have let Johnny keep pouring into your glass, shouldnât have let yourself get swept into his orbit more than usual, but you did.Â
His warm hand fit perfectly against your waist when he pulled you into a spin on the empty dance floor, your laugh echoing on the walls as he twirled you around. You two looked like a mess. His shirt untucked, hair tousled, your shoes off, dress loosened up on the back where his hands inevitably began drifting lower and lower.Â
Everything felt so funny, yet so right. His laugh was loud and golden, his lips too close when he whispered a joke meant only for you, even when there was no one else around.Â
You told yourself it was just the alcohol, the dizzy haze of his scent and the music heâd played on the turntable. But his warm hands kept roaming freely, and you couldnât help yours from feeling every ridge of his muscles either. The night faded into sloppy kisses, his hips snapping against yours as you finally turned that âunresolved tensionâ into a melody of midnight gasps and your headboard banging the wall; knowing Sue would probably give you hell about it the next day.Â
But the night was just like him. Everything and nothing all at once.
Everything because all youâd ever wanted was his body on yours, his groans against your skin, his undivided attention on making sure you were having as good of a time as he was. But it was supposed to mean nothing because thatâs what you were. Even when he was buried deep inside you.Â
Next morning, you woke up to his warmth. Your legs tangled on your satin bedsheets, his arm slung heavy around your waist. We shouldnât have, was your first thought. But when you saw his face just inches away from yours, soft and peaceful in sleep, and his golden hair on your pillow, and you could picture yourself waking up to that everyday.Â
It wasnât just the alcohol. You knew it.Â
And he knew it, but âwe shouldnât haveâ was his first thought too, and unfortunately he let that be the only one. Johnny cracked a joke, like he always did, and you forced a laugh, because for the first time you didnât find him funny.Â
The two of you ruled it out as a mistake. Too much champagne. Too little sense.Â
When it was too much stupidity, actually.Â
Because it didnât feel like a mistake, not to you. Never to you. Not when the warmth of his touch still lingered on your body, not when his cologne clung to your pillow even days later. And most certainly not to him, either. When he could still hear your moans, when he could still feel your nails on his back, when he could still remember every thrust he buried his love with.Â
But when people said âidiots in loveâ, you two surely loved to focus on the âidiotsâ part of it.Â
Because you let fear rule over your love, because you were nothing, just friends, and friends werenât supposed to wake up in each otherâs beds with their hearts racing. And you couldnât afford to ruin a friendship over what you thought was a one sided infatuation.Â
And the heart I know Iâm breaking itâs my ownÂ
To leave the warmest bed Iâve ever known
You thought staying friends was safeâŚuntil it wasnât.Â
A month and a half later, you were holding a test that changed everything. Staring in shock at a blue + sign that pulsed on the tiny screen. You felt lightheaded, your pulse skyrocketing as the world tilted under your feet. Terrified wasnât even enough to describe it.Â
Because you loved Johnny Storm, stupidly, deeply, recklessly. But to him, you werenât his. You were justâŚyou. A friend. How you came to despise that word.Â
Now every day felt like waiting for the inevitable, for the moment youâd have to tell him. For the moment your almost thing would turn into something you couldnât go back from.Â
You thought you could hide it. But then the mornings started hitting harder. The nausea, the way your head gaslighted you into thinking you suddenly hated the smell of coffee. You brushed it off as a stomach bug, as stress, as anything other than what you knew it was. It worked for a while; you became an expert at dodging the familyâs concern behind excuses of exhaustion.Â
But JohnnyâŚJohnny was trickier. He wasnât oblivious, not when it came to you. If anything, he watched too closely. He could see when your laugh didnât reach your eyes, when your smile was more of a mask. He thought it was because of that night. He thought heâd ruined something that didnât even exist in the first place. So he asked one night, casually, leaning against the doorframe of your room with a bowl of popcorn.Â
âAre you waking up earlier? I havenât seen you around breakfast lately.â He said, a cocky grin on his face to hide the true worry behind his words. âOne would think you got tired of my face.â He joked, like always.Â
âGot tired of the same cereal.â You joked back, and he feigned offense by putting a hand on his chest.Â
He didnât press further, because the truth was he didnât want to know if it really was that night, and it was easier to deflect reality with stupid jokes. So that night you ended up watching a movie. His shoulder grazing yours as you shared the popcorn, sat on the same bed heâd made love to you. Your head inevitably leaned on him. And he let you, of course he did.Â
You hated that you didnât mind it.Â
As months kept going, your clothes became tighter, so you stole Johnnyâs sweaters with the excuse of the weather getting colder, even when it was the middle of August and autumn was still yet to come. But he didnât mind, how could he when you looked so cute wearing his clothes?Â
How naive he was.Â
You told yourself you were buying time. That you needed to be sure before you said anything, that you had to pick the right moment. But really, you were scared of the look on his face, scared of turning something unspoken into something real.Â
For now, it was enough to live for the hope of it all.Â
August slipped away into a moment in time
âCause you were never mine
September.
On the day you turned three months pregnant, you left early in the morning for an ultrasound appointment. Your only company was the chilly September air. It was just supposed to be that, a normal day. But as you lay on a medical bed and saw the life growing inside you through a screen, something terrible was happening back in the tower.
A planned attack.Â
It wasnât dramatic in the sense of fire everywhere, or the use of brute force. No, the Fantastic Four were more than capable of dealing with that sort of stuff. In this case, information was more valuable, and unfortunately, more vulnerable.Â
The Baxter Building was supposed to be untouchable, layers of firewalls, Reedâs tech securing every inch of the place. But today, someone managed to hack every single file. And what better way to create a distraction than by targeting the innocent little droid first. All they had to do was program H.E.R.B.I.E into thinking his family was the enemy, starting with the two year old that was left in his care.Â
Franklin.Â
And for a few terrifying hours, the Fantastic Four had to fight an invisible enemy. Franklin had barely left unscathed, H.E.R.B.I.E was shut down until he could be repaired, but the damage was done. Their entire database got transferred to some location Reed kept desperately trying to track.Â
Some screens still flickered, the alarms were muted but still ringing in everyoneâs heads. Reedâs lab was suffocatingly tense, his quick typing and occasional scribble on the chalkboard were the only sounds.Â
Sue rocked Franklin on her hip, she had twice survived someone wanting to harm her child; her bloodshot eyes showing she wasnât sure she could ever take a third. Ben sat on the yellow couch, occasionally offering reassuring smiles to little Franklin.Â
Johnny had been trying to contact you as soon as the hellish situation was over. But tracking you was useless, because youâd left the watch heâd given you in your room that day, since you noticed it messed with the ultrasound machine every time.Â
But the worst part wasnât that he couldnât find you, no. The worst part was that every single trail of what happened that morning in the building was traced back to you. To that watch Johnny found on your nightstand, and which Reed now held next to his screen.Â
And you werenât even there to defend yourself.Â
âTell me this is a mistake.â Sueâs voice cut through the tension, still bouncing Franklin desperately. She walked toward Reed, leaning over his shoulder.Â
He didnât look at her, his eyes still darting over the evidence scrolling down his screen. âIâve checked it four times. The data breach is always traced back to an internal device.â His tone was even, but his hands hesitated when holding the watch. Your watch. âNot just internalâŚhers.â
Ben shifted uneasily on his seat. âCome on, Reed. Weâre talking about the kid hereâŚthereâs no way sheâd pull something like that.â
Reed went through the decryption for the fifth time, and all the incriminating details. Log-ins with your name, encrypted messages sharing information only you would know. It was too calculated, almost like the perfect crime, but they couldnât see past the fear that morning caused.Â
âThis is bullshit.â Johnny snapped, walking around the lab shaking his head. âShe wouldnâtâshe couldnât do this. Not her, and you all know it.âÂ
âJohnny, itâs all right here.â Reed looked at him. He didnât want to believe it either, but he was a man of facts, and they were right in front of him.Â
Johnny shook his head violently, pacing like he was going to burst into flames to burn the adrenaline off. âNo, I donât care what your computers say. Sheâs not like thatâ you know sheâs not.â He defended fiercely. âShe loves this family. She loves Franklin. She lovesââ He cut himself off, like he still couldnât say it out loud. âShe loves us, okayâSue? Help me a little bit here.â He looked at his sister, still clutching his nephew for dear life.Â
âJohnny, I really wanna believe you.â She said, soft and honest. âBut weâre talking about my sonâs safety. Your nephew. What ifâŚwhat if she isnât who we thought?â
Reed sighed, exhausted. He wasn't an emotional person, but he wasnât immune either. Pushing past all the logic, all the damning proof on his screens, his eyes reflected his heart trying to cloud his judgment.Â
Heâd grown fond of you too. You were brilliant, a true delight to work with. And you had always been so caring to the children of the place. Franklin and Johnny. Well, at least that's how it played in Reedâs eyes. The point was, he didnât see you as just an intern, but as family.Â
âI wish it wasnât this way, Johnny. But we canât ignore the facts, the evidenceâstrong evidence. Whoever did this had access to information only available to usâŚand the trail points to her being the leak.â
Johnny lifted his hands in the air, closing his fists like he wanted to choke the words that came out of Reedâs mouth. âIf you think for one second Iâm gonna stand here and believe she betrayed us, then you donât know her like I do.â He tried to sound firm, confident, but his voice cracked. âI just know sheâŚshe wouldnât do this to me.â
âJohnnyâŚâ Sue sighed. âThis is not just about youâŚthis is Franklin weâre talking about.âÂ
That set him off. The argument kept going in circles. Reed insisting on facts, Johnny yelling at him, Sue trying to reason with her brother, and Ben caught in the middle, taking Franklin from Sueâs arms to move him away from the confrontation.Â
But then Reedâs screen chimed, with the results of the last decryption of information he got from your watch. He froze, making Johnny stop bickering with Sue.
âWhat?â He asked, leaning over Reedâs shoulder.Â
Reedâs hands hovered over the keys as he took in the information. He saw dozens of image files, schematics, and hand drawn maps of the Baxter Building.Â
And not just that, but the personal notes youâd made on them.Â
At first he tried to find the logic, like he always did. And there was actually a reason behind it. It had been a project youâd worked along with Reed to set up a new security system when Franklin was born. He could see all the key points that he had explained to you alone. Okay, acceptable. But it had extra annotations around Franklinâs nursery, weak points, blind spots, stuff only you had observed and noted.Â
But he didnât know it had been from a place of good. The extra time you took to analyze everything to make sure the new systems would secure the childâs safety. And of course, they couldnât see past that, because the thing you had used to protect him, was the very same that was used against him.Â
And this time, in their eyes, there was no more room for the benefit of the doubt. Not when you werenât there to explain it to them. Not when Sue couldnât keep her eyes off Franklin in Benâs arms as if something would happen to him the second she blinked.Â
Johnny just stared in silence, he recognized the notes instantly. He remembered you perched at Reedâs side, stylus scribbling on your tablet as you tried to follow his explanations. He remembered laughing when you drew a tiny flame by his room. âSo you donât get lost, blondie.âÂ
It was yours, that was undeniable. And the decryption showed those notes had been shared outside the tower a few weeks ago. Far away from the family it belonged to.Â
âTell me someone forged this,â Ben said roughly, as the last thread of hope he had on you had snapped.Â
Reed shook his head. âItâs not forged. These are her annotations, this was information I confided in her withâŚher own observations on the Towerâs weak points.â
âThatâs yeahâŚthatâs hers.â Johnny breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. âThatâsâgod, thatâs her handwriting.â
Sue pressed a hand to her mouth, tears already spilling. She adored you like a sister, trusted you with Franklin more than anyone.Â
Johnny staggered back a step, like the air had been punched from his lungs. His eyes still locked on the little flame doodle. Was that why he couldnât reach you all morning? Had you ran away and left them to pick up the pieces of everything you broke?Â
For the first time, Johnny had no defense, no fiery protest. Just the crushing weight of evidence that seemed to confirm what he feared the most. The girl he loved had been betraying himânoâŚall of them all along.
And I fell from the pedestal, right down the rabbit hole
Long story short, it was a bad time
You carried the folded black and white print in your bag. Proof that everything inside you was still very real. But for the first time in weeks, you didn't feel afraid, instead you felt a strange kind of calm.Â
Thatâs when you decided youâd tell Johnny.Â
Whatever happened after, he deserved to know. He deserved to know you didn't really see him as nothing, that he was actually everything. And that everything, that love, was turning into something beautiful. Youâd seen it through a screen today, and you wanted nothing more but to share it with him. Maybe next appointment heâd be there to hold your hand through it too.Â
You just hoped heâd be able to forgive you from keeping it a secret for so long.Â
When you walked back into the Baxter Building, you couldnât find anyone. The place was quiet, as if the multiple floors of offices had been evacuated. Your heart raced as you went up the elevator, and walked around the empty halls of the familyâs floors with not even a sign of Herbert. You rushed to the lab, the last place you needed to check. The elevatorâs door opened, and you sighed in relief when you found your family inside.Â
They all turned to you at once, and you were shocked to be met with red, puffy eyes. Sue rushed to stand in front of Franklin and Ben. Reedâs eyes darted between you and the screen, and JohnnyâŚJohnny wouldnât meet your gaze.
The relief didnât last long.Â
âWhat is going on? What happened?â You walked instinctively toward Johnny, but halted when you noticed he took a step back before you reached. âThe whole building is empty, are you guys okayââÂ
âWe didnât think youâd actually show up here.â Sueâs harsh tone made your brows furrow. It didnât sound like her, not like the woman who would put a blanket over you and Johnny when you fell asleep watching a movie in the living room.Â
âWhat? Why wouldnât I?â You asked, completely taken aback with the way she looked at you. âJohnny?â You called to him, but for some reason he refused to lift his gaze from the labâs floor.Â
âThere was an attack today. On ourâŚinformation.â Ben explained, softly. âAnd on Fââ
âFranklin.â Sue finished for him, and your eyes went wide, but before you could ask, Reed rotated the sphere monitor so you could see what theyâd discoveredÂ
âThe breach came from your device. And theseâŚâ He pointed to the screen. âThese schematics were used to override our firewalls, and steal all of our information. Including all our safety protocols."
You walked a few steps closer, just enough to see your watch connected to the monitor, and all the information displayed on it. Your notes, your handwriting, your sketches, things youâd only ever shared with them.
âThatâsâno, thatâs impossible. I never shared that with anyoneâŚI donâtâReed, you know I neverââ You fumbled your words, nothing couldâve ever made you ready for this type of accusation. âMy watch has been glitching lately, Johnny I told you that.â Your eyes darted to him, hoping heâd say something, that heâd defend you. But that wasnât what came out of his lips.
âBut thatâs your handwriting.â He mumbled, arms crossed across his chest, but he still wouldnât look at you.Â
âOn the plans that put my son in danger today.âÂ
âYes, thatâs my handwriting, those are my notes. Butââ The words tore out of you, panicked. âI donât know how they got that. I swear to you, it wasnât me.â
Your eyes burned, your throat tight as you looked around the room at the family who once claimed you as their own, at Johnny, who didn't have it in him to meet your desperate gaze.Â
âJohnny, please.â
Finally, Johnnyâs head lifted. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red. It hurt you to see him like that, but it hurt you more that his mistrust of you was the reason behind those tears. Still, for one moment you let yourself believe he might leap to your defense like always. And as he looked right into your eyes, he wanted to. God, he really wanted to.Â
To this day he could still remember the taste of the champagne from that night, the way your laugh had muffled against his neck, the feel of your fingers brushing his. He could still remember the way he brushed it off as nothing. But it wasnât ânothingâ. You werenât ânothingâ.Â
You were supposed to be the one person who saw him, past all the cockiness, the one who always listened to him even when the family didnât. You werenât supposed to be the one who lied, who hurt him. He looked at Reed, hoping for a sign, hoping for that impossible âI was wrongâ, but Reed only shook his head, because as always, he wasnât.Â
âThe watch matches the breach exactly. Thereâs no evidence of tampering on it.â
âThen find it!â You snapped at Reed, making everyone flinch on their spots. âThis is my home, I would never hurt any of you, much less Franklin.â
You couldnât believe it. Had they really given up on you so easily?
âJohnny, come on,â you whispered. âYou know me. Better than anyone.â
He didâŚor at least he thought he did. But the screen behind you glared back at him, your notes, your access codes, the coincidences. The smoking gun in your own handwriting.
âIf this is some kind of mistake,â Johnny said quietly, âthen give me something. Anything that makes this make sense.â
âI wasnât even here, Johnny. I wasââ you cut yourself short, not exactly knowing how to explain youâd been hiding a baby when everything you said already sounded like a lie to them. âCan you just give me a second? I just need toââ
âThereâs no time to spare, I need to track where this information has gone. You could at least tell us that.â Reed said, and you blinked in disbelief.Â
âI canât tell you something I donât know.â You shook your head. âThis is not about what you guys are seeing on that screen. This is about you trusting me for who you know me to be.â You fought one last time.Â
Reed just sighed, finally daring to say what theyâd all agreed on before you arrived.Â
âWe are shutting the building down. Everything will be changed to make sure the information that got leaked wonât be relevant. Iâll conduct a further investigation, butâŚI think itâs clear enough for now. You have broken our trust. And if youâre refusing to share information with us, that means we canâtâŚitâs not possible to have you here anymore.â
Johnnyâs head snapped up, but this time it was you who couldnât meet his eyes. All that was left was the quiet, the heartbreak, and the sound of your breath hitching as the family you loved looked at you like a stranger. You thought of the ultrasound picture in your bag, of the heartbeat no one here knew about. The one they were casting out alongside yours.Â
The weight of it crashed down. The lab blurred as tears filled your eyes in disbelief. At this point you didnât even care about their âfurther investigationsâ, because they had already decided it had been you. Their eyes didnât lie, they didnât believe you.Â
You lost them. And in that moment they lost you.
So you just nodded, and whispered, âI understand.â
But in your chest, your heart screamed I donât. Thatâs when you decided to turn to the last person who could give you saving grace. With what little steadiness you had left, you cleared your throat.
âJohnny,â you said softly, not daring to look at anyone else. âCan IâŚcan I at least talk to you? Just once. Please.â
Johnny didnât answer right away. His shoulders were stiff, his face turned away, but he exhaled, and nodded. âYeahâŚokay.â
Sue looked at him, but with the unbearing love she still had for you somewhere inside, she decided you two deserved that moment. So she took Franklin from Benâs arms and rushed out of the lab, Reed following her, Ben lingered just long enough to give you one last conflicted look before the elevator doors shut closed.Â
You were left in the silence of the lab, standing across from Johnny. This was either your last chance, orâŚyour last goodbye. The room felt too big now, like you didnât belong there anymore, but still you gathered the strength to fight one last time.Â
âI canât change what you saw, and I donât understand why you would believe that was me. You know how much your family means to me. How much you mean to me.â You started, your voice faltering with the tears you tried to keep from spilling. âJustâŚthink about everything weâve been through. Every night in this place. Every secret. Every laugh. Do you really think that wasnât real?â
That got him. His eyes snapped to you, glassy and burning, like your words meant the opposite you wanted them to.
âIt was real to me,â he said. âAnd maybe thatâs the problem. Because now all I can think is, what if it was all just part of this? What if you were playing me the whole time?â
âJohnnyâŚâ
He raked a hand through his hair, pacing again. âDo you know what it feels like? To look at you and not know if anything you ever said to me was true? To wonder if every smile, every moment, was just you getting closer to what you wanted?â His voice cracked. âWhat did you even want to get from this? I donât understand.â
The realization hit worse than ever. He wasnât questioning the stuff he saw, he was questioning you. He didnât understand why youâd done it, because heâd already decided in his head it had been you.Â
âIâthis is my family.â He continued. âWhy would you want to do this to my family?âÂ
The words carved into you. To believe you had come into the building ready to finally confess, to tell him about the baby, to give him the one piece of truth that could not be forged. But the way he looked at you now, made your stomach twist.
âI canât tell you something I donât know.â You repeated the same thing youâd said to Reed, blinking back the tears that blurred him out. âBut I donât think itâd matter anywaysâŚit sounds like youâve already made up your mind.â
This wasnât about proving yourself anymore. Not when heâd already decided you didnât even deserve the chance.Â
He didnât deny it, and that was the moment you knew. The same way Sue protected her child. You couldnât give yours to someone who didnât trust you, who doubted the very core of who you were for some made up evidence against you.Â
âI will do as your family said, I wonât be a problem to you anymore.â You said.Â
His lips parted one last time, like he wanted to speak, to backtrack, but nothing came, instead his eyes went back to the floor. That silence was enough to break the parts of you that once belonged to him.
It was clear to you, that no matter how much it broke your soul, you had lost everything. So it was time to go. You wiped your tears with your sleeves, and decided you wouldnât spill any more for him. Or at least, not in front of him. You took one last look at Johnny, the coward who couldn't even look at you as he exiled you from his life, his home, his family.Â
You didnât say goodbye, he didnât deserve it. So you just turned around, walked to the elevator, and didnât look back as the doors closed.Â
Thatâs when Johnny allowed himself to break. Breathless, broken sobs muffled by his hands soaking with the hot tears spilling. He didnât know what hurt more, that he never got to confess he loved you, or the fact that everything that made him love you wasnât even real. He was overwhelmed with emotions, the disbelief, the fear, the anger, that it was so hard to see clearly past all of that.Â
All he had left was the facts, the damning evidence on Reedâs screen. Because he didnât have you anymore.Â
Believing that was the biggest mistake of his life.Â
By the time the building settled into the darkness of the night, you were already gone. No goodbye note in your room, only your untouched belongings and your heart left behind. As the cab sped away, your mind was a whirl of grief and uncertainty. They had taken your home from you, but they could never take away the last part you had from Johnny.Â
The only thing you had left.Â
Johnny didnât sleep that night. He couldnât. He sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands and your watch on his nightstand. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. He went to your room that night, trying to find something, a clue, anything that would help him see further the haze of pain that wouldnât leave him alone. The room was silent, cold, even when he was a walking furnace.Â
Youâd left the bed made, two drawers half open, but the rest was intact. Picture frames, gifts heâd given to you through the years, records heâd chosen himself still displayed on your shelves. Like you couldnât bear to bring a single piece of him with you. Only the faintest trace of your perfume lingered, clinging to the air like a ghost.Â
The room looked frozen in time, like you just stopped existing. Which, you kind of had.Â
Johnnyâs chest burned, but not with fire this time. With the void only loss could cause. He leaned on the doorframe, staring into the space that used to be yours, and in some unspoken way, his. He wanted to rage, to scream, to burn the whole damn world down if it meant changing what happened. But nothing would do.Â
You were gone.
Because theyâd asked you to. Because he didnât fight for you to stay. The smoking gun was not in your hands, but in his own.Â
That night he slept on your bed. Eyes crying acid rain on the pillow where you used to lay your head. He clung to your scent and the good old memories, grieving the fact that he would never get to make new ones. Not with you.
Haunted by the look in my eyesÂ
That wouldâve loved you for a lifetime
Leave it all behind
November.
The city you once loved became unbearable quickly. Every corner of Manhattan screamed their names. Fantastic Four billboards on Times Square, interviews replaying on cafĂŠ TVs, merch stands at every store. You couldnât buy milk without Johnnyâs smile flashing at you from a cereal box. It wasnât home anymore. It was a wound that wasnât allowed to close.
So you left New York for good, all to end up in a small southern town in Georgia.Â
No flashing billboards, no cameras, no whispers of superheroes. No Fantastic Four influence anymore. Nights werenât easy.Â
You sat by the open window of your small rental, the autumn air freezing against your skin. You stared out at the trees of a world that felt foreign, while you replayed every step that had led you there.Â
Some nights you wrote letters. Folded scraps of paper with words you couldnât say to anyone. Questions, confessions, apologies. Letters to the fire, to him, to the life you used to have. To no one. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff screaming âgive me a reasonâ.Â
There wasnât a clear path set for you anymore. The internship you earned through your hard work had once been an impossible dream, one you got to live.Â
You guessed this was the price you had to pay for those few years in heaven.Â
And there was one feeling that remained with you through the fall of the leaves. That peculiar ache, the sense that this wasnât just pain for now, this pain was for evermore.
My eclipsed sun
I am ash from your fire
Tisâ the damn season.
The city became unbearable for Johnny in December. Three months after your departure.Â
The Fantastic Fourâs Christmas photos were everywhere. Sue smiling with Franklin on her hip, Reed stiff as always, Ben wearing a ridiculous Santa hat marketing forced him to wear but he secretly loved. And Johnny, always the center of attention, always grinning.Â
Because he was miserable but nobody had to know.Â
Because the world saw him as the spark of every season.Â
Because he was Johnny Storm, and he could do it all with a broken heart.Â
Even when he hated himself most of the time. For doubting you. For letting the proof shout louder than his heart. So he did what he was best at, and hid behind a smile and his muscles, carrying the weight of believing youâd betrayed themâŚand the heavier weight of still missing you anyway.
Winter was in all its glory.Â
Johnny wasnât very fond of the snow since he got his powers. It wasnât enough to affect him, since the cold never bothered him anyway, but it felt different when flying. Different than in any other season.Â
But now he liked to see it fall through the large windows of the tower. Because maybe, wherever you were, he hoped you were seeing snow too. He could at least share that with you.Â
So thatâs what he was doing tonight. Â
Johnny stood by the large windows of your room, a place where he found himself often, and thought about you. He always thought about you. Lost in his head, entranced by the way the snow fell, he didn't notice the tiny socks dragging against the blue carpet, until a little hand tugged Johnnyâs the fabric of his pants.Â
âUncle Johnny?â
Johnny looked down to find Franklin, clutching a stuffed dinosaur youâd given him on his last birthday. He smiled at his nephew, crouching to his height.Â
 âYeah, buddy?â
âWhere is she?â Franklin asked, tilting his head. His question was innocent, it shouldnât have hurt as much as it did.Â
The words knocked the air out of Johnnyâs chest. He stared at his nephew, and the dinosaur tucked under his arm, the same one heâd helped you pick, and for a moment he couldnât breathe. Franklin tugged his arm this time, when Johnny didnât answer right away.
âShe was always with you,â Franklin said softly. Heâd always liked to point stuff out. Facts. Just like his father. âBut now sheâs not here. Mommy said she had to leaveâŚâ His little brow furrowed, because he didnât understand. âDo you know why? Did she stop liking us?â
Johnny shook his head, forcing a crooked smile that didnât reach his eyes. âNo, buddy. She didnât stop liking you. SheâŚshe just had to go away for a while.â
âBut I miss her.â
That was it. The final crack in Johnnyâs mask. He wrapped his arms around him and hoisted him up, wrapping him tight in his arms as he walked towards your bed and sat there. He buried his face in Franklinâs blonde hair so he couldn't see his eyes burning. âYeah, buddyâŚI miss her too.â
He didnât notice Sue standing on the doorway. She just watched as Johnny clung to her son, both of them breaking with the absence of the same person.
Back in your little southern town, you stared out the window too, but there wasnât snow there. You missed it. Missed teasing Johnny about it. Missed laughing until you cried when you tried to make snow angels and he melted the snow into water in a matter of seconds.Â
You couldnât share the snow anymore, but you were thinking about him too. All while in a city miles away, Johnny held a child who wasnât his, whispering that he missed you too.
Youâre not my homeland anymore
So what am I defending now?Â
January.
It was the first day of the new year.Â
Sue found him in your room again. It was late, hours after sheâd put Franklin to bed. Johnny sat in your bed in the dark, the glow of the moonlight painting his somber eyes. His hand was curled around your watch like he couldnât let it go.
âJohnny.â Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of someone whoâd been watching him break for months.
He didnât look at her right away. Just mumbled, âCanât sleep.â
Sue crossed the room, sitting down beside him. She let the silence sit for a moment before speaking. âI know it hurts. More than it hurts the rest of us.â She reached out, resting a gentle hand on his arm. âBut it's been months. And for your sake, JohnnyâŚyou canât keep living like this.â
Johnny remembered what Franklin told him that night, and he wanted to use the same argument. âBut I miss herâ. He was sure heâd sound the same as the child, considering how his voice wasnât as confident as it once was.Â
âI canât stop thinking about her. About that nightâŚabout everything I didnât say.â
Sueâs hand slid to hold his, comforting in a way only a sister could be. âI know, Johnny. But sometimes people make their choices, and all we can do is let them go. You canât burn yourself out trying to hold on to something that isnât here anymore.â
Her words cut deep, but he knew they were spoken with love. Johnny sat there for a long time, staring at the watch in his palm. âYouâre right.â
âI know it seems impossible now, but itâs time to bury it. Move forward, Johnny, for you.â
And he nodded, even though it seemed impossible. He decided then, to shove it down, to lock it up, to pretend the only fire burning him was the one from his own flames. He had to bury the pain, to bury you, somewhere he could never reach again.
The next day, as much as it hurt Sue, she moved every photo, every souvenir, every memory of you they had in the tower to that room, and put it under lock and key. Because she couldnât keep watching her brother talk to a ghost.Â
Johnny inevitably went back a couple of days after, only to find he could no longer get in. Heâd noticed photos where you appeared had gone missing, as well as all of the stuff youâd once given to him, so he figured his sister locked them away in your room.Â
In that moment, Johnny wished heâd kept every receipt of the times heâd gone out with you. He would've, if heâd known one day every scrap of you would be taken away from him.
All that he had left was your memories. And he couldnât help but wonder, What is she doing now?
If I didn't know better, I'd think you were still around
I know better, but I still feel you all around
February.
Six years later.Â
The town had become your home in ways you never thought it would. Youâd grown to love the main street lined with diners, boutiques and an old movie theater. The way everyone waved and actually made eye contact when you walked by, the rhythm of a place that moved slower than the world youâd left behind. It was like living inside a Hallmark movie. ExceptâŚwithout the love interest part.
By day, you taught at the community college. Your mornings went by as a professor in the science wing, filling blackboards with equations and diagrams, trying to pass on your love for learning and the things Reed had once taught you. Your students adored you, not because you were easy, but because you made them feel like science was reachable, like anyone could do it if they put in the effort.Â
By night, your world was your son.Â
Leo Spencer.Â
He was everything all at once. The spark in your life, the reason behind your smile, and the vivid reminder of the one person you could never outrun.Â
Because Johnny Storm lived in your sonâs face.Â
The same golden hair, the same dashing smile that lit up every room, his charming confidence, his small quirks. The way he drummed his fingers against the table without realizing, the way he tilted his head when he was curious, the way he filled a room with energy without even trying. He was a copy of the man who broke you.Â
But not his eyes, no, those were yours. Johnny let you have one thing, at least.Â
The only thing missing was the fire. Thank God for that. He never needed flames to shine. At only five years old, his restless curiosity had already outgrown the classrooms around him. Teachers threw around words like gifted and advanced classes, ones that carried dollar signs heavy enough to scare you. You worked extra hours tutoring in the afternoon to afford his tuition in a private school, even picked up shifts at the local bar on weekends, while your lovely neighbor took care of him. Exhaustion became an everyday thing, but youâd do it a thousand times over if it meant Leo had what he deserved.
You werenât the same person who left New York. You changed your first name, and picked the same last name as your son for you, Spencer. It seemed stupid when you chose it, being Johnnyâs second surname and all, but you werenât really thinking clearly when you did. At least it had helped you tremendously to share it with Leo when it came to signing him up in the advanced programs. It kept people away from making questions since there wasnât a âfatherâ in the picture. They could only assume heâd divorced you or died.Â
It was a place where gossip ran like water, after all.Â
Your one story house wasnât that big, but it was yours. White paint on the porch railing, a garden you kept stubbornly alive, shelves lined with books you actually had time to read again. At night youâd sit on the steps with a mug of tea, watching your son chase fireflies across the yard, laugh bubbling while telling you facts about their wings.Â
Youâd built this life with your own two hands, out of nothing. You did it with a broken heart, with one truth you carried quietly, tucked deep inside your chest.Â
Iâm never going to love again.
People tried to show their interest in you; a colleague who lingered too long in conversation, a neighbor who offered to fix the leak on your sink when youâd mentioned it, or even the police captain offering you coffee when you passed by the police station in the mornings, but you shut the door on all of it with a polite smile.Â
The world had taught you what it cost to put your faith in someone else, to hand over your heart and believe theyâd protect it. You couldnât afford to make that mistake again, not when there was a child depending on you. So you forgot about your big city dreams, at least until Leo was able to have his own. You kept your world small, safe, and put caution tape around your heart.Â
Miles away, Johnny wasnât much different.Â
Of course he didnât have to hide behind a fake name, he was still the golden boy of New York, still the Human Torch. Half naked in calendars, covers of magazines and billboards. Heâd leaned into the spotlight harder than ever, laughing loud, burning brighter than his flames.Â
But beneath it, the void never filled.
Six years, and he never let another woman close. Flirting, sure, he couldnât help it, but he never took anyone home. It felt like betraying you, even when you betrayed him first.Â
It was absurd, really, that he kept burning for a ghost.
He told himself he'd buried you, like Sue told him to. But the wound never closed. So he researched, quietly, secretly. When the others thought he was sleeping, Johnny sat in Reedâs lab going through old files, things that never quite added up. It had started as punishment, as a way to prove to himself that the evidence had been real, that he wasnât crazy for believing it. But the longer he stared, the more holes he found. Places where the trail was too clean, where it looked too deliberate.Â
He didnât find proof that youâd done it. He was finding proof that he had destroyed you for nothing.Â
Thatâs when he started looking for you. But your name didnât show up in any database after that September six years ago. You just vanished into smoke slipping from his hands.Â
He was supposed to be the fire, to absorb it before it burned everything down. But this time he had to be the one picking up the ashes left behind, one by one.Â
And every night he whispered the same prayer to the stars, let me find something. Let me find her.
And it's been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong
I'm right where you left me
March.
You spent your afternoons tutoring, guiding your students the way youâd wished someone did for you when you were younger. Every bright mind that walked through your door had the potential, you just showed them what they could do with it.Â
But some shone brighter than others, like this girl Kate. The darkest long hair, a sharp gaze and even a sharper mind. The kind of mind you recognized instantly. Restless, unable to settle for easy answers. She deserved more than the small town college could give her, and more than you could give her, if you were honest.Â
Now, one of the many things The Fantastic Four contributed to the world were their academic programs. Opportunities, grants, financial aid, internships were all part of the things someone could earn through them. Of course, you had to be brave enough to even apply in the first place, and compete with millions of âexceptionalâ applicants across the globe.Â
You had once been brave enough to, and felt like you won the lottery when it landed you an internship withâŚthem.
We all know how that story went. In the end, you lost the game of chances. But maybe Kate would play her cards better. So one day, pushing past your fears and your own trauma, you talked to her about the program that changed your life many moons ago.Â
âHave you ever thought about applying to the Fantastic Four First Steps Program?â
Her head snapped up from her notebook, eyes wide. âMe? No way. I meanâŚthatâs for geniuses, right? Not many people get in, only the people from the big cities.â
You smiled softly, even though your chest ached at the name. Fantastic Four. You hadnât said it out loud in years; it was exiled from your vocabulary the way theyâd exiled you. You never thought youâd send another person into that world ever again, but your experiences shouldnât tarnish the ones others could have. So, even if the words tasted bitter in your mouth, you forced yourself to go on.Â
âKate, that program was built for minds like yours, no matter where you apply from. I seriously think you could get in, I wouldnât tell you if I didnât.â
She hesitated; she had heard of other people from the college applying, but she thought they were crazy for even considering it, since no one from there ever got accepted. âWell, butâŚeven if I could, which would be crazyâŚwould I even belong in places like that?â
God, how many times had you asked yourself the same thing?
âListen to me. You belong anywhere your brain can take you. And if youâre worried about the application, Iâll help you, I know what it takes to get in. You donât have to do it alone.â You reassured, and after some consideration, she finally nodded.
You let out the part âbecause once, I was inâ. Because once, those halls were your home. Because once, your whole life had unraveled on the top floor of that tower. But that was a long time ago, and you were starting to live for the hope of it all once again.Â
Maybe life would be kinder to her the way it couldnât be with you.Â
So you both worked on her application right away. Crafted it perfectly. It wasnât a hard task, since she was brilliant and her scores backed her up. You just helped her polish everything, keeping your name out of it, and soon her file was mailed to New York.Â
It's been a long time
And seeing the shape of your name
Still spells out pain
October.
Johnny had been sent to represent the family at the Fantastic Four First Steps Program Showcase. Where dozens of students made a presentation on the projects theyâd been working on since they got into the program.Â
He arrived just in time, wearing a leather jacket over a fancy button down, and the most inappropriate pair of tight pants he found that day.Â
âFamily representation, Johnny." Sue had said that morning, shoving the itinerary into his hands. âBehave, pay attention, and ask questions.âÂ
And he tried, he really didâŚat first.Â
But by hour two, saying he was bored wasnât even enough. He still clapped when everyone else clapped, smiled when a camera panned at him, even threw a wink or two when someone in the audience managed to get his attention.Â
He just had to hold on for another half an hour. Then he could sneak out, text Sue âgreat event!â and pretend heâd been deeply moved by the future of scientific innovation.
He wasnât even looking at the stage when the next student walked up. Kate Bishop, the host announced. Another young person with a bright future and a nervous smile. Johnny didnât even notice the accent in her voice or the way her hands trembled holding the slide pointer to the huge screen behind her. His gaze was fixed on the watch on his wrist, until her presentation came to an end.Â
ââŚand I wouldnât even be here today if it werenât for my mentor, my professor back home,â Kate was saying. âShe pushed me to apply, even when I didnât think I could make it.â
Johnny looked up absentmindedly, he was ready to clap and give a thumbs up as if he heard the whole thing, but his hands stopped midair when he saw the slide change.Â
There you were. On the screen.
Standing in a college lab, radiant as ever, the sunlight from the big windows pouring over your shoulder. The girl on stage was smiling next to you, her head tilted slightly in your direction. Your hand rested on her project model. You looked proud, happy, alive.
You. It was you.
Johnny couldn't clap, smile, or even breathe. He forgot where he was, forgot the rows of interns, the attention from the audience, the cameras pointed at him. The entire world narrowed to that glowing projection of you.
He hadnât seen you in six years. Not in memories that didnât hurt. Not even in photographs because Sue had locked them away in your room. His heart started to race, too fast, too painful. He felt it everywhere, in the edge of his ribs, in his throat, his ears.
All he could see was your smile frozen on that screen. The same smile that used to undo him every single day.
âThe project began with her, back home in Georgia. She taught me that even if people donât believe in you, you have to believe in the impact youâll leave behind.â
Johnny squinted, trying to read the caption under the picture.
Professor Spencer and student Kate Bishop. Thomasville, Georgia.Â
Spencer. Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm.
You took his name. His second surname.
Youâd vanished, built a life, a reputation. And you chose somewhere quieter, smaller, far from him, far from the city that ruined you. You built yourself back up, became a new person, and still took his name.
But Johnny didnât have time to spiral, because for the first time in six years, he didnât just have a ghost, he had a trail. He had a location now.Â
Thomasville, Georgia.
He had to find you.
Johnny left the conference building in a blaze of golden fire, without even saying goodbye to anyone, and went back to the Tower.
He stumbled into his room, slamming the door behind him, the rush of adrenaline burning through his shaking hands. He went straight to his nightstand, pulling out the last piece of you he kept, the only one Sue couldn't take away from him because heâd hid it.
Your watch.
He paced the length of his room, the watch clutched tight in his hand, muttering under his breath like that would help calm the storm inside him.
âSix years,â he whispered. âSix years and I finally found you.â
He pressed his palms against his face, but in the middle of his frenzy, the watch slipped from his grasp. It clattered to the floor with a sharp crack, metal case popping open, tiny pieces scattering over his carpet.Â
âFuckâŚâ
He dropped to his knees, scooping the pieces up, but stopped over something that didnât look like it belonged there. He picked it up carefully, staring at a tiny silver chip, glinting under the light coming from the large windows. It didnât have the blue number four Reed stamped everything with.Â
What the hellâŚ
He scooped the rest of the pieces from your watch, and set them on his bed. Then, without even giving it a second thought, he took off his own watch and closed his eyes as he slammed it against the floor. The casing burst open just like yours, gears and metal scattering on the floor. But all he saw were pieces that were meant to be there, stamped with the tiniest four emblem. No weird chip.Â
âNo, no, noâŚâ He shook his head, looking all around the carpet to see if he missed it coming out of his watch. But he found nothing.Â
He needed answers now.
Johnny didnât remember running through the halls. His chest burned, and his vision blurred. By the time he burst into Reedâs lab, he was gasping, eyes wet, the small chip clutched safely in his hand.Â
âReedâReed, I need you to look at this!âÂ
Sue jumped in her spot, and sat up straighter from where she was leaning over some papers. Reed looked up from his work, brows furrowing at Johnny sprinting toward him.Â
âWerenât you at the education summit?â Reed asked, just as Johnny set the chip in front of him.
âI left early.â Johnny shook his head quickly, catching his breath. âThis is more important. You need to analyze this. Now.âÂ
Reed glared at him for a few seconds, but when he noticed the desperation behind Johnnyâs pleading eyes, he reached for the chip with a tweezer. Johnny began pacing, raking his hands through his hair, breathing uneven as Reed studied the component carefully.Â
âAre you okay?â Sue finally dared to ask, but Johnny didnât answer.
He turned to Reed. âWell?â He demanded. âItâs not from here, is it?â
Reed ignored him, and set the chip under his scanner. A pulse of blue light ran over it, as Reed pressed keys, analyzing its composition, code structures, searching for anything familiar. When the machine was finally done with the results, Reed leaned back.
âThis isnât ours.â He announced, and Johnny froze in his pacing. âThis is advanced nano technology. âÂ
âJohnny, where did you even find that?â Sue asked, but was ignored once again by her brother.Â
âAre you completely sure it isn't ours?â He pressed.Â
âIt is not. I am years away from implementing it on our equipment. Iâm afraid I donât have the capability of building something like this hereâŚyet.â
Johnny just stood in silence, his eyes fixed on the chip glowing faintly under the lab lights.Â
âThe chipâŚit was in her watch. The one we got the information from when we threw her out.â He explained, quiet anger threaded in every word. âThe one she begged us to believe was glitching.â
Sue and Reed exchanged a wide eyed look, they knew exactly who he was talking about. Sue got up to put a hand on Johnnyâs shoulder, but he turned away.Â
âJohnnyâŚâ
He slammed his hands against the counter, as tears burned the back of his eyes. âShe told us. She told us something was wrong, and we didnât listen. We justâwe believed the files instead of her.â
Reedâs expression hardened as he looked back at the chip. His mind piecing everything together. âNano technology is extremely dangerous. Someone must have embedded it on her device when she was out in the city, stole her information and then transferred the breach into it to cover their tracks. To make it look like the leak came from her.â
âOh my god,â Sue gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
âThisâŚthis could have been planted on any of our watches. But whoever did this chose hers.â Reed added.Â
âBecause she wasnât blood.â Sue shook her head.Â
âBecause she wasnât officially one of us, which would make it more believable to us.âÂ
Johnny turned furious toward Reed when he heard that. âShe was part of the family! At least back then she was. Donât you dare imply she wasnât.â
âJohnny, Iâm not implying anything. Iâm just trying to reason on how this happenedââÂ
âWe let her take the fall, thatâs what happened! You let me believe it was her, when she was innocent!â Johnny snapped, pointing accusingly at him. Reed opened his mouth to argue, but Johnny didnât even let him speak. âHow did that chip get past you? You got all the information of the breach from her watch. How come you didnât see that?â
Thatâs when Sue decided to step in. âJohnny, we had no idea. None of us did. There was so much evidence, you saw it.â She reached out, her hand hovering near his arm. âWe can only hope to forgive ourselves for believingââ
âForgive ourselves?â Before she could reach him he recoiled, staggering back offended. âHow can I forgive myself? Tell me that, Sue. How can I fucking forgive myself?â His voice cracked.Â
That was the moment Johnny couldnât hold it in anymore. He leaned over the counter, palms supporting him as his eyes drowned in tears with the heartbreaking realization that it wasnât you. It had never been you.
And he found that out six years late.
Six years of feeling guilty for not hating you. Six years of burying you. Of forcing himself to believe that you were the one who had cut them open, who had put Franklin at risk, who had taken everything they built and sold it out. All those years, all that evidence, the betrayal theyâd carved into your name, was a lie. Someone had planted it. Someone had turned the watch he gave you into a weapon against you.Â
And he believed it.Â
He thought he knew pain before, the loss of his mother, the terrifying day that changed his life on that space mission. But this was a different kind of pain. Because those other things he could have never foreseen, or prevented. But this? He didnât keep you safe, didnât protect you, just let you take the blame.
And he could never undo what heâd done to you. This was a fire he ignited himself, a fire heâd let consume you.Â
Sue walked over to him, her face pale at the sight of endless tears streaking down her brotherâs cheeks. She placed a hand on his shoulder hesitantly, expecting to be rejected once again, but instead stumbled backwards when Johnny turned around and wrapped his arms around her, sobbing into her shoulder. Sueâs eyes swelled with tears too as her brother cried uncontrollably, clinging to her for dear life.
She let him get it all out, one arm hugging him tightly and the other lifted to stroke his hair, just like when he was a kid. Reed just watched in silence, guilt sinking deep into his bones with every sob that echoed in the lab. Johnny was right. He shouldâve seen it, he shouldâve given you the benefit of the doubt instead of making them think you would do something like that. He hadn't just failed you, heâd failed his entire family.
Johnnyâs tears finally came to a stop after what felt like forever, his chest heaved with leftover hiccups. He pulled back from Sue, running his hands violently through his soaked face. He sniffed a few times, gaze lowering on the floor, hands on his hips.
âI let her walk out with nothing. I watched her beg me to believe her and Iââ His voice cracked again, but he pressed his palms to his eyes. âI didnât, Sue. I didn't. For six fucking years I let her believe we hated her.â
âJohnny, we canât change the past.â Her voice softened, she wiped her own tears with a napkin Reed pulled out from his shirt. âAll we have is the nowââ
âNow? Now sheâs in some small town, working in a community college when she shouldâve had the world with us. We stole her future from her.â
That made Reedâs head snap up. âWaitâyou know where she is?âÂ
âJohnny, you found her?â Sue asked, just as surprised.Â
Johnny nodded, sighing. âI saw herânot in person. This girl from the program, Kate, showed a picture of her in her presentation today. Said she was her professor at the community college back home.â He sniffed as he forced himself to go on. âIn Thomasville. A town in Georgia, sheâs there.â
Sue stepped closer, her arms crossed in her chest. âThen we have to fix it.â
She got startled by Johnnyâs bitter laughter. âFix it? How the hell do you fix six years? How do you fix letting someone you love think you hated them?â He shook his head. âI love her, I never stopped. And now I donât even know if sheâd even look at me, let alone forgive me.â
Reed sighed, walking over to Johnny. He placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and spoke to him the way he did when Johnny was younger. âMaybe itâs not about forgiveness, Johnny. Maybe itâs about the truth. About giving her back what was stolen.â He looked over to the chip, regret flickering through his calm voice.Â
âSo now we try. It doesn't matter if itâs too late.â Sue added. âAnd it has to be you. It doesn't matter if she slams the door in your face. You try, Johnny, you have to.â
Reed nodded. âWe canât undo what we did. But we can stop letting her carry it alone.â
Johnny stood there, comforted by his sister whoâd always been his mother figure, and Reed who, no matter how much they bickered everyday, had also always been there for him in ways only a father could.Â
He didnât know if it was possible, he didnât know what came next. But he knew he had to try.Â
He was coming to get you.Â
Guilty, guilty, reaching out across the sea
That you put between you and me
Thomasville, Georgia, was quiet that sunny Sunday morning.
Church bells rang in the distance, families walked out of diners with paper bags of pancakes, the people on the streets moving at that slow pace that belonged to small towns.
Johnny Storm had never felt more out of place.
He couldâve flown there. Part of him wanted to, he loved traveling in that fast, fiery streak across the sky. But he couldnât risk it. If the news caught him flying in some random town instead of New York and you saw it, you might vanish before he ever got close, and he couldnât lose you again. So he flew into the nearest big city instead, rented a shiny black pickup truck that in his head looked appropriate for his trip, and drove for hours to your town across red, yellow and orange trees with the windows down, letting the autumn air cool down the heat gnawing inside him.Â
He hadn't been able to find your address on public records, so he chose to start by the community college first. The campus was almost empty that Sunday, only a few students lingered by the library steps. He stepped down his huge pickup with sunglasses on, the less flashy pair he owned, and a cap to cover his distinct blond hair. Johnny kept his head down, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, slipping past unnoticed.Â
The directory board near the main entrance gave him what he needed. Your office number. He dodged a custodian pushing a cart, and ducked past a pair of students glued to their books. His heart pounded louder with every turn until finally, he found it.
The office.
The door was unlocked, strangely enough since there was no one inside. But when he stepped in, he understood why. The space wasâŚbare. If your name wasnât on the door, he would've thought no one worked there. He saw a desk, a neat stack of papers on it, and a clean chalkboard. No photos. No plants. No little trinkets to claim the space as yours.
Johnny closed the door softly behind him, his chest aching as his eyes traced the emptiness. There was no warmth, no spark of you. It was efficient, practical, almostâŚdetached. Like you could walk away without leaving a trace. And Johnny realized, with a sick twist of his stomach, that your trauma had a shape. Four walls, stripped bare, a life lived like you might vanish again tomorrow.
âYou never let yourself settle,â Johnny whispered to the empty room.
Because six years ago, they had made you leave your home with nothing. Because you had learned the hard way that belonging could be ripped away overnight. The guilt pressed down harder on his chest, almost suffocating. Johnny shoved those feelings away, he was on a mission to try to fix all of that.Â
He rounded your desk, and checked the papers on it first. Faculty memos, notes, nothing relevant. His hands went through the drawers, he found more notes, a few bags of snacks, and finally, a folded bill, with your address printed clear at the top.
âBingo,â he grinned.Â
He shoved it in his pocket, then tugged at the next drawer but nothing happened, it was locked. He grinned wider, because if there was anything Johnny Storm liked, was sticking up his nose where he shouldn't. And heâd known you long enough to remember you used to hide things in plain sight. All he had to do was scan the desk until he found a small key tucked inside a pencil holder.Â
Typical.
At first, it was nothing remarkable. Just research notes, class grades, tests drafts. But then his hand found envelopes tucked deeper. He pulled them out, and found letters with your handwriting, but no stamps, no addresses. Letters that were never meant to be sent. But his brow furrowed when he noticed his name on the first one.
My Johnny.
He flipped to the next.Â
Dear Johnny.
Then the next.
Johnny.
And then the last one.Â
For him.
You wrote to him, even when there was no hope, even when he was never going to read them. He clutched the envelopes, his heart fracturing when he realized he went from being called yours to someone you couldn't name anymore, not even on paper.Â
He took a deep breath, ready to read what the first one said, but before he could take out the folded letter out of the envelope, the doorknob rattled.
He didnât even have time to panic. He shut the drawer in a rush, and dropped down to his knees with the stack of the envelopes clutched tightly against his chest, crawling under the desk just as the door creaked open. The sound of heavy footsteps filled the room. Someone was walking up to the desk. Was it you?Â
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my Godâ
âYeah, Iâm in your office now,â a manâs voice snapped him out of his thoughts. âWhereâs that document you said you needed?â
Johnnyâs eyes went wide. That man seemed to be on the phone. With you. He couldnât make out clearly what you were saying, not from where he crouched, but the knowledge that you were there, so close, closer than youâd been in six years, nearly made him throw up.Â
That, and also the fact that someone was on the other side of the desk and if they decided to round it, they would find the Human Torch hiding like a fucking thief.
The man hummed at whatever your response was, rifling through the stack of papers on top of the desk until he found it. âAh, here. You owe me, Professor.â He chuckled.Â
And then, faint but unmistakable, Johnny heard your laugh carrying from the other side of the line. God, heâd forgotten what it sounded like. Six years apart, and the first time he heard your laugh again, it wasnât for him.
âLucky for you, I was passing by campus today.â He said. Then his voice shifted, to a more playful tone Johnny knew too well. âBy the wayâŚhave you thought about that coffee yet?â
Johnny stiffened under the desk. The man had an ease to him, the kind of thing that wasnât forced. He wasnât pushing, justâŚtrying. He leaned closer so he could hear what you said to that. And thatâs when he heard it again, your laugh. Like he was the funniest man alive, and it twisted Johnnyâs insides.Â
âJohn, Iâm always flattered with the offer.â
John? Another John?
Jealousy wasn't something Johnny had felt in a long time. But at that moment, a million questions popped in his head in a matter of seconds.Â
Who was he? How did you know him? Why did you ask for his help? Why were you laughing so much? Was he blond too? What car did he driveâ
âBut you know Iâm busy, so Iâm going toââ
â...Reject me, I know, I know.â John finished your sentence, and laughed under his breath, almost like he was expecting it. Johnny had to cover his mouth before he sighed in relief. âIâm used to it. But it's always worth a try, though.â
Always??
Before Johnny could lose it under that desk, it seemed like this âJohnâ was finally about to leave, but stopped midway. âThis may sound weird, but your office feels tooâŚwarm. I know itâs autumn, but how much do you crank up the heating?â He snorted, looking around the room.
Johnny cursed in his head. He hadn't even realized his temperature had risen significantly with all the jealousy. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, though.
âHuh, yeah, thatâs weird. I always turn it off when Iâm not there. Must be your imagination.â You joked.
âOr your voice,â John flirted. If you could even call that flirting, in Johnnyâs very humble opinion. He grimaced, and thankfully, you protested too. âAlright, alright sorry. Let me get this to you and Iâll be out of your way.â He joked.Â
âOkayâŚthank you, Captain Walker.âÂ
Captain Walker? Why did that sound flirty? Why did âJohnâ laugh at that? Was it an inner joke? Was he an actual captain?
Johnny had to see this man right now.
But before he could spiral any further and create scenarios in his head, the line clicked off. He held his breath, waiting for the man to leave. Finally, the footsteps shifted toward the door, and Johnny couldnât stop himself. He tucked the four envelopes on the inside of his jacket, and then he lifted himself up just enough to peek over the desk.Â
He couldnât see his face as he walked away, but with the way he carried himself, he was probably handsome. His hair was darker than Johnnyâs but still blond, most likely with the same blue eyes to match. Taller, broader, the kind of frame that filled a doorway without trying. He wore a dark red flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, worn jeans, and brown cowboy boots. The outfit screamed southern man on a Sunday.
Finally, the guy left the office, leaving him alone again.
Johnny shouldâve been glad youâd turned him down, at least for a moment he was. The thought that youâd smiled politely, laughed softly, and still said no soothed the part of him that was still in love with you.
The guy seemed kind, and didn't really come off as a creep. He was a captain, apparently. He sucked at flirting, according to Johnny, but you seemed to laugh genuinely at his attemptsâŚyou seemed comfortable. Now Johnny only knew him from that short interaction, but he felt like the type of guy who looked steady, rootedâŚsafe. The type of man who looked like he belonged there.Â
The type of man you would've said yes to.
But something gnawed at the back of his head. The delusional part of himself thought that maybe youâd rejected that guy because you still remembered him. But then, the darker part of him whispered in his ear that it was actually because of what he did to you, and you couldn't risk another heartbreak.
The same way you didnât seem to get attached to spaces, like your office, maybe you didnât let yourself get attached to people either.
Johnnyâs heart pounded in his chest as he drove to your home. He didnât really have a planâŚor words. What could he say after six years? What could possibly fit into a sentence when what he did to you should be a lifetime of apologies?
All he knew was that he had to see you.Â
When he finally turned down your street, the world seemed to slow. It was a beautiful place, for sure. Orange leaves fell from the trees lining up the street, landing in the gardens of the houses. It was quiet around, yet it looked so lived in. Johnny parked a few houses down, and he sat there for a long moment, just staring at his shaking hands. He finally gathered the courage to get out of the car, and looked for the house with the same number he found in the bill he got from your office. He finally found it, and he stood right in front of it.Â
Your home.
A single story painted in soft baby blue with a beautiful porch. A little rocking white bench sat out front, and plants that looked cared for lined the steps in mismatched pots.Â
You built this, he thought. Without us. Without me.
Each step to the porch felt heavier, like he was walking straight into a storm. He ran his hand over the wooden railing, steadying himself, letting the softness of the blue paint calm him down. He paused at the door, looking down at the doormat that said Welcome!Â
He chuckled nervously under his breath, but something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Right by the door, there were two pairs of rainboots. One black, the other shiny red. It would've been a normal thing, if it wasn't for the fact that the red ones looked too small to belong to you. Johnny tilted his head, but the nerves running through his body didnât really let him think clearly. So he just shrugged it off. Maybe some kid from the neighbors had left them there. It seemed like the type of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone and everyone shared everything.Â
He took one last deep breath, and finally knocked on your door.Â
The time is near
What would he do if he found us out?
He's gonna burn this house to the ground
The knock that would change your life echoed through the quiet of the house. You finished slipping your sports shoes on, frowning at the sound. Sunday afternoons were calm, Leo was already at the neighborâs so you didn't get interrupted as you got ready for your shift at the bar. You werenât expecting anyone.
And when you opened the creaky wood door, you certainly werenât expecting Johnny Storm to be standing right outside the mesh screen.
It felt like a bucket of ice water just got dumped on you.Â
The last rays of golden sunlight hit him perfectly, catching on that familiar blonde hair you saw everyday on a smaller version of him. Your eyes went over the sharp lines of his face, ones you had spent years trying to erase from your memory. It was him, without a doubt. A few years older. Real. But somehow missing that boyish spark you were so used to seeing on him.
For a moment you didnât move, you didnât breathe, you couldnât even if you tried. It felt like the air had been stolen right out of your lungs.
And Johnny? He was no different. Because even though he knew he was seeing you that day, he wasnât prepared for this version of you. The one whose eyes told him you were still haunted by everything he had taken away from you. And you were so real, not a memory, not a brief visit in his dreams, not a picture on a presentation yet he looked at you like heâd seen a ghost.
Because thatâs what you were, his ghost, his lost six years.
The mesh door separated you like a thin wall, but the weight of lost time pressed through it. Your face was stunned, eyes wide like you were seeing death itself. Because thatâs what he was to you.
But this time what died didnât stay dead, and it was standing on your porch, right in front of you.Â
The pain of it all hit you immediately, like it never left. You remembered the way heâd said everything all those years ago, his voice harsh and determined. Words that had followed you through every lonely night, every rock of your babyâs cradle, every time you told yourself youâd never trust again.
And now he dared to show up at the house you built with the bricks they threw at you.
Your heart rushed, panic replacing your anger. The only thought racing in your head was Leo. He came for Leo. He found you somehow, and now he was going to take your son away.
âJâŚâ Your voice broke trying to say his name; it had been buried in your throat for years. But saying it felt wrong, unnatural, like dragging open an old wound.Â
His own breath hitched, his eyes getting glassy before he could stop them. âGodâŚâ He whispered. âItâs you. Itâs really you.â
For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You stared at him as if he might vanish like he always did in your dreams. He would be doing you a favor anyways, youâd much rather be safe and stranded, than giving someone the chance to hurt you again.Â
Your fingers gripped the edge of the doorframe to ground you, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them, sharp and defensive.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â
Johnny flinched, just slightly, like the sound of your voice had cut him. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing.Â
âIâve been looking for you,â he said softly. âFor a long time.â
Your stomach twisted. Panic and fury knotted together in your chest, and you shook your head. âYou shouldnât have.â
He took a small step closer, seeing the fire in your eyes, yet still he dared to ask. âCan IâŚcome in? Please. We need to talk.â
âI donât think you should.â The answer came firm, unhesitant.Â
The firmness in your voice startled even you. His face fell, taken aback, like he hadnât expected you to stand so solid, to draw a line in the sand. Six years ago, youâd begged. Six years ago, youâd folded under the weight of their disbelief.
But not anymore.
Johnny cleared his throat, his voice breaking as he tried again. âJustâjust a conversation. I swear. We really need to talk.â
For a moment, you wanted to shut the door. To bolt it and keep the small, safe world youâd built intact. But his eyesâŚalways those eyes. Wide, glassy, unguarded. And against every instinct, against every scar, you found yourself unlatching the mesh door. It creaked open, and you stepped aside.
Johnny crossed the threshold like he was walking into another world.
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him standing awkwardly in the small living room. Johnnyâs eyes darted everywhere at once, taking it all in. The scent of lemon freshness, the warmth of afternoon light across your light cream walls, the faint clutter of everyday life, papers stacked on the table, faint scuff marks on the wooden floor, a blanket folded neatly on the couch. It wasnât the Baxter Building. It wasnât glass and striking colors and grandeur. It was a home. Your home.
And Johnny Storm stood in the middle of it, stunned, feeling like he had no right to breathe the same air.
âYou can uhâŚsit,â you said quietly, gesturing to the couch near the door, trying to keep him from looking closer and finding something that could hint at a child living in the house.Â
He obeyed without question, lowering himself onto the cushions. They sank beneath his weight, too soft, too comfortable. Nothing like the Baxter couches, firm, pristine. This one probably carried the wear and tear of movie nights and lazy weekends. He wasnât sure the last time he had something like that. Still, no matter how comfy, Johnny sat stiffly, hands clasped trying not to fidget.
You hovered nearby, nervous, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. âDo youâŚwant something to drink?â
For a second, he softened. The offer was familiar, like the ghost of old times when youâd fuss over whether he wanted a soda or coffee before turning into your assistant for long nights in the lab. His lips twitched, almost a smile, but the nerves won out.
âNo. Iâm fine.â He said, voice awkward.
You crossed your arms, finally steadying yourself enough to meet his gaze. âThen say what you came to say. I donât really have much time.â
He frowned. âWhat do you mean?â
âI have to go to work.â
He blinked, caught off guard. âWork? On a Sunday night? Classes arenâtââ
âItâs not college. I have something else on the weekends.â You didnât elaborate further, you didnât need to.
Something in his chest sank, knowing you had another job, a side job. You, who once had the whole future wide open in the palm of your hand, who got everything promised when you were selected to work on Reedâs lab, becoming one of them, now pulling late shifts somewhere just to make ends meet.
Johnny swallowed the lump in his throat, understanding without you spelling it out. You needed the income. The silence stretched until it strangled him, until he couldnât keep those words inside anymore.Â
âIâm sorry,â he blurted, then leaned forward, voice already breaking. âIâm so goddamn sorry for everything. For not believing you. For letting you walk out of that tower like you were nothing when you wereâwhen you were everything. I know it wasnât you. I know now.â
WordsâŚhow little they mean, when theyâre a little too late.Â
Johnny dragged a shaking hand down his face when you just blinked at him. âI found the root of the leakâŚsome nano chip that was hidden inside your watch. I know you told usâyou said it was glitching, that it wasnât you. Someone planted it there, got your information and used you to cover their tracks. And weââ He stopped for a moment to breathe, to steady his voice. âWe let them. We handed you over without a fight. IâI did.â
Hearing Johnny say those words shouldâve made you jump into his arms and kiss the tears away. Shouldâve shattered you into granting him the sweet light of your forgiveness. Six years ago, you would have. Six years ago, you would have fallen to your knees just to hear them, wouldâve clung to the smallest scrap of his belief.
It was the apology you had begged for in the dark, the one you had prayed might come. For years, you had whispered those words into your pillow, written them down in letters addressed to the fire, waited for the day he would arrive and tell you what you already knew.
But that day never came.
Not until the years had worn the edge off the pain. Not until youâd forced yourself to move forward. For your sakeâŚfor Leoâs. Still, that didnât make it any easier for you.Â
You could see it in himâŚthe wreckage. His eyes wet, voice cracked with regret, chest rising and falling too fast. He was crushed under the same weight youâd carried alone for so long. As his chest ached with the same heartbreak yours once did, you stood still, lips sealed tight, arms crossed to protect yourself.Â
That silence killed Johnny. And he had no one else to blame but himself.Â
âI shouldâve believed you.â His last choked apology came in a whisper, barely audible.Â
Johnny stood up from the couch, but didnât get closer. His fire buzzed under his skin, begging to flare to burn the ache down, but he forced it off. The last thing he wanted was to scorch this place, your place, the home you had built from the ashes heâd left you in.
You swallowed hard when he did, but you said nothing. You didnât uncross your arms. Didnât breakâŚnot yet.Â
âPlease,â he begged. âDonât just look at me like that.â
When you said nothing, again, he staggered back a step, his hands dropping to his sides like he was keeping himself from reaching for you.Â
âGod, I deserve this,â he mumbled, more to himself. His eyes glistened, fixated on some mark on the floor. âSix years. Iââ His throat closed, he had to force his voice out. âSix fucking years, and you wonât even say my name.â
No. You couldnât.Â
âI wouldâve died to hear those words back then.â
His head snapped up. The sound of your voice, steady but laced with ache, tore through him like fire.
You shook your head, a bitter laugh made its way out. âI waitedâŚGod, I waited. For you to reach out, for any of you to show up at my door and say you didnât believe it, that you hadnât given up on me. But nothing came.â
Johnnyâs lips parted, eyes wide, but this time it was him reeling in silence.
âI wrote letters,â you whispered, arms still crossed. âLetters addressed to no one. Words I knew youâd never readâŚjust so I could breathe. Just so I could put the pain somewhere.â
Tears clouded Johnnyâs eyes, he could almost feel the papers in your hands, the ghost of your handwriting spelling his name. My Johnny. Dear Johnny. For him.Â
The last one when you couldnât even withstand the thought of his name anymore.Â
âAnd stillâŚI couldnât make it go away by making you the villain. I triedâbelieve me I did, because out of all of them I expected you to be the one to stand by me. But you justââ Your voice faltered when tears finally found their way out of your eyes. âYou didnât believe me.â
The little sobs you tried to muffle with your hand were unbearable for him. For a moment, he looked like he might collapse under the weight of your words, but he pushed through. He had to make you understand his side of the story.Â
âI didnât give up on you, not at first.â He said, words coming out desperate. âI studied itâŚin secret. Every night, I went over the reports, the logs, everything I could get my hands on. I couldnâtâGod, I wouldnât believe it. Not you. Not the girl who lived in the tower with us, who was family, who wasâŚwho was everything to me.â He scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing once before turning back toward you. âBut the evidence was there, every file, every trace led back to things only you would know, and I was too blind to see past that. But all this timeââ He reached into his jacket, fingers brushing the broken edges of your old watch. âIt was sitting on my nightstandâŚthe proofâthat fucking chip inside your watch. It was right there all alongâŚand I didnât see it until six years too late.â
The revelation that he kept your watch on his nightstand shouldnât have hurt as much as it did. Heâd kept a piece of you close to himâŚnext to him. Yet still, he decided you werenât worth the benefit of the doubt.Â
âThe problem,â you said dryly, âis that you needed the evidence at all. If youâd just listened to meââ Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. âIf youâd just trusted me back then, everything would be different today.â
âI wanted to,â he rasped, too unsteady, too quickly. âGod, I wanted to believe you more than anything. But I didnât know how. I didnât know how to choose my heart over proof and I hate myself for thatâŚIâm sorry, Iâm so fucking sorry.â
You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. âYouâre asking for something I canât give you now,â you whispered. âI donât know if I ever can.â
âIâll take it.â He whispered back, wiping the tears away with the back of his sleeve. âWhatever youâll give me, Iâll take it. I just needed you to know I was sorry. That I was wrong.â
Silence stretched, until you finally forced yourself to ask what youâve been dying to know since you saw him at your doorstep, your arms tightening across your chest.Â
âHow didâŚhow did you even find me?â
Your stomach twisted, braced for the answer you feared most. That he wasnât here for you at all. That the apology was just some excuse. That he was here to rip Leo from your arms, to take the only piece of safety you had left.
âThrough one of your studentsâŚKate. She showed a photo at a presentation. You were thereâŚnext to her.â He explained. âI thought Iâd gone insane. I thought I was seeing ghosts. But it was you.â
Kate.
Shit.
You swallowed hard. It had been you whoâd told her to apply, whoâd guided her steps closer to the program you shouldâve kept far away from. You had been so careful with her application, keeping your name out of it, yet it was a variable you couldn't control that made your face find its way back to him.Â
It still felt like your fault.Â
The walls of the house suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier, warmer but not in a good way. Suffocating. For six years youâd kept yourself invisible, careful to erase every trace, and now youâd been foundâŚbecause of your own slip.
Johnny saw the realization hit your features. Your frantic eyes told him how much you didnât want to be found, how he was considered a danger to the little world you lived in now, and it ripped his heart more. He took a shaky step back, his hands half raised like he needed to show he wasnât a threat.Â
âGod, I knew it. After everything I did, after what we put you through, of course you donât want me hereâŚand you donât owe me anything, but Iâll take whatever scraps youâll give me. Justââ He ran his hands through his already messy hair. ââŚJust donât be afraid of me.â
You just stood there, letting your gaze drift over him. His posture a little heavier, his face more lined, but still so unmistakably Johnny Storm. Still handsome in that way that made your stomach twistâŚlike seeing an ex.Â
And the resemblanceâŚGod. It was astounding.
Your throat tightened as your eyes flicked from his face to the memory of your sonâs. The same blond hair, the same damn smile when he was feeling mischievous. Leo was a mirror of him, down to quirks he didnât even know he shared.
You knew if Johnny looked too long into your eyes, he might see the fear was not for you, but for Leo. So you forced yourself to blink, to pull the thought back into the cage where it belonged. Johnny didnât know. Couldnât know.Â
âIâm not afraid of you,â you said at last, steadying your voice. âItâs justâŚshocking. Seeing you after all these years.âÂ
âYeahâŚfeels the same way for me.â
For a moment, Johnny let himself breathe, let himself believe just being there with you was enough, that heâd gotten farther than he thought he would. He sat back down on the couch, trying to steady himself from the weight of it all, but the silence stretched, and something gnawed at him. A pang in his chest, a whisper at the back of his mind.
Something was missing.
He tore his gaze from you, eyes drifting quickly across the place like answers might be hiding in the corners. It wasnât like the tower, not polished, not curated. This house showed it was lived in. The open small kitchen was the room that first caught his eye. On the breakfast counter that faced the living room, three different kinds of cereal sat half open. A small wooden stool sat beneath the sink on the counter by the window, and in the drying rack, a mug and an orange plastic cup with a built-in straw sat side by side. A metal lunchbox was nearby, plain, blue, nothing flashy, but it didnât quite fit as yours alone.
Thatâs when he remembered the tiny boots at the entrance. Everything lined up too perfectly, too unmistakable. Johnny came to the conclusion that someone else shared this space with you. Someone with smaller steps, different routines than a normal personâŚit was a familyâs home, without a doubt. Johnnyâs chest tightened, and his eyes darted again, searching for just one more clueâŚ
And then he saw it.
By the small tv center, half hidden in the corner, a toy box. Brightly painted, clearly well loved by the scratches on it. From the top poked the unmistakable shape of a toy car, the front wheels worn from too many races across the floor. His eyes widened, locked on the toy poking out, his entire body going still.
You followed his line of sight, dread flooding through your body. Heâd seen it.
The toy. The truth. And you knew in that second there was no taking it back.
Johnnyâs gaze stayed fixed on the little car. He didnât say it right awayâŚhe couldnât. The truth pressed the back of his throat, suffocating, but if he spoke it aloud, it would be real. So instead, he gaslighted himself for a little longer, forcing his voice to come out.
âDidnât know you had a nephew,â he said, nodding faintly toward the corner. âGuess I missed a lot.â
It was subtle, almost casual, not accusatory. But you could hear the crack beneath the words, the real intention under his tone. He was pretending not to know. Pretending, maybe for both your sakes.
You hesitated, lips parting before closing again, thinking you could lie. You could nod and let him believe it, let the moment slip away. But his eyesâŚGod, his eyes were already on you, glistening, waiting for you to tell the truth he couldn't.Â
âItâs not a nephew.â Was all you said.Â
No lie. Not the full truth either.
And what once was a forgotten night of too many drinks between two idiots in love, turned into two strangers, standing inches apart, knowing damn well what that child was.
Johnny pushed up from the couch, his legs unsteady but determined. He couldnât sit any longer, he needed to be closer. To force that truth face to face. But when he stepped closer to you, his eyes caught on something on the corner of his eye.
A wall that led to a hallway, covered in frames. He drifted toward it instinctively, drawn like a moth to flame.
You moved quickly, your hand half reaching for his arm to stop him, his name tumbling out of your lips in desperation. âJohnnyââ
But he pushed past you, and soon was standing there. Right in front of the wall of photographs. Dozens of them. A curated display of moments of a little kid.Â
A newborn in a hospital blanket, tiny fists curled tight. A toddler, grinning wide as frosting smeared his cheeks at a birthday table, a number two on the cake. A four year old, probably, holding up a plant with proud little hands. And the one where he looked the oldest, standing proudly next to an experiment with a âwinnerâ badge at a science fair. It couldâve been that same week for all he knew. And multiple more, across all stages of his little life.
The kidâs face looked back at him like a mirror from the past. His past. Just younger, innocent. Same hair, same smile, same spark. He reached out, fingertips shaking as they hovered over the glass.
All the paths led there. To that house. To that wall. To that smile.
To you.
Johnnyâs mind went to that gala night. That one damn night. Too much champagne, too much fire, laughter and kisses that blurred into a night he could never forget. But it had been just one. One night you'd both decided it was a mistake, an impulse, a result of recklessness.Â
And yet here, before his eyes, was proof of everything that night had left behind.
âGodâŚâ he whispered, barely audible.
An entire childhood he had missed.
Your son.
Hisâ?
Johnnyâs hand lingered on the frame. His own reflection in the glass, overlapping with the kidâs smile, and it felt like a cruel trick. His chest heaved, his head spinning.
âNo,â he said under his breath, shaking his head. âNo, it wasâŚit was just one night.â His voice cracked in denial. âThat gala, that was all it was. Just one night.â
His eyes darted across the wall again. Newborn, toddler, child, and every photo twisted the knife deeper. He staggered back a step, and finally, he forced himself to turn to you, his gaze pinning you to the spot.
âTell me heâs not who I think he is.â He begged. âPlease. Tell me I didnât miss itâtell me I didnât miss the most important part of your lifeââ His voice cracked, devastated, ââof mine.â
The plea rattled the air between you, thick with panic, with grief, with the sharp edge of a truth he couldnât bear to face. His eyes glassy and desperate, burning with fire he couldnât control, the heat searing just beneath his skin. And you couldn't, for the life of you, say anything.Â
âGod, please,â he whispered, his throat closing around the words. âDonât let it be true. Donât tell me Iâve lost all those years I'll never get back. Donât tell me heâsââ
He cut himself off, choking on the last word.
And you knew. You knew the cat was out of the bag. No turning back, no denying it, no hiding Leo in the corners of your little world anymore. His father stood right here, breaking, begging you to undo what couldnât be undone.
Johnny stared at you. Heâd begged, heâd pleaded, heâd prayed youâd deny it. That youâd laugh, shake your head, shove him out the door and tell him he was insane. That you went out and had a child with someone who looked exactly like him as revenge.Â
But you didnât.Â
âIâm sorry, Johnny.â Was all you could say.Â
He blinked the tears away, and with a shaky exhale he finally claimed what was undoubtedly his. âHeâs mine.â
You couldnât even speak. Couldnât force the words out. All you could do was nod, slow, aching, like it was tearing you apart to admit it.
âHeâs my son,â he said, voice breaking again.
His eyes darted back to the wall of photos, all the years heâd missed staring back at him. Six years of a life he shouldâve known. Six years of first steps, first words, laughter, birthdays. Johnny looked like the ground had opened beneath him. Face pale, stunned, his lips parted but no sound came out. Your instincts told you to grab Leo, to run, to keep him safe. But Johnnyâs faceâŚit was wrecked. It wasnât fair for him.
So instead, you grabbed his arm lightly, steadying him, and guided him back toward the couch. He sank into the cushions without resistance, his hands shaking on his knees.
âIâll get you some water,â you whispered.
You set the glass down in front of him, but he didnât touch it, just stared through it like it wasnât there. The shock ran like a chill through his body.Â
Johnny was part of a family that had been torn apart when his mother passed. Every time he thought about having his own, he prayed for something complete. Not broken, not tarnished, notâŚthis. Not a son who didnât know he existed.Â
Of course he remembered the name from the application. Leo Spencer. Still, he had to ask, he needed one more confirmation.Â
âWhatâs his name?â
You took a deep breath, and said that same name he was dreading. âLeo.â Your voice cracked, so you cleared your throat. ââŚSpencer.â
There it was. Spencer.Â
âWhen was he born?â
âFebruary 18th," you said quietly.
Johnnyâs head snapped up. His head doing the math quicker than he ever thought he could. You must've been around three months when everything went down.Â
âYou knew,â he said, voice accusing now. âYou already knew. Beforeâbefore weâŚâ He trailed off, gathering the strength to continue.âWhy?â He blurted. âWhy didnât you tell us? Tell me?â He shook his head. âIt couldâve changed everything. God, you shouldâve told me.â
You couldn't even look at him, because you had asked yourself that same question a thousand times in the dark. Your hands twisted together, nails biting into your palms as you forced yourself to meet his eyes.Â
âI didnât tell you becauseâŚbecause before that night, we were nothing,â you said. âJust two idiots who got too drunk and crossed a line. You said it yourself, it was just one night. You joked about it.â
The words tasted like lies, because you knew damn well you were in love with him. Still were, no matter how hard you tried to burn it out of yourself. But it was easier to paint it as nothing than to admit how much of you had always been his.
âAnd after what happened? After Reed found that so called evidence, after he told me I had to be gone, after youââ Your voice broke, eyes burning. âAfter you didn't fight for me? I wasnât going to raise my child in a house that didnât hesitate to throw me out like I was nothing. I wasnât going to let my baby live in a place where family turned on me without blinking.â
Johnny just listened, because he didnât have an argument for that.Â
âI wanted him safe,â you mumbled. âSafe in a way I wasnât. And I triedâI swear to God, Johnny, I tried to tell you when I asked to speak to you. But you wrecked me before I ever got the chance. You wouldnât even look at me without that lookâŚlike Iâd betrayed you.â
Your throat closed, but you forced the last words out.
âSo I didnât say anything. Because you didnât deserve it.â
He realized just how much heâd really lost. Not just six years, not just the kid on the wall, but the pieces of you that he never had the courage to claim as his, long before that night. For a heartbeat he sat frozen, but when his hands went to cover his face, he broke.
The sound just ripped out of him, raw, sobbing. His shoulders hunched forward, his body folding in on itself as if he could hide from the truth but he couldnât. Not from this. Not from you.
âGod, Iâm sorry,â he choked. âIâm so fucking sorry. I shouldâveââ He cut himself off, a sob tearing free. âYou were right there, and IâI didnât listen. I didnât believeâI shouldâve fought for you.â Tears streamed hot down his face, his chest heaving. âYou tried. And Iââ His hands dropped uselessly to his lap.âI destroyed you. I destroyed everything.â
Before he could stop himself, his hand reached out to your figure in front of him. His hand hovered in the air, hesitant, fingers almost brushing yours, asking for something he knew he had no right to.
Still, he asked. âPlease. Just let me hold your hand. Justâjust for a second. I donât care if itâs the last time.â
The man who always stood cocky and unshakable in front of the world was reduced to this. Broken, sobbing, begging at your feet for the smallest piece of forgiveness. And in his blue eyes, through the tears, you could see the guy you had loved with all your soul. The guy who had been yoursâŚkind of.
So you let him hold you, just for a moment. Johnnyâs warm hand shook against yours, his fingers curling carefully, like he was afraid youâd pull it back if he held too tight. His breathing evened out, his sobs softening until the room fell heavy again with silence. But then his lashes lifted, his eyes still wet as they flicked toward the hallway.Â
ââŚIs he here? In his room?â
Your whole body stiffened, and he felt it with the way your hand tensed against him.Â
Johnny took a deep breath, thumb brushing your knuckles as though he didnât even realize he was doing it. âI justâŚI need to see him. Please.â
That was when you yanked your hand back, shaking your head profusely. âThatâs not happening.â
Johnny froze, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.Â
âYou canât see him,â you said firmly. âYou canât take him away. Heâs all I have, Johnny. The only thing I have.â
And Johnny sat there stunned, gutted that youâd think that, realizing he wasnât just fighting for your forgiveness anymore, but fighting for the right to see a son he hadnât even touched.
âNo. Godâno. I would never take him from you.â He shook his head, pleading for you to believe him. âI swear on everything I am, I would never do that.â He reassured, pressing a hand to his chest. âBut I need to see him, please. I have to. Heâs mine. Heâs my son.â
âBut heâs my whole world, Johnny. And I canât let anyone risk that.â You shook your head, stepping farther away from him.
Johnny couldnât exactly blame you. He understood where the fear came from, but heâd be damned if he managed to find you and his son only to be told to go back to his life.Â
This was his life now.
âI have a right to see him. To know him. To look at his face and not just through pictures on a wall.â He pressed, his eyes searched yours as you forced distance between you. âIâm his father.â
You had spent years building a wall around you and Leo, years convincing yourself you could keep him safe by keeping the world out, by moving to a small town where the Fantastic Four were nothing but big city superheroes. But now Johnny was sitting here, away from his big city, claiming that word like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Father.
Johnnyâs lips parted, trying one more time. âIâŚI donât want to take him from you. I just want to see him. Please, Iâm begging you.â
You wiped at your cheeks quickly, forcing yourself to stand taller even as the word father rang in your ears. You drew in a shaky breath, keeping your tone as steady as you could.
âHeâs not here,â you confessed. âMy neighbor takes care of him when Iâm working late shifts at the bar.â
Johnny blinked. The bar. The image of you, the woman who once lived and laughed in the tower, now pouring beer for drunk men on a Sunday, broke him.Â
You glanced at the clock on the wall, your face scowling. âShit.â You reached to grab your jacket from a chair. âIâm so late. Youâll have to wait until tomorrow if you want to see him.â
You stepped past him, toward the door, until his hand closed around your wrist. The warmth of his touch froze you in place.
âI canât wait anymore.â His grip on your wrist was not tight, not forceful, just begging. âIâve already lost so much. Please donât make me lose another day.â
âJohnnyââ
âDonât go.â His voice cracked as his eyes searched yours. âPlease. Donât go.â
âI canât just ditch work,â you snapped, panic rising in your throat. âI need it.â
âIâll figure something out,â he said quickly, desperate. âWhatever it takes, Iâll fix itâIâll cover it. But please. Not tonight. Not when I just found you again.â
The plea broke something in you. His hand on your wrist, his voice hesitant, the way his eyes begged. Your pride told you to yank your wrist back like youâd done before and tell him no, but the whole encounter had taken a toll on you, and you werenât sure you could withstand a shift like that. So you exhaled, then finally gave the smallest nod. You pulled your wrist gently from his hand, not harsh, just needing space to breathe.Â
âI uhâI need to make a call first,â you announced, and he nodded, stepping back so you could walk to the telephone on the wall.
Johnny watched as you gave him your back, and dialed the number with shaky fingers, the line ringing a few times before someone picked up. By the looks of it, it was your boss most likely, from the way you stumbled over a lie about Leo being sick. Johnny flinched when he heard the scolding from the other side of the line as you mumbled apologies for the short time notice.Â
God, he needed to fix all this mess.Â
You set the phone back with a sigh, and turned to him. âIâll bring him home,â you said, then walked closer to him to plead just like heâd done before. âBut you have to promise me you wonât take him away, JohnnyâŚplease. Donât make me regret this.â
He stepped closer, hands raised in surrender. âYou wonât,â he assured. âIâm sorry for leaving you alone to do this by yourself. Iâll never stop being sorry. But I can promise you this, I wonât take him away. Not from his mom. Not from you.â
You nodded, choosing to believe, slipping your jacket on to walk into the cold of the night. âWait here,â you said. âIâll go pick him up from my neighborâs.â
Johnny only nodded, shoulders hunched, his hands lowered and clasped together like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you again. His eyes followed you to the door, until you slipped away.Â
Youâd forgotten how warm a room became when Johnny was in it. The night air hit you as you stepped outside, crisp and cool, making you shiver. The street was dim, only the soft glow of porch lights guiding your path as you walked to the house across from yours. Your eyes went to the huge fancy pickup truck parked just a few houses down, which had to be Johnnyâs, for sure. You rolled your eyes, of course. Rubbing your arms as you walked, legs moving on autopilot, every voice in your head screaming to scoop Leo up and vanish before it was too late. But it was already too late. Johnny was inside your house. His ridiculous truck outside. Johnny had seen the photos. Johnny knew.
Back at your place, behind the curtains, Johnny couldnât sit still. Heâd told himself he wouldnât move, wouldnât intrude, but his chest was on fire with longing. So he drifted closer to the window, pushing the curtains just enough to peek past the glass.
There you were, on your neighborâs porch, exchanging a few words with a lovely old lady who looked at you worriedly. Johnnyâs breath fogged the glass as he watched you. His heart ached at the sight. You looked so small, so breakable, carrying all of this alone.
You went inside only for a moment, and then you stepped out, cradling a bundle against your chest. The porchlight painted your silhouette in gold, and just beneath it, faint but unmistakable, was the glow of that blonde hair.
Johnny stopped breathing.Â
My God.
He scrambled back from the window, clutching the pearls he didnât have, and set the curtains back in place hoping you hadn't noticed him. By the time you reached your porch, he had forced himself back onto the couch, his hands braced on his knees, trying to look like he hadnât just witnessed his entire world change in an instant.
The door opened with a quiet creak, and there you were. Your arms wrapped protectively around your sonâhis son, head resting on your shoulder, lips parted in soft sleep. Johnny shot to his feet immediately. His eyes, glassy and wide, locked on the child in your arms. You nudged Leoâs body only slightly, to see if he realized he was home, but Johnnyâs hand twitched forward before he pulled it back, hesitant.Â
âDonât wake him,â he whispered quickly, his voice breaking. âPleaseâdonât. He looksâŚpeaceful.â
You nodded, shifting only to hold Leo tighter. Johnny stepped closer, just enough to see. His eyes fell on the little face pressed into your shoulder, cheek squished, small eyebrows relaxed. Johnnyâs hands stuck at his sides, aching to reach out, but terrified to cross that line.
âHeâs⌠perfect,â he breathed. His knees nearly gave out, but he clung to the sight, drinking it in as if he could catch up on six years in a single heartbeat.
Your sonâhis son.
Perfect.
âCâcan IâŚ?â He mumbled, the words barely making it past his lips, more a plea than a question. His hand lifted a little, hovering helplessly over Leoâs little back, asking for permission to touch the sun.
He wasnât Johnny Storm, the cocky Human Torch, not here, not now. He was just a man staring at his son for the first time.Â
âCareful. Heâs a heavy sleeper, butâŚâ
Johnny nodded frantically, like heâd do anything, anything, not to ruin this chance. His hands shook as you carefully, reluctantly shifted Leo into his arms. The kidâs head fell against Johnnyâs shoulder, his little hand curling unconsciously into the fabric of Johnnyâs shirt.
And Johnnyâs whole world stopped.
His arms tightened instinctively, protectively, as his body nearly buckled beneath the weightâ not because six year old Leo was heavy, but because he was real, warm, breathing. Not an application form, not a pictureâŚhis son.Â
Johnnyâs lips quivered as he pressed his cheek lightly against the crown of his sonâs head, his tears falling into soft blonde hair. âHi, buddy,â he whispered, his voice cracking. âGod, youâre perfect.â
He rocked a little without realizing, clutching him as if heâd disappear. Six years of missed moments collided in his chest all at once. And for the first time since that night at the gala, Johnny felt whole and broken in the same breath. Johnny swayed gently, cradling Leo like heâd done with Franklin a thousand times before. His lips brushed Leoâs hair, a soft kiss he couldnât stop himself from giving. His chest ached with every quiet breath the child took against him.
You stood frozen, watching them. The sight was enough to undo you. There he was, Johnny Storm, holding his son on a random Tuesday, right in that small town you called home. And the sight unlocked a longing on you that had been buried a long time ago. So you spoke, softly, because the silence was too heavy.
âHe wonders about you, you know.â
Johnnyâs head jerked up, his glassy eyes wide. âWhat?â His voice caught between awe and disbelief.
âLeoâŚheâs brilliant, I think the word smart is too small for him. Heâs a little wonder,â you said proudly, trying to smile. âAnd he asks a lot of questions, about everything, about his dadâŚabout you.â
Johnnyâs eyes went wide. âWhat kinds of questions?â He asked, shifting Leo in his arms just slightly, like he was grounding himself his warmth. âPlease, tell me what he wanted to know about me.â
âEverything.â You exhaled, shrugging, eyes dropping to the floor. âIf you had the same hair as him. If you liked the same foods. If you could build things the way he does. If you wereâŚfunny.â A chuckle slipped out of you. âHe even asked once if you were a superhero, Iâm not sure why. I told him no, of course, because, wellâŚobvious reasons. Guess I just wanted him to know youâre human. Just human.â
Johnnyâs chest caved in, he pressed his lips against Leoâs hair, whispering. âOh, buddyâŚâ
Your eyes went to the floor, clearing your throat before confessing the last part. âAnd then heâŚhe asked why you werenât here. And IâI didnât know what to sayâŚso I just told him you live far away, and had a very demanding job. That your life is there. And his is hereâŚwith me.â
The hesitation in your voice made Johnnyâs arms tighten around Leo instinctively. You still looked away, biting down on your lip, but you kept talking, because it was the truth.Â
âI couldnât lie to him. But I couldnât tell him, either. So I justâŚI kept you as a distance. An idea. Someone too far away to reach, because thatâs what you were to me.â
Johnny, on the other hand, couldnât stop staring at you. But once again, he didnât have an argument against that. He shifted, his eyes roaming over Leoâs little face like he was trying to memorize every curve, every eyelash. And then he finally whispered the question that had been clawing at him.
âDoes heâŚ?â His throat bobbed, his voice hesitant, almost afraid. âDoes he have it? Myâmy powers?â
You shook your head quickly. âGod, no.â Your hand pressed protectively to your chest. âNo fire, nothing like that. I watched him like a hawk for years.â You let out a small, nervous laugh, one that carried your relief. âHis only superpower is being too smart for his own good.â
Johnny smiled at that, oh he knew.Â
âHeâs a genius, Johnny. Top of his class. Public school said he needed advanced courses. So IâI work myself to the bone to pay for that private school because he deserves it. Every single opportunity I can give him, Iâll give him.â
Johnnyâs arms curled tighter around Leo. âI could've given him so many more opportunities. I could've helped you, heâd have the best teachers in the world right in his own house. But you decided to keep him from me.â
You flinched, clutching your arms tighter around yourself.
âI get itâyou didnât trust my family. Fine. You didn't have to. But me?â His voice cracked, his chest heaving. âYou didnât even give me a chance. You didnât let me know I had a son. You didnât let me decide if I could protect him. You justââ He looked down at Leo in his arms, ââyou just shut me out.â
âWell, you shut me out first, Johnny!â You whisper shouted, doing your best to not let your anger disturb Leoâs sleep.
âI know,â he whispered, broken. âGod, I know I did. But six yearsââ He shook his head. âSix years I couldâve been here. Six years I couldâve loved himâŚand you didnât let me.â
For the first time, it wasnât just guilt suffocating Johnny. It was grief for the life heâd been denied, the life he might never get back. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, the words came tumbling out, because you couldnât hold them anymore.
âYou really want to know why I didnât tell you about him?â
Johnnyâs lips parted, but no sound came.
âBecause I was terrified,â you admitted. âTerrified that if you knew, youâd take him away the second you held him. Because you didnât trust me. Because you already proved I was disposable.â
âYou werenâtâGod you werenâtâŚâ He shook his head. âAnd I wouldâve never taken himâ but you thought I would. And thatâs on me.â
Leo stirred in Johnnyâs arms, a soft little whine slipping from his lips as he shifted against his chest. You straightened immediately, your arms twitching as if to take him back.
âHe needs to go to bed,â you whispered.
Johnnyâs eyes shot to yours, desperate but gentle. âLet me. Please.â
For a long, taut moment you hesitated, torn between instinct and the look on his face. You had already allowed him so much today. But you had also denied him so much already during those years, so you could let him have this at least.Â
Together, the three of you walked down the hallway, guiding Johnny, who moved slowly like he was carrying glass. You pushed the door open, and Johnny froze on the threshold.
You turned on a little lamp, the room glowing soft in the warm light, painted in baby blue, with tiny white stars scattered across the ceiling like a sky waiting for wishes. A low bookcase ran along one wall, stacked neatly but already overflowing. It reminded Johnny of Franklinâs back home, except his nephewâs was bigger, neater. This one was fit to Leoâs size.Â
He saw multiple posters on the walls. Beautifully illustrated and educational, with names of insects, dinosaurs and galaxies. A half solved massive puzzle was scattered across the carpet, the edge pieces already put together, and in the middle a scattered constellation of tiny hopeful starts. He could tell it was a rocketship mid launch. Next to it was a tower of lego blocks mid construction, like Leo couldn't decide which one would be more fulfilling to finish. In a corner of the room, boxes stored little cars, stuffed animals, and more books.Â
His son's little kingdom.
Johnny stepped inside, dodging the puzzle on the floor. He bent carefully, guiding Leo down onto the small bed with its soft, solar system patterned covers. He eased Leo onto his back, smoothing his hair gently, brushing a stray lock off his forehead. The child sighed in sleep, lips parting, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
Johnnyâs chest crumbled.
He leaned down and pressed a small kiss to his sonâs forehead, lingering there, his lips hot with tears he couldnât stop. When he pulled back, his eyes drank in the little face now tilted upwards in the glow of the night light.
So small. So peaceful. So perfect. So his.
And he couldnât look away. Not from the child heâd just tucked into bed for the very first time, six years too late. You stayed in the doorway at first, leaning against the frame, your arms wrapped around yourself as you watched Johnny kneel by the bed. He was so careful, so gentle, nothing like the energetic golden retriever you once knew.Â
As Leo shifted in his sleep, a soft sigh slipping from his lips, you finally stepped into the room. Without a word, you reached past Johnny to pull the little blanket up over your son, tucking it around his shoulders the way you always did. Your fingers brushed Johnnyâs hand for the briefest moment.
And for just that moment, just a delusional, fragile secondâŚJohnny let himself picture it.
You, beside him at bedtime. This little room, these blue walls, these stars on the ceiling. A ritual of small hands reaching for him, bedtime stories, goodnight kisses. Not a stolen moment after six years, but your life. The life he shouldâve been here for. The life you shouldâve had together.
In another universe, it was probably like that. In another universe, he didn't doubt you. In another universe, you didn't have to run. Johnnyâs throat ached, trying to keep the dream from spilling out. For one heartbeat, he let himself believe it.Â
You adjusted the blanket one last time, smoothing it over Leoâs chest until he let out a tiny snore, and you almost smiled. Johnnyâs hand still hovered near the edge of the bed, his eyes glued to the childâs face like he couldnât believe he was real.
âIâll never get tired of saying itâŚIâm sorry,â he whispered, so low it almost vanished in the air. His eyes flicked to you. âIâm sorry I wasnât here for him. I shouldâve been here. For the first step, the first word⌠all of it. I missed everything, and he doesnât even know I exist.â
âIâm sorry you missed that too,â you whispered back.Â
His gaze lifted to you, and he decided not to speak as the man who betrayed you, but as a father. âI promise youâŚIâll never let him feel like how I let you feelâŚalone. I swear it.â
You gave him a nod. That promise wasn't just to you, but to his son.
You flicked off the little lamp by Leoâs bed and the two of you stepped out, leaving the door cracked just a bit. When you reached the living room again, Johnny stopped in his tracks. The room wasnât just yours anymore. Now that he knew the truth, every detail shifted, every corner sang a different story.
The boxes of cereal on the counter? Leoâs. Not the quick snack of a busy professor, but his kidâs favorite breakfast. The fridge, though he hadnât really looked at it before, had drawings pinned there with mismatched magnets. Crayon rockets, wobbly stick figure heroes, a very accurate representation of a T-rex. His sonâs talent staring him in the face.
The blanket on the couch, the one heâd first seen, wasnât just yours. It was small, soft, patterned with stars and comets, clearly a childâs. He pictured Leo curled up there, dozing while you graded papers late into the night. Even the stack of books by the TV wasnât just random clutter. Johnny crouched a little, his breath hitching at the sight of colorful hardcovers. Stories picked by little hands, read again and again. And a huge detail he'd missed, an unmistakable pair of tiny sneakers under the coffee table.  Â
This was his sonâs world. A kingdom built out of your sacrifices, your sleepless nights, your stubborn refusal to let him grow up with less than he deserved.
As Johnny explored, you lingered by the edge of the living room, your arms crossed, eyes flicking uneasily toward the door like you expected it to burst open at any second. What now? The question pressed heavy in your chest. You could almost see it, the rest of the family arriving in the morning, wanting answers, deciding Leoâs fate. The thought made your stomach knot.
You rubbed at your temple, fighting to stay upright, but the weight of the day dragged at you. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only bone deep fatigue. You yawned before you could stop yourself, covering it quickly with the back of your hand.
Johnny caught it. His brows furrowed, his eyes softening in that way you hated because it made you feel seen. His gaze lingered on your tired shoulders, on the dark circles youâd tried to hide, on the way you still stood like youâd go work another eight hours if you had to.
âYou were really gonna work like this?â He asked softly, borderline accusatory. âDead on your feet. With class tomorrow, too?â
You shrugged, too tired to build your walls back up. âI donât have a choice.â
Johnnyâs stomach twisted. He wanted to scoop you up, tell you youâd never have to push yourself like this again, and tuck you under the covers of your bed. But he knew he didnât have the rightâŚnot yet. So instead, he swallowed the words down, forcing the fire back down.Â
âI better get going.â
You blinked at him, surprised.
âYeah, you uhmââ Johnny started quietly, glancing at the hallway that led to Leoâs room. His voice softened even more. âYou need to sleep. AndâŚweâve got a conversation pending. A big oneâŚbut not tonight.â
You were too tired to argue, so you nodded.
âThank you, for letting meâŚfor letting me see him.â He forced a smile, not cocky, just soft. âItâs more than I thought I could.â He chuckled nervously. âIâll be back tomorrow.â
âNot in the morning,â you blurted, before you could stop yourself. âItâs always chaos,â you explained quickly. âGetting Leo ready for school. Breakfast, answering his questions, all of it. Justâdonât. Please.â
His eyes softened, his shoulders easing a fraction.
You exhaled and added, âIf you want⌠you can come by the college, after classesâŚthereâs this coffee shop right outside campus.â
Johnny nodded slowly, like heâd been given more than he expected âCollegeâŚcoffee,â he repeated, committing it to memory. âAlright.â
For a moment he just stood by the door, drinking in the sight of you in this beautiful, lived in space that was never meant to carry all this history.Â
âTomorrow after classes,â he whispered again, like a vow, before finally stepping out into the night. The door closed softly behind him, leaving you in silence.
You didnât know if you were more terrified or relieved that Johnny Storm had found his way back to you.
Did I close my fist around something delicate?
Did I shatter you?
Johnny drove to the hotel on autopilot, barely remembering the turns he took, barely noticing the glow of passing streetlights. His mind was still spinning like the world had been knocked off its axis.
Because it had.
Leoâs weight had been in his arms. He looked at peace sleeping on Johnnyâs shoulder, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. Now, in the dim silence of his hotel room, Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows braced to his knees, his face buried in his hands, caught somewhere between joy and grief.Â
He pressed his hand hard to his eyes, but the images came anywayâŚLeo, smaller, toddling through the tower halls, Sue fussing over him, Ben sneaking him cookies, Franklin pulling him into games, Reed insisting on checkups. His family.
It shouldâve been like that.
Instead, Leoâs bookcase was small because Johnny hadnât been there to build it bigger. His shoes by the door were scuffed because Johnny hadnât been there to buy him new ones. His mom worked extra shifts on a damn Sunday because Johnny hadnât been there to shoulder half the weight.
His son. His brilliant, perfect, wonder of a kid. The one he shouldâve known since the very beginning.
He thought about calling Sue. His fingers even hovered over his repaired watch, her name right there. Sheâd been waiting for him to call and tell her everything. And he knew sheâd tear it out of him the second she heard his voice.
But the thought alone made his heart sink.
Telling Sue meant telling everyone. Meant deciding what came next. Meant pulling you into a storm you clearly werenât ready for. And after tonight, after the way you begged him not to take Leo away, after you let him tuck his son into bedâŚhe couldnât betray that fragile thread of trust. Not yet. Not when you hadnât even talked about Leoâs future. Not when you still looked at him like you were half a breath away from running all over again.
So he swallowed the urge, locked it down, and typed out a simple message instead.
Didnât find her today. Iâll try again tomorrow.
A lie. But one he could live with.
He leaned back against the headboard, and stared at the ceiling for a while, until he decided it was better to rest if he wanted to be ready to face whatever came the next day. He got up to shrug out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the hotel chair, but it landed heavier than it should have.
The letters.
He turned back, snatching the jacket up, shaking the inner pocket until the stolen envelopes spilled onto the bedspread. He sank down beside them, remembering he hadnât had the chance to read them in your office before âCaptain Walkerâ barged in.
He reached for the first envelope, the oldest. The one dated just weeks after youâd been cast out. He unfolded the page with care, your handwriting staring back at him.
My Johnny
I donât know why Iâm writing this. Maybe to remind myself Iâm not crazy. Maybe to hold onto some piece of what I thought we had. I want to hate you. God, I should. But all I can think about is the way you looked at me before it all went wrong. The way you smiled at me that night at the gala. The way you made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I wasnât alone in that big building. And now I am. Completely alone.
I wanted to tell you. About our little miracle. But you couldnât even look at me without that fire in your eyes, and not the kind that warmed me. The kind that burned. You hurt me, Johnny, before I even had the chance to say it out loud.
That was the moment I chose to leave, instead of asking for something that you had already decided I didn't deserve. I canât pretend I understand how everything ended, but it did, and now your life is there, and mine is wherever you arenât.
You had tried. You had reached for him. But he had turned away.
âYou hurt me, Johnny.â
âFuck,â he cursed, shaking his head violently. âFucking hell.â
Johnnyâs hands shook as he set the first letter down, his breath ragged. He wiped his eyes, but the tears kept coming, unstoppable. His chest hurt, but still he reached for the next.
He unfolded it with trembling fingers, the paper softer, the ink smudged like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times before.Â
 Dear Johnny.
Today he turned four. He asked me if his dad would come to his birthday. I told him no, because you live far away. He didnât cry, but he looked at the door all afternoon like he was hoping youâd walk in, even if he doesnât know what you look like. I donât know how to explain to him that you donât know what he looks like either.Â
But he is so much like you. When he smiles, when he makes his silly faces, when he figures something out quicker than anyone else. Itâs you. Every day I see you in him, and every day I tell myself Iâm doing the right thing keeping him away. That Iâm protecting him. But it feels like a lie, because sometimes I think Iâm just protecting myself. Protecting myself from you breaking me again.Â
The worst part is you were never really mine, and it embarrasses me that sometimes I canât get out of bed because I miss something I never had. Â
I guess that hurts more on days like these.Â
For what felt like the millionth time that day, Johnny found himself crying. Leoâs fourth birthday. The one he shouldâve been front and center at, not a ghost in the background of his motherâs fears.
Not even a curse left his lips this time, just his ragged breathing. But his eyes flicked to the pile again, as his trembling fingers reached for the last envelope. The one dated five years after youâd been cast out. A year before tonight.Â
For him.
Iâve realized something I should have long ago. Youâre not coming. I waited too long, hoping youâd find something. But the silence has been louder than any answer. Itâs eaten me alive, night after night, I fight with you even in my dreams.Â
I keep asking myself, if clarity is in death, then why wonât this die? Why canât I let it go?Â
I wish you would give me back my peace. It was mine first.
I miss who once was my best friend. But more than anything, I miss who I used to be. So I canât be like this anymore. I canât keep writing letters to a ghost. Five years, Johnny. Five years of wondering if you ever saw me in a different light. But I have to stop for my sake, for his sake.
This is the last time Iâll write to you.This is goodbye. There was happiness in my life because of you, and I can only hope thereâll be happiness after you. Wherever you are, whatever youâre doing, I hope youâre happy too. I hope youâve forgotten me, because I need to forget you. I need to let you go before I lose myself completely. I need to live without waiting for a door that will never open.
So Iâm closing it myself.
Yours once, never again.
Fuck.
Of course he hadnât forgotten. He had never stopped thinking about you. He had tried to find proof, investigated, and spiraled in dark nights in his room with papers stuck to his windows. And all the while, you had written this, your goodbye, your surrender, your heart breaking onto the page while he was too blind.
You had given up on him. And now, a year later, he was here, only to realize heâd arrived far too late to be the man youâd once waited for.
Johnny barely slept. Every time he shut his eyes, the words of those letters screamed at him. The thought of you sitting alone, hiding from Leo to write that with shaking hands, giving up on him. It hollowed him out until there was nothing left but determination to make things right.
To give you back your peace.
So before dawn even touched the sky, he was already moving. He slipped into the college campus while the halls were still dim and quiet. Not that easy now, since it was Monday. Students, staff, early professors buzzing everywhere, far different than the hushed emptiness of the day before. It was a risk, and his chest pounded with every step, but he had to do it.
He couldnât have you finding out the letters in your desk had gone missing the same weekend he showed up at your doorstep.Â
Your office door creaked faintly under his hand. He moved quickly, carefully, as he slid the papers back into the drawer, tucking them in place exactly where heâd found them and locking it again.Â
By the time he slipped out into the hallway, the building was alive with movement. He kept his head down, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, wearing that same sunglasses and baseball cap combo to make himself look like just another visitor until he made it outside.
And thenâŚhe waited.Â
Will you forgive my soul
When you're too wise to trust me and too old to care?
The hours until your little meeting felt like years. He wandered the campus for a while before he realized some people were looking too suspiciously at him. He then drove around the college block more times than he could count, and since he was inside a window tinted black Ford truck, he was sure some student mustâve thought some mafia members had come to kidnap them.Â
Now, heâd been waiting outside the cafe for exactly fifty four minutes. He tried to stay inside the truck to avoid getting seen, but his nerves and inner spiral didn't let him sit still. So he stood by the truck, cap still on and head ducked low, his eyes glued down the street so he wouldn't miss the moment you showed up.Â
As your unmistakable figure appeared around the corner of the cafe, Johnnyâs breath hitched at the sight of you finally emerging, walking slowly with a folder hugged against your chest.Â
The autumn air was crisp, brushing against your skin, but the moment your eyes found him leaning by that ridiculous, shiny rental truck, you suddenly felt like sweating.
Johnny straightened the second he saw you, his whole face lighting up like heâd been waiting for this all dayâŚwhich he had. But the closer you got, the more his confidence faltered. He shoved his hands deep into his jeanâs pockets, suddenly awkward.
âHiâŚJohnny.â You said, standing a few feet away from him, chin lifted, your voice steady. âLeoâs not out of school for another hour.â
Johnny nodded, quick, like heâd been expecting the wall. â...Hi.â He greeted, and you gave him the slightest curve of a smile.
âI know you want to see him again,â you went on, the folder pressed tighter against your chest, âbut we need to talk first.â
He nodded again, softer this time. âYeah. Yeah, of course. Youâre right.â
There was an uneasy pause, until Johnny cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. âCan IâuhâŚcan I get you a coffee?â
This type of nervous awkward interaction was so strange to Johnny. He was so used to smooth words just flowing out of his mouth, making a joke out of everything. But his life had changed so drastically in just a matter of days, that he wasn't sure he could go back to his default âChill Johnnyâ setting.Â
You studied him a moment, then gave a small nod. âOkay.â
His shoulders loosened instantly, and he finally allowed himself to smile, then gestured toward the little cafĂŠâs glass door with a red frame. He held the door open for you, and you muttered a thank you as warm light and the hiss of an espresso machine welcomed you. The bell above the door jingled when you stepped in, Johnny following carefully behind.
You chose a booth by the window, close enough to the door if you needed an exit, far enough from others to keep voices low. Johnny slid into the seat across from you, the baseball cap finally coming off. His knees bounced under the table, his hands fidgeting with the paper menu though he didnât read a word.
For a moment, it was just silence. Awkward, heavy. You stared down at your folder on the table, and he stared at you, neither of you knowing where to start. A waitress came by, and Johnny ordered two coffees, remembering your exact order from all those years ago.Â
That made your heart skip a bit.Â
The silence stretched again until Johnny cleared his throat, his voice softer than you remembered. âSoâŚLeo.â
Your eyes flicked to his, nodding slightly. âLeo.â
The clatter of cups and the murmur of conversation around the cafe made the tension between you feel sharper. The drinks arrived but Johnnyâs coffee sat untouched, steam curling up between you as his eyes finally lifted to yours.
âWhatâs his favorite cereal?â
You blinked, caught off guard. Of all the questions he could have askedâŚâWhy this, why that?â that was not the one you expected.
âCereal?âÂ
âYeahâŚyouâve got, like, three boxes on the counter. He has to have a favorite.â Johnny shrugged.Â
Your chest ached at the innocence of it, the way his voice cracked with soft curiosity.Â
âLucky charms,â you said.Â
Johnnyâs eyes softened instantly. He nodded, filing it away like it was the most important piece of information in the world. Then, an idea lit up his face.
âDid he get the human torch figurâ?â
âThey donât have the one with your face on it here,â you cut him off, almost apologetic.
The truth is, one of the many reasons youâd picked that town was the lack of the Fantastic Fourâs influence. Johnny understood that.
âRight.â He nodded, not exactly sure how to feel about it. âAnd his favorite color?â he asked quickly, before you could redirect.
âBlueâŚâ you answered, âlike your eyesâ your mind whispered. âLike the summer sky,â you said instead.
Johnny smiled. He wanted to ask a thousand things at once. About his laugh, his quirks, the bedtime stories he loved, the little words he mispronounced when he was smaller. But each answer cut and healed him in equal measure, so he asked them slowly.
âWhat makes him laugh the most?â
âWhoâs his best friend?â
âWhat does he want to be when he grows up?â
You sipped your drink, watching Johnny soak in every answer like heâd been starving for it. He wanted to know everything, like each detail was a thread stitching him closer to the the kid heâd missed for so long. And for a moment, you let him have it. For a moment, it almost felt right.
âI could talk about Leoâs favorite things all day,â you admitted softly, tracing the rim of your mug with your fingertip.
Johnny smiled faintly, but when he looked up, your eyes had shifted.
âBut thereâs something else,â you said, daring to look up. âA question thatâs been eating me alive. One I canât keep inside anymore.â
His brow furrowed, the smile gone instantly.
âWhat exactly do you plan for him now, Johnny?â You sighed. âNow that you know he existsâwhat happens to Leo? Because last nightâŚlast night I slept with him safe beside me. I couldnât close my eyes without imagining someone walking through that door to take him away.â
Johnny froze, the color draining from his face. You didn't think he was safe. He reached for the mug he hadnât touched, gripping it just to anchor his hands, but he didnât drink.
âI need to know,â you pushed on, your stare burning into him. âWhat do you plan to do with myâwith our son?â
For a long moment, he didnât answer. His mouth opened, then closed, like the words werenât ready, like nothing he could say would be enough.Â
âI donât know,â he said, honest.âI donât know what the right move is,â he went on, his eyes flicking up to yours. âI donât know what the hell Iâm supposed to do, or how to fix six years Iâll never get back. ButâŚthe only thing I do know is that I want to be part of his life. However youâll let me. I canâtâŚI canât pretend I donât know him now.â
The conviction in his words fought with hesitation. He wasnât demanding, wasnât trying to take. He was still begging for a chance, clumsy and terrified, but utterly certain of one thing.
âI want to know him,â Johnny added, more firmly now. âAnd I want him to know me.â
You leaned back against the booth, your chest tight, but his words lingered. I want to be part of his life. The way he said itâŚshaking, terrified, but sure, chipped at the walls youâd built so carefully.
âDo you think heâdâŚwant me in his life? I mean, if we told him who I am. Would he hate me for not being there?â He asked, hesitant, tracing the rim of his mug.
The question knocked the air out of you more than you expected. Not because you hadnât thought about it, God knows youâd lost sleep over it, but because of how honest he sounded asking it.
âHeâs a smart kid. He sees things. Asks questions I canât always answerâŚI donât think heâd hate you, butâŚheâd have more questions. And Iâd like to give him answers that donât hurt.â
Johnny nodded slowly. âI justâŚI want to do right by him. Even if itâs late.â
You looked at him in silence for a few seconds, before humming. âYou can start,â you said softly, âby meeting himâŚlike really meeting himâ
Johnny blinked, startled. âLikeânow?â
The look on his face of wide eyed disbelief, made you huff out a laugh you didnât expect.Â
âYes, Johnny. Now.â You tilted your head to check the time on the clock by the barista. âItâs just in time to pick him up from school.â
For a second he just sat there, frozen, like he hadnât prepared himself for the possibility that youâd actually let him do that today. His hands gripped the edge of the table like he needed to hold on to something solid before the floor crumbled under his feet.
âGod,â he whispered. âI donât even know if I can breathe right now.â
You chuckled and shook your head, standing up from the booth. âYouâll manage, come on. I promised him yogurt ice cream after school. He aced a test on Friday.â
âDoesnât he, you knowâŚalways ace them?â Johnny asked, the doubt in his voice almost made you laugh again.
âHe does. But I donât want him to think itâs his duty to excel every single time. I want him to know that little victories matter too even if I didn't take him much effort. He deserves to feel celebrated, not pressured because he thinks he has to fulfill other peopleâs expectations."
Johnny stared at you, floored. He thought of his own childhood, of expectations that had weighed on him since the day Sue took over his raising, when his mother passed away. It wasnât because his sister pressured him directly, but because he always felt like he owed her excellency. Things that took all his effort, sweat and tears. But to this day, Johnny felt like he'd failed her on that, because the bar had always been set too high for his little hands to reach. So in his head, that kid inside him didn't deserve yogurt ice cream, because little victories had never mattered in his big world.Â
But his sonâs did. Because you made sure of that.Â
So he just glanced toward the window to blink away the tears threatening to come out of his eyes. All he could think was his son had the best mom he could've had.Â
Once you walked outside, the late afternoon sun shone across the street. Johnny headed toward that absurdly shiny rental truck, but when he glanced back, you were unlocking your modest sedan.
âIâll pick him up from school. You can meet us at the yogurt place.â
Johnny nodded, though something in him ached at the distance between your cars, your lives. But he didnât fight it, just asked for some directions on how to find said yogurt place.Â
âAlright,â he said softly, eyes lingering on you as you slid into the driverâs seat. âIâll be there.â
The yogurt shop was painted in cheerful colors, with a bell jingling as Johnny stepped in. He scanned the room, with only a couple of tables occupied by groups of high school students. His chest rose and fell too fast, his palms getting ridiculously damp. Since when did he sweat?
Calm down, Storm, it's just ice creamâŚoh right, and you are also meeting the most important person in your life.Â
âWelcome in!â The teenage girl behind the counter gave him a friendly wave.Â
Johnny nodded too quickly. âYeah, hi, thanks, justâuh, table for three? Iâm waiting for someone.â He said, then immediately panicked.Â
Did he really just ask for a table for three? In front of a bunch of teenagers that were totally giving him a side eye? He couldn't exactly blame them, what was this, some fancy dinner restaurant from New York? Was he really so out of touch that he didnât even know how to be a normal person anymore?
Before he could keep overthinking over that single interaction, he cleared his throat, then pointed around the place. âIâll just find one myselfâŚyeah.â He smiled nervously, darting toward the empty tables, away from the groups.Â
It didnât matter though, because they were still watching him over their shoulders, because Johnny tested each empty table like a maniac. Too wobbly. Too close to the trash can. Too far from the door. Until he finally landed on one by the window where the afternoon sun spilled in. Steady, perfect lighting, perfect line of sight to the door.
âOkay,â he whispered to himself, yanking the chairs out and back in again to make sure they werenât squeaky. âAaaand we got a winner! This is the table.â
Then, he went toward the counter where he could see the list of flavors on the wall, because he couldnât look like a fool not knowing what to order in front of his family. He scanned the labels, as the girl behind the counter stared at him curiously.Â
âWhatâs the most popular?â He asked, placing a finger on his chin as he tilted his head. âNo, waitâwhatâs the healthiest? Do you guys do likeâŚsugar free? No, kids donât care about that. UhâŚâ
âSirâŚwould you like a sample?â The girl offered, lifting tiny spoons in the air.Â
Johnny nodded so quickly, that the girl let out a chuckle, before turning to the yogurt machines to get a sample of the most popular flavors for this weird guy to try. He was handsome though, she was totally telling her friends about him.Â
By the time the judgy teenagers had left the establishment, Johnny Storm, Human Torch, beloved public figure that no one seemed to recognize in this small town, was sitting on the table heâd meticulously picked with five pink sample spoons sticking out of his jacket pocket.Â
Okay, so if he likes chocolate, Iâm set. But if heâs a fruit kid? Iâm screwed.
The bell above the yogurt shop door jingled, snapping him out of his thoughts, and thatâs when the golden light of late afternoon poured in behind you. Johnny looked up, and the world stopped.
There he was.
His son. Your son.
Leo stood beside you, his small hand clasped in yours, his little uniform neat. A navy pullover stretched just slightly at the sleeves, crisp white polo peeking out at the collar, khaki shorts, and the cutest polished shoes that Johnny knew youâd spent extra to make sure he looked perfect in.
He looked like a polite kid, yes, but his energy buzzed right through the surface, his body practically bouncing at your side like he couldnât decide whether to walk or skip into the shop. His hair glowed blonde in the light, catching that same golden halo Johnny had seen in the mirror his whole life. The shape of his smile,as he was tugging at your hand, was his. Unmistakable. The resemblance knocked the air straight from Johnnyâs chest.
It was a mini him, except better, softerâŚpure.
By the door, you crouched slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you spoke gently to Leo. Your voice was steady, but Johnny could see the way your hands twitched with nerves.
âLeo,â you said softly, brushing a hand over his sleeve, âI want to introduce you to someone.â
Johnnyâs heart hammered so loud he thought the whole shop could hear it. He didnât move, didnât breathe. And Leo, with wide curious eyes, looked up at you, then followed your gaze toward the man waiting by the window.
âBaby,â you squeezed his hand, getting his attention back. âI want you to meet aâŚfriend.âÂ
His eyes flicked from you to Johnny again, studying him with all the seriousness a curious five year old could muster. Leo tilted his head, eyebrows knitting.
âA friend?â he said, and Johnny almost fainted from how cute his little voice was. âFrom where?â
âFrom a long time ago,â you replied.
Leo squinted at Johnny, the way only a child could, unfiltered, curious to the bone. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he let go of your hand and marched right toward the table. You followed anxiously.Â
And Johnny? Johnny was toast. He forgot how to move. His heart jackhammered as the kidâhis kidâstopped in front of him and just stared, unblinking, like he was scanning him for answers.
âYou look like me, mommyâs friend.â Leo said matter of factly. âWe have the same hair.â
Johnny panicked, and for a terrifying second he thought his legs were going to give out when he stood up from the table. He managed a shaky disbelieving laugh, crouching to meet him at eye level.
âYeah, buddy,â he exhaled. âI guess we do.â
Leo grinned, quick and bright, satisfied with his own observation. âCool.â Then, as if that settled everything, he spun around and tugged at your sleeve. âCan we get ice cream now, Mom?â
âYes, baby. Letâs do that.â You nodded quickly, letting yourself be guided by his little hand to the counter.Â
But Johnny was frozen in his crouching position for a few seconds, blinking fast, the word Mom echoing in his head as he stared at Leo, who was already more like him than heâd ever dared to imagine.
He took a deep breath.
There was no way back from this. Only forward, into the storm.
To be continued...
Part Two will be posted these days!
Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated and it helps a lot, so don't be shy to share your fav moments đŤśđź
what if he's written mine on my upper thigh (only in my mind)
you've been on four dates with johnny storm. you don't think it's serious. he has a different idea in mind. (johnny storm x fem!reader)
AN: this fic is VERY LOOSELY based off that one lyric in guilty as sin that became the title. i usually don't write super shy or oblivious characters, but i am too obsessed with an opposites attract dynamic. so this is what came about. i hope u enjoy & lmk what u think!!!!! also not proofread again super sorry
WORD COUNT: 5.7k
âBriefing notes?â
âCheck.â
âFinal printed copy of the speech?â
âIn a PDF format as well! Check.âÂ
âLozenges?â
In honey lemon. âCheck!â
âTriple shot flat white?â
You donât vocalize your opinion, but you felt like an old man ordering that at the coffee shop. âCheck.â
âYouâre getting good at this.â
You fight a blush, waving off Lynneâs praise.Â
Itâs always daunting entering the Baxter Building (especially now more than usual), but you stick behind Lynne and follow her lead. The lift attendant ushers you both into the steel-lined elevator after you showed proper identification, and youâre off. You always get a bundle of nerves at this part; waiting to reach the actual living quarters of the building. But youâve done it enough to know to stare at your shoes to avoid feeling nauseous. Itâs only when you hear the ding do you look up, straightening out your work pants and making sure the coffee cup in your hand stays upright.Â
At first, you and Lynne are met with nothing but silence, which is quite unusual (usually thereâs Ben in the kitchen, or H.E.R.B.I.E. watching baby Franklin by the couch, his various beeps that you donât understand greeting you upon entering). You and Lynne donât question it, though, her muttering something about a late morning while ushering you to the kitchen area where you put everything youâre holding on the counter.Â
Itâs only when you feel like youâre taking your first breath of the day, hands cramped, do you hear footsteps bounding down the hallway, high heels clanking on the sleek floors.Â
Sue Storm strides in, the pinnacle of elegance. She takes one moment to dust off a piece of lint from her red long-sleeve, made of a material that youâre sure costs more than your weekly paycheck. She greets you both with a kind smile, âGood morning.â
âHardly,â says Lynne, frowning. It took awhile to get used to the fact that Sue and Lynneâs friendship strung for many years that Lynne no longer bothers to give her an agreeable type of kindness that others seem to give at default for the Invisible Woman. âThereâs a seventy-three percent chance of rain and the wind nearly ruined my hair.â
Sue snaps her fingers, regaining her memory. âI almost forgot my coat.â Sheâs bounding down the hallway again, calling for Reed, but not before telling you both to get yourself comfortable and ushering you to the stools in front of the kitchen island.Â
You donât look at Lynne for approval before taking a seat, legs sore from the morning run your friend made you go on before work. You busy yourself by opening the manila folder that holds Sueâs UN speech, checking thrice for any grammar mistakes (if there are any, thatâd be your fault and would no doubt be getting a scolding from Lynne).Â
Youâre too immersed, brows drawn tightly together and lips mouthing each part of the speech. You donât notice the soft footsteps entering the room, or the slight halt in the steps, before it continues to proceed in your direction.Â
A hand rests on the small of your back, finger splayed out on the material of your sweater.Â
You jolt, not expecting the contact.Â
You swivel the seat and are met with the eyes of Johnny Storm.Â
âI didnât know youâd be here today,â he says flatlyâa fact, yet thereâs something else hidden beneath his tone. A slight surprise, maybe hurt, as if he expected you to let him know every time youâd be making an appearance in his vicinity.Â
His hand stays on your back.Â
You open your mouth to reply, though with what youâre not sure, but his movements stop you. He reaches his other hand to your face, thumbs brushing in between your eyebrows and smoothing out the furrowed line. âTheyâre gonna get stuck like that.âÂ
You glance at Lynne. She has a compact in her hand, angling the mirror at a stray piece of hair, pretending not to notice.Â
When you look back, Johnnyâs eyes are still on you. Observing, memorizing, whatever it is he does.Â
Your association with Johnny is⌠new. Youâve been on a few dates, four to be exact, and each time your eyes nearly bulged out of your head when you returned home and heâs already calling to schedule a new one. Youâre unsure if youâre part of a rotation of girls, or if youâre the only one heâs seeing. You don't think it's the latter. Youâre too shy to ask. What you do know, however, is that youâre certainly not seeing anyone else. Dating is a fickle thing for you, really, and you had only agreed to going out with Johnny because heâd been incredibly persistent. Plus, it is an undeniable and unmoving fact that he isâto the eyes of allâincredibly attractive. You never had it in you to say no.Â
You feel your face warm up at the intensity of his gaze, looking down briefly at your ballet flats to collect yourself. You look back up and manage a small smile, hoping it comes as casual and not the complete mess you feel inside.Â
Youâre quietâa plain fact that even Johnny has to have already gotten used to. Words donât leave your mouth as you hoped it would. You imagine saying something that would elicit a smirk, or something. Instead, you remain silent.Â
If he notices your nerves, he doesnât say anything. Just glances behind you at the counter before his eyes light up. ââThat the big speech?â
You nod, instinctively turning and moving the paper to the side and in Johnnyâs line of vision to read. You feel the heat of him press against your back.Â
He pretends to scan the page. His eyes dot over the little notes on the margin, arrows pointing before and between words. His mouth crinkle upwards when he notices the tiny smiley face youâve written after a particular note, commending Sue on a certain sentence. âSo professional,â he says coolly.Â
Sue finally comes back down the hallway, coat splaying on her arm. She notices you and Johnny and a knowing smile plays on her lips. âTime to go. Are you done flirting with my assistant, Johnny?â
âNot yet,â he rapidly replies, barely sparing his sister a glance before his eyes shift to you and he smiles. Itâs small, but carries the weight of mischief and reassurance. âSoâhow about dinner tonight?â
You blink. âTonight?â
âYeah. When youâre done with all this UN business.â His tone is light, but thereâs a shift in his eyes like heâs unsure of whether or not your answer will be yes. Hope flickers.Â
You hesitate, aware of Sue and Lynneâs attention and the fact that your heart is beating way too fast. âIâll see how late weâre there.â
âThatâs not really the answer I was hopiââ
âJohnny,â Sueâs voice cuts through, demanding but light. âIâll make sure sheâs back in ample time if you can let us go.â She frowns at Lynne apologetically. âWeâre already running late.â
Theyâre actually running early, but Lynne has always been a stickler for time. Sue seems to know that.Â
Johnny grins, as if the answer is as good as yes. âIâll take it.â He pushes off the counter, standing tall with a kind of confidence only the Human Torch can carry. He leans in and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes scanning your nervous face. âTry not to frown too much until then.â
The weight of Sue and Lynneâs gazes on you is strong.Â
You try your best to ignore it, following them down the building and into the waiting car.Â
â
The UN conference goes by smoothly (for the most part), you not really doing much except standing to the side with Lynne while Sue delivers her speech with natural poise. At one point, a reporter walked up to youânervous, unassuming youâto see if they could get the scoop of something, anything, on Sue Storm. You stared blankly at the reporter, not being trained for anything like this, until Lynne yanked your arm and said unequivocally, âWe wonât be taking any questions.â The interaction was over soon after it started, but had left you shaken up, cursing at yourself for not knowing what to do.Â
The interaction still haunts you as you toe off your flats upon entering your apartment, slinging your bag down on the floor as you make your way to the couch and flop. You wonder if the reporter approached you because maybe you looked too meek to deny anyone a question. You hate that feeling. You always thought a job like yours would be a great way to make an impact while still staying away from the spotlight and glamour of politics, but clearly you had been wrong. Especially if youâre affiliated with someone from the Fantastic Four.
Youâre contemplating your life decisions when your chubby tabby, Kiwi, curls himself around your right leg. He sniffs lightly at your work pants before nuzzling his head softly on your shin. You smile, reaching down to pluck the docile animal from the floor and lay him carefully in your arms.Â
âYou donât have to worry about the press, do you, Kiwi?â you say softly to the cat in your arms, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. âWell neither do Iâanymore, at least. Letâs feed you.âÂ
You make your way to your small kitchen and into the cupboards until you find Kiwiâs food. Your nervous system calms down at the mundanity, continuing your late-afternoon routine of making sure the bowl of food and water is full. When youâre sure that Kiwi is properly satisfied, you leave him and walk into your bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes.Â
Youâre slipping off your blazer and blouse, eyes rummaging through your array of t-shirts in your drawer to see which one would be the comfiest to slip on. You pick a tattered college tee, the one where it slips off your shoulders to combat the light warmth with a pair of shorts to match. They have kiss marks printed in a straight pattern, something a friend got you for Valentineâs Day. Itâs silk and feels nice on your skin. You slip off the remaining rings that adorn your fingers and hoop earrings, delicately placing them on a tray over your dresser. You breathe in relief, finally feeling normal again.Â
This is how the rest of your night goes, rummaging through your pantry for a snack and coddling Kiwi on the couch as you sift through various channels on your television. Youâre praising Kiwi as he lets out continuous purrs on your lap when thereâs a knock on your door.Â
Your head jolts us, eyebrows furrowing as you gently set Kiwi to the side before making your way to the door.Â
You open your door curiously, a hint of nerves, only to be met with Johnny.
Your nerves suddenly make more sense.
Your eyes angle up to meet his expression, one showing a bit of alarm.Â
âWho were you talking to?â he asks plainly, peering into your apartment.Â
You follow his line of vision, taking in everything he is. Thereâs a bunch of scattered papers, copies of the latest speech, on your small dining table. Various blankets litter your couch and you have two bottles of polish (one a top coat) on your rug. One part of the string lights you hung around your living room dangles down from when a tack broke and you were too lazy to fix it. Kiwi nudged a few pieces of kibble from his bowl and onto the floor.Â
Itâs definitely not a sight to see for guests.Â
The silence stretches as you donât have it in you to reply. What would you say? You were talking to your cat?Â
Thankfully, Johnny doesnât wait for your reply. He peers down at your face, a lackluster and slightly disappointed expression. âSue said you were too tired for dinner.â
You do remember telling Sue that, apologetically asking her to relay the information to Johnny since you probably wouldnât see him for the rest of the day. It was a little embarrassing, a little scary, as you deny seeing Johnny to his sister. But still, she gave you a kind smile and said that she would tell him.Â
âBut that never usually stops Johnny,â she added after, to which you only offered her a half-smile before scurrying off to Lynneâs side.Â
You shouldâve known heâd show up.Â
âSue said to leave you alone to, you know, de-stress, or whatever,â he flails a hand up to convey that he saw that advice as useless. âBut you need to eat.â
Itâs then that you look down and see the brown bag in his other hand, and the familiar waft of food hits your nose. Your stomach growls.Â
He hears it, the corners of his mouth turning up.Â
âItâs from that place you talked about. Chiuâs Garden, remember?â
The shock in you passes like a splash of cold water. You do remember. You said it in passing, once, about the Chinese takeout you get when work gets too busy and the ache in your head gets hard to manage and you donât want to cook. You had their number memorized, and the workers there greeted you by name. The place isnât what shocks you. Itâs the fact that Johnny of all people remembers.Â
There are many things you want to say. Starting with Thank you and I hope you plucked the sauce thatâs on the counter before you left. But mostly How do you remember?
If Johnny notices your shock at the gesture, he doesnât comment. Only raising a single eyebrow at you. âCan I come in?âÂ
You realize you havenât spoken yet. âAre you a vampire?â
The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, unsure if you meant it as a joke or if it just slipped out because itâs the first thing your mind went to.Â
Johnny stifles a laugh. âA vampire?âÂ
Well, now you clearly have to give him an explanation. âVampires need permission to be let into private areas.â Thereâs a hint of embarrassment in your voice, and you curse yourself once again for not knowing what to say and saying the wrong thing.Â
He peers at you, eyes squinting and assessing your face. âWhat have you been watching lately?â
You shrug. You donât tell him you watched the Scars of Dracula while you were finalizing the last of Sueâs speech the night before. Or how you got fully immersed into it. Or how you talked to Kiwi about how thankful you are that you donât have a roommate to let unknown strangers into your apartment.Â
âWell, Iâm no vampire,â he says.Â
Thereâs a playful lilt to his voice, and you realize now that you might be in on a joke you created. Not wanting to disappoint him or bring the mood down because, hey, youâre not in on a lot of jokes, you take a long backwards step back into your apartment. âProve it.â
Johnny responds by taking a similar long step into your apartment, now standing right in front of you. Your chest nearly meets his as he looks down at you with a smirk. Your heart stutters, and you hope the lack of space between you two doesnât mean that he can hear it. âSee?âÂ
You manage a small nod, walking around him to shut your door. You think your stomach might start doing backflips if you stay that close to Johnny, mind unsure if itâs a rush of nervousness or excitement.Â
He seems to take your interaction as an acceptance that heâs allowed to be here, in your apartment, and though heâs never been inside, he quickly assesses the layout and walks towards your kitchen.Â
Kiwi looks as if to say, you let a man into the apartment.Â
Your eyes reply, I didnât know he was coming!Â
âI know I didnât show itââ Johnny calls out from the kitchen. You hear the crinkle of the brown bag and food being brought out. ââbut I was really nervous that I knocked on the wrong apartment. I only ever walked you to the front of the building!â
You pad the small way to the kitchen, peering in to see him open a plastic container and dip his fingers in to snipe a piece of broccoli.Â
âI had to look at each door to find your last name,â he says through a mouthful of broccoli. âThank God you live on the second floor, right?â He turns to meet your eyes, giving you a close-lipped, goofy smile that has your mouth threatening to smile back. When he swallows, he motions to all the cupboards above him. âDo you usually eat with plates or out of the container? Also I brought you orange soda.â
âIâI just eat out the container,â you say softly, leaning against the entryway, arms crossed.Â
âPerfect! Me too.â He gathers the food into his arms in a perfect balance, picking up the soda can last before motioning past you. âCâmon. Letâs eat.â
You watch him maneuver your apartment with ease, as if it isnât the first time heâs been here. He tiptoes past Kiwiâs kibble on the floor and barely manages to knock down a picture frame that sits at the edge of your coffee table. He mutters an apology before putting the food down and sitting on your couch. âSo what are we watchingâoh. Hello.â He peers down at your cat, who stares back at him blankly. âIs this the infamous Kiwi? Is this who you were talking to?â He reaches his hand out and scratches behind Kiwiâs ear tentatively, unsure if he would be squeamish or not. Unsurprisingly, Kiwi leans into his touch. Johnny is delighted âWeâre going to have great conversations,â he whispers, as if keeping a secret between him and the cat.Â
You find the sight awfully endearing. You donât realize youâve been staring as long as you have until Johnny turns his head to stare at you. âYou coming?â
You timidly make your way to the couch, now unsure of how to feel at place in your home when Johnny Storm is in it. Johnny Storm, who despite four dates, youâve barely gotten used to. You like him (obviously, youâve let him take you out continuously), but youâre still unsure of what he is to you. The ambiguity of your relationship to him is much easier to stomach when heâs across from you at a restaurant booth, or walking in the park with fresh air around you.Â
Nowâhereâwith him on your couch, you donât think you understand your relationship with him all too well. You wonder if he shows up at other datesâ houses like this; their favorite takeout and a soft smile that can quiet any ache. You wonder how different the other girls he sees are from you; if they stumble on their words despite ample practice.Â
You take a seat on the other end of the couch, Kiwi already taking up space in the middle. You angle yourself to face him, legs tucked under you with your arms still crossed.Â
âYouâre too far away,â he says plainly, as if stating a fact instead of discontentment. âBut I have a feeling heâs not going to move anytime soon, is he?â
This gets a laugh out of you, looking down at Kiwi, who blinks slowly at your face. âHeâs the boss.â
Johnny lets out a tsk tsk, shaking his head with a grin. âI shouldâve known. Guess Iâm gonna have to share you tonight.â
The rest of the night goes like this: Johnny shows the various things he bought you from the Chiuâs Garden menu, as he was unsure of what to get you. He has a delightful expression as you express that you like all of them. He pumps a fist in the air and you laugh, leaning down from the couch to pick your food of choice from the coffee table. He makes sure to give you a review of everything he tries, and heâs deeply satisfied, muttering about how you two need to go back together next time. Something flutters in your stomach at the mention of a next time.Â
Eventually, Kiwi grows bored of the Ted Gilbert Show and hops off the couch, lightly swaying as he makes his way into your bedroom for some peace and quiet. Johnny takes that as an opportunity to sit closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and reaching his other to rest on your knee. He barely pays attention to the ministrations his thumb does on your knee, but it affects you greatly. You, again, wonder if he does this to other girls heâs with. You wonder if itâs stupid that you feel so special.Â
âHey.âÂ
You look up at him, brows already furrowed from how hard you were thinking.Â
âWhat did I say?â he scolds softly, his hand on your knee leaving as he reaches his thumb in between your eyebrows again. âTheyâre gonna get stuck like that.âÂ
â
When youâre not suffering from severe imposter syndrome as you play assistant with Lynne for Sue, youâre taking up extra shifts at the coffee shop down your street. Youâve been working here since you were eighteen and trying to pay for college. Now, youâre a little older and trying to pay your college debts. Still, you know the owner, and theyâre more than willing to pay you under the table for your efforts to keep the shop afloat when you can.Â
The line isnât long and youâre striking up a conversation with Miss Sutton, a regular, as she fishes her purse for change.Â
âAnd, Freddieââ she says, her eyes down at her bag, ââhe keeps crying. Heâs getting old. âVet said he might be going blind in his right eye.â
Your heart lurches immediately as you imagine yourself in that position; Kiwi growing old and going blind. But heâs only four and you make sure to take him to regular checkups. âIâm so sorry, Miss Sutton,â you say honestly. âMaybe he and Kiwi can have a play date! It might cheer him up.â
She places a few dollars onto the counter and looks at you flatly. âOr remind him of what he no longer has.â
Well, that took a turn.Â
You smile tensely at the older woman, taking the dollars and commit yourself to counting them instead of making the conversation worse. So much for comfort. Sheâs fifty cents off, but you donât mention it.Â
You busy yourself with making chamomile tea, which is one of the easier orders youâve had all day (you love a good macchiato with lavender syrup with the nice cold foam on the top, but itâs a fucking hassle to make). You hum a little to yourself, in your element at a place youâre comfortable in. Thoughts of a sick Kiwi and a grumpy Miss Sutton exit your mind.Â
The bell over the door dings, alerting you of a new customer. You pass the finished drink to your coworker as she finishes heating a pastry. You dust off your hands and turn around.Â
âHello, welcome toââ
Youâre met with blue eyes, blond hair, and an accusatory look.Â
Your mind goes blank.Â
Johnny doesnât wait for you to finish your obligatory customer greeting, âYouâve been overworking yourself.â
âIâwhat?â
âYou were with Sue all day Tuesday, you cancelled our date yesterday to take a shift here and had an emergency meetup with Lynne, and now youâre back today. Youâre overworking yourself.â
You want to say that this is actually what normal people do to make a living, but you donât say that. Instead, you stare up at his unrelenting gaze and gulp. âArenât youââ your voice comes out squeaky and you clear your throat. âArenât you, like, a superhero? You save Earth for a living.âÂ
He shrugs off your answer like itâs nothing.Â
Beside you, your coworker takes note of Johnny, and gasps.Â
You both turn your head to the sound.Â
âYou werenât lying?â she says, mouth wide. âYouâre friends with Johnny Storm?â
Johnny immediately looks offended. âFriends?â
âViv,â you say, ignoring him, âcan you go to the back and make sure Hal is done with the croissants batch? Weâre out up here.âÂ
Viv looks at you as if to say, youâre kicking me out as if Johnny Storm isnât right here?Â
You manage a harsher look, and sheâs off, muttering something about getting her camera. You hope to God out of embarrassment that she doesnât. Johnny visits your place of work and the first thing that happens is your coworker ambushes him. And know he knows that you talk about him.
âIâm sorry about her, Iâll tell her to put her camera away,â you say.Â
Johnny looks at you, brows furrowing before shaking his head rapidly. âI donât care about a photo. I care about you. When was the last time you took a break for yourself? Doesnât Kiwi miss you?â
â⌠I did a face mask last night,â you say dumbly. You leave out the part where you were on the phone with an airline company until 2AM because you stupidly booked the wrong time for Sue and Reedâs flight to Chicago, face mask forgotten and on for hours while you tried to fix your mistake before Lynne noticed.Â
The admission seems to calm him down a bit, shoulders sagging as his mind recalibrates. âWhen do you get off here?â
You donât really have set shifts, youâve been here since 10AM and helping out any way you can. Hal had you making croissants with him for two hours until Viv asked for your help at the front. Now, itâs 5PM and the sun is getting ready to setâand you hate that Johnny is right, because you feel wrung out. Your body suddenly becomes more alert of the ache on your temples, and the emptiness of your stomach.Â
âI can technically leave whenever.âÂ
His eyes light up. âPerfect! Youâre leaving now. Grab your coat.âÂ
âJohnnyââ
âYou can go,â a voice behind you says.Â
You turn to see Hal and Viv standing together by the door to the back, eyes wide in wonder as they continue to stare at Johnny. Itâs a look you recognize from the amount of times youâve spent with him. Itâs why Johnny takes you to restaurants and you get seated at the most private corner, or why he wears sunglasses and a cap in the dead of winter when you stroll through the park. You appreciate the efforts Johnny goes to be unnoticedâknowing you donât like the attention. But you wonder if thatâs just how heâs been going around publicly lately; unnoticed. You realize itâs been awhile since youâve seen a tabloid of him walking a girl down the street, or a blurry photo of him in a store with someone. Maybe heâs tired of the cameras.Â
âAre you sure?â you ask Hal.Â
He nods, taking his eyes away from Johnny to give you a softer look. âCroissants are done, I have Viv to work like a dogââ
âHey!â
ââweâll be just fine. Have fun with your friend.â He wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the blush that threatens to coat your cheeks.Â
Youâre too busy going to the back to grab your coat and purse to notice the shock on Johnnyâs face. You give one last goodbye to Hal and Viv before you leave the counter to join Johnnyâs side. He waits for you to slip on your coat before placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you out the shop.Â
You swear you hear a click from Vivâs camera.Â
You breathe in the fresh, cool air the second youâre out on the street. You watch as Johnny inconspicuously slips on a pair of sunglasses and pulls the hood of his coat up.Â
Heâs silent as you both walk the short distance to your apartment, which is unusual. Usually, heâs already talking your ear off about his day, or something Ben has cooked since he knows your affinity with anything cooking or baking-related. You usually stay silent when he gets like that, listening intently and only giving your input when he manages to force it out of you (even after all this time, youâre still nervous).Â
But thereâs none of that today. Silence stretches even as you enter your apartment building, him holding the door open for you, and as you pat the snow from your boots onto the rug (normally, this is where Johnny says something stupid, like how you both look like ducks shaking water off by a pond). You walk up the stairs and open your apartment door, still silent.Â
Your stomach churns nervously. You wonder if Johnny is mad at youâfor overworking, as he says. If the concern has stretched into anger. Or if Hal and Vivâs peering eyes,, and knowing of him, threw Johnny off, realizing youâre just like any other person who brags about his existence. But itâs not like that! You wonder if youâve ruined what you and he haveâwhether you know what you guys are or not.Â
Finally, as both of your coats have been shrugged off and left on the hook by your doorâ
âIâm your friend?â
You look up from where you were staring at the floor and furrow your brows. âHm?âÂ
âThatâs how they talked about me,â he says, and you know heâs referring to Hal and Viv. âThey said Iâm your friend. Is that how you talk about me?â
He stares at you, eyes searching your own as you try to string together a response. âUm⌠yeah?âÂ
Because you donât know what else to call Johnny. Johnny who takes you to the most private parts of a fancy restaurant, and brings you takeout when youâre tired, and shows up to work to make sure you havenât been burnt out. Johnny who now looks down at you with a pained expression, for reasons youâre a little unsure of why. Isnât that what people are in whatever stage you and Johnny are in? Friends? Isnât he seeing other people?Â
Johnny exhales sharply through his nose, walking up to you and shaking his head as if your answer had been outlandish. âThatâs really what you think we are?â
Your lips part, but you donât answer. Heâs standing so close now that you can see the faint tint of pink on his nose from the cold. His breath fans down at you. You try to imagine what Johnny wants to hear, but still, youâre unsure. âYou and IâŚâ you say slowly, âWeâreâwhat else would we be?âÂ
His jaw ticks. âTogether.â
Together. As in, you and Johnny. You think about Johnny walking you to your door, eyes lingering at your lips but he moves to kiss your cheek and youâre convinced youâd just imagined it. Johnny, who has admitted to looking for restaurants with similar dishes to ones youâve cooked, so you can compare (âI bet yours is better,â he says plainly, taking another bite. âDo you agree? Or are you too modest?â). Johnny and his thumb that grazes the middle of your eyebrows because theyâre gonna get stuck like that.Â
You blink at him, voice small. âTogether?âÂ
Johnny genuinely looked confused at your confusion. His brows knot in the way he always tells you to stop doing. âYeah? Like dating. Together-together. What did you think this was?âÂ
Heat crawls up the back of your neck, mortification and disbelief tangling in a mess that makes it hard to think. âIâI thought you were just being⌠you know. Nice. How you treat the other girls.â
His head jerks back. â'The other girls'? Well first, nobodyâs that nice. At least, not like I have been. Iâve only ever been like this with you.âÂ
Your stomach turns at the admission.Â
âSecond, what other girls? You think Iâve been seeing other people?â
Youâre too embarrassed to answer, because you know your answer would be yes. Instead, you huff a large sigh and press your palms to your eyes. âI donât know what to think right now, Johnny.â
You hear him sigh softly. Two hands reach your wrists. âHey, hey,â he coos, tone soft as he gently pries your hands away from your eyes. Youâre immediately met with a blue storm, swirling with thought and something else that youâre unsure how to name. âIâm sorry if I stressed you out, okay? Come here.â
He envelopes you in a hug, warm and all-encompassing, the kind that makes you realize just how cold the outside has made you without noticing. His chin rests against the top of your head.Â
Your arms hover at your sides at first, stiff with hesitation. But as you slowly think through Johnnyâs words, you melt into him. The exhaustion from the conversation, from work, from everything presses down harder, and the steadiness of his heart against your head makes something inside you settle.Â
Johnny thinks you too are together.Â
You wonder how stupid you must really be for not noticing.Â
âWeâre together,â you say softly into his chest, breathing him in.Â
âWe are,â he says, a whisper.. âIâm sorry for not making it more⌠known. I thought you knew.âÂ
âNo,â you say, shaking your head and laughing a little.Â
âI didnât know. Iâm too in my head about this, you know?â you admit meekly, your mind now re-assessing every interaction youâve ever had with the boy against you. Re-assessing with the word EXCLUSIVE over every single memory.Â
The two of you stay tangled in each otherâs arms until a small meow interrupts your moment, Kiwi coming to curl around your feet. You untangle yourself from Johnny to pick up the cat, resting his body against your chest as you turn to the side so that Kiwiâs head is facing Johnny.Â
âKiwi, this is my boyfriend. I bet you knew that already, didnât you?â Thereâs a glee in your voice that has Johnny lighting up, reaching down to give Kiwi a kiss on his head.Â
âHeâs all-knowing,â he adds with a grin. He reaches out to caress your cheek, pulling you back in, Kiwi in the middle. He sighs happily. âYou better reintroduce me to Hal and Viv,â he whispers softly into your hair.Â
Summary: Your daughter had a nightmare that Clark had to go fix the sun and didnât come back.
Dad!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
It was just past midnight when you heard the soft pad-pad-pad of tiny feet in the hallway. You stirred, half-asleep, just as your bedroom door creaked open.
âMommy? Daddy?â
Leiaâs small voice wavered, carrying that unmistakable tone of a child halfway between brave and frightened. She clutched her stuffed bunny in one arm, her curls mussed from tossing and turning.
Clark was out of bed in an instant, he always reacted to her like an alarm going off, even when she just wanted water. He crouched down to her level, his big frame dwarfing the little girl as he gently brushed the hair from her damp cheeks.
Leia climbed up onto the mattress with surprising determination for such a small body, then crawled straight into your lap, burrowing against your chest. Her tiny hands clutched at your shirt like you might disappear if she let go. You smoothed her hair back gently, kissing the crown of her head.
âI had a bad dream,â she mumbled, muffled against you.
Clark leaned closer, brushing his hand over her back in soothing circles. âOh, honey. Iâm so sorry. Do you want to tell us about it?â
Leia lifted her head just enough to look at him, her eyes wide and wet with tears. âDaddy went to the sun.â Her voice cracked on the words. âYou flew up, and you said you had to fix it. And I⌠I waited and waited, but you never came back.â
Clark froze. His heart lurched in his chest so hard it almost hurt. You felt the way his hand stilled against Leiaâs back, the grief flickering across his features. He reached for her immediately, pulling her into his own arms with a tenderness that nearly undid you.
âOh, baby girl,â he whispered, his voice breaking. He held her against his chest, rocking her gently. âI would never leave you like that. Not ever. I promise.â
Leia sniffled, her tiny fists clinging to his sleep shirt. âBut the sun is really far. What if you go too far and get lost? What if the sun breaks and you hafta fix it and thenââ Her little voice cracked. ââthen I donât have a daddy anymore?â
Clark pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. âThen Iâll find my way back, no matter what. Because you and Mommy are my home. I could never get lost from you.â
Her little breaths hitched as she tried to calm herself, but the nightmareâs shadow still clung to her. You reached over, resting your hand over both of theirs, grounding them.
âLeia,â you said softly, âdreams can feel very real, but theyâre not true. Daddyâs right here with us, and heâs not going anywhere. Heâs not leaving you.â
Clark kissed her temple, then her cheek, murmuring between kisses, âRight here. Always. Iâll always come back.â
She hiccupped, uncertain. âPromise?â
âCross my heart.â He drew an X over his chest. âAnd you know what else?â He tickled her nose, making her giggle through her tears. âIf the sun ever needed fixing, Iâd take you with me so you could hold my cape and make sure I donât get lost.â
Her eyes widened in wonder. âReally?â
âReally,â he said solemnly, then leaned closer to whisper, âbut donât tell anyone else. Theyâd get jealous.â
Leia let out a snorty giggle and finally smiled, her nightmare already starting to fade. She cuddled into Clarkâs side, her bunny squished between them. She let out a shaky little sigh, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned back into him. âOkayâŚâ she whispered.
Clark tucked her securely between the two of you, his big arms wrapping around both mother and daughter like a fortress. Leia clung to his shirt still, but her eyes grew heavier, her body slowly melting into the safety of his embrace.
You reached over, smoothing her hair. âWant to sleep here with us tonight?â
She nodded eagerly, tucking herself between you and Clark. Clark wrapped one strong arm around both of you, pulling you close until you were all tangled together.
As she drifted back toward sleep, her little hand still fisted in Clarkâs shirt as if making sure he couldnât slip away, Clark pressed another kiss to her head and looked at you over her curls. His expression was rawâlove, guilt, protectiveness all tangled together. You reached for his free hand and squeezed, silently reminding him that Leiaâs fear only came from how much she loved him.
A few minutes later, her breathing evened out, soft and steady. She was asleep again, safe in the circle of her parentsâ arms.
Clark whispered so quietly only you could hear, âI hate that she even dreamt that. That Iâd leave her.â
You leaned closer, kissing his shoulder. âShe dreamt it because you mean everything to her. Sheâs three, Clarkâher whole world is you. Thatâs not fear of losing Superman. Thatâs fear of losing her daddy.â
He shut his eyes, holding Leia tighter, as though to anchor himself. âThen Iâll just have to keep proving to her that Daddy always comes home.â
You smiled softly, brushing your hand over Leiaâs tiny fingers still curled in Clarkâs shirt. âAnd you do. Every time.â
Clark nodded, resting his chin atop his daughterâs head, finally letting himself relax. In the dim glow of the bedroom, with Leia nestled safe between you, it felt like a vow sealed in the quietest, most unshakable way.
