Co-author:Â @deanwinchesterswitch - as always Kym took what I had and made it what you see here.
Summary: Jake canât sleep, autopilot takes him to the one place he shouldnât be.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, post-break-up.
W/C: 786
Pairing: reader x Jake
Word of the day (May 26, 2026)Â - Couch
Notes: sequel to I See You.
Song Inspiration: UR HEARTBEAT (WHO DO U THINK ABOUT AT 2AM?) by Jessie Reyez
A/N: Yes it's late but the muses weren't playing ball until now. Plus, I make my own rules! đ
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The apartment is quiet. Not peaceful or relaxing, the kind that presses against Jakeâs ears until it's a sound all its own.
2:01 a.m.
The glowing numbers on the bedside clock glare back at him.
Rolling onto his back, he drags a hand down his face.
Exhaustion from long days of teaching or training used to allow him the freedom to deflect his thoughts, dragging him into slumber almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. But recently, a shift in the pattern was triggered. Around 2:00 every morning, eyes still closed, he reaches across the bed, searching for the warmth of the body he used to pull close.
When his senses register the cold, empty space next to him, his eyes snap open. Breath hitching, he feels like he's in a freefall. When his pulse begins to slow, fingers tightly curled in the sheets, he exhales an angry breath. He hates that a primitive part of his brain still expects to find you there.
The memory of you curled beneath too many blankets, snuggling into him, hits harder every time. You'd steal his pillow, so heâd end up resting his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.
Sleeping on the couch doesn't offer an escape. It only reminds him of the times you'd fall asleep on him watching a movie you insisted you absolutely positively were not going to fall asleep during.
âDamn it.â
Squeezing his eyes closed, he tries to push the memories away, but not even ten minutes later, the silence wins. He throws on some sweats and an old t-shirt, grabs his keys, and slams the door on the way out.
The roads are empty at this hour, and with no destination in mind, he rolls the windows down, letting the cool breeze soothe his heated skin, as he meanders around the town. Not sure how long he's been driving and barely paying attention to traffic signals, he's startled at the next turn to find he's on your street.
Parking across the street from your apartment complex, he lets out a humorless laugh. âYou're pathetic, Seresin."
This is ridiculous. He wonders if he's crossed into stalking territory. Yet, instead of leaving, he sits there, staring at the warm glow of lamp light through a tiny crack in the partially drawn curtains.
Most of the other windows are dark. Their occupants are likely asleep, like most normal people would be at this hour. You might be too. He lost track of how many times he would find you asleep with a book draped over your lap, or lying open on the floor where it fell.
He remembers a time when you couldnât sleep unless he was home. Nestled on the couch, you'd be half asleep, fighting your exhaustion, waiting for him. He'd carefully scoop you up, and you'd curl into his chest with a sigh. It was always the same conversation on the way to the bedroom.
"Why didn't you go to bed?"
"It's too quiet without you. I need to hear your heartbeat."
Maybe that's why he can no longer sleep. He no longer has the comfort of not only your warmth, but the slow, steady rhythm of your heart under his ear when he needs it.
Jake white-knuckles the steering wheel and beats his head against the headrest, trying to dislodge the memory. His next thought only increases his frustration. You might be sleeping better without him and the disappointment he brings.
With a disgruntled huff, he grips the gear shift, but the buzzing of his phone makes him freeze. He dumbfoundedly stares at the notification when he pulls it from his pocket. There's a text message âŚfrom you. It's short enough that he doesn't have to unlock his phone.
Canât sleep?
Heart hammering in his chest, he looks up at the building. Even if he didn't know which apartment you lived in, he would know the familiar silhouette watching him, haloed by light.
He continues staring until another message appears.
You used to have a problem with showing up.
He did, and apparently, now he has a problem with leaving. This isnât helping either of you, and the last thing he wants is to cause you any more pain. He unlocks his phone, trying to formulate a response, but those three tiny dots appear before he has a chance. So he waits.
Youâre a stealth pilot. Sitting with your headlights on is a rookie move, Lieutenant.
The laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Come upstairs, Jake.
He can practically hear the sigh in the words as the next text drops.
Doors unlocked.
This time, there's no hesitation in responding.
On my way.
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Summary: You witness something you shouldn't have, and Bullseye just wants to talk.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: I Wanna Be Bad - Willa Ford / âNo I can't promise that I won't do thatâ
Warnings: Soft!Dark tone and vibes, mention of murder and blood, threat of violence (not against reader), Benjamin Poindexter (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 2 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . â¤ď¸ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your hand shook as you locked the door, your heart pounding so fast it ached. You blinked tears away and did your best to steady your breathing. You had to calm down and think of soothing things.Â
But all you saw was blood. A pair of lifeless eyes staring at you. And that man standing above the body. You heard enough about him to know who he wasâŚ
Bullseye.
He saw you. Of course, he did. Luck was never on your side.
âWhy did I take the garbage out tonight?â you muttered.
The gentle knock on your door jolted you.
âHello?â the man asked, like he knew you were still close enough to hear him. âListen, I didnât mean to scare you in the alley.â
You took a step back. Could you find something to defend yourself? Something he couldnât use against you?
âJust open the door, okay? I wonât hurt you. I promise!â He sounded so sincere you almost believed him. âHe was a bad guy. Iâm one of the good guys.â
You almost laughed at the irony. He murdered someone. How did that make him a good guy?
âPlease,â he said, his voice taking on an edge that made you tremble. âIf you donât, Iâll have to get the key from the landlord.â
Your eyes widened. âWait!â you begged, your breath shaky when you opened the door. âJust⌠please, donât kill me.â
He smiled like a madman once he stepped inside, his mask gone.Â
âKill you?â he asked, shaking his head. âNo. Iâd never.â
He carefully covered your mouth when you opened it, smothering your sounds.Â
âDonât scream,â he whispered.
No, I canât promise that I wonât do that.Â
âLetâs just talk,â he suggested, wiping a tear away tenderly. âAnd youâll see that Iâm a really good guy.â
First time writing for this man. What do we think? Maybe this can be expanded? Love and thanks for reading. â¤ď¸
I'm sorry. If Benjamin Poindexter brushed a tear off my cheek, my knees would buckle. I would collapse, bestie. He'd have to catch me with those strong arms. Those deft fingers would have to - [redacted]
Summary: You get why people call Brendon "Park the Shark", and he notices you more than you realize.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin / âAnd he shows them pearly whiteâ
Warnings: Grumpy and sunshine dynamic if you squint, bit of fluff, reader is slightly thirsty, Brendon Park (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 3 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . â¤ď¸ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Park the Shark.
You understood quickly why people called Brendon that. Most of the Pitt were intimidated by him. He circled the place like a predator who knew was going to get his fill when he smelled blood in the water. The surgeon had the skills to back up his confidence, too, his focus sharp and his methods rapid and efficient. You believed heâd be at home in the ocean if he was a shark in another life.
But you also liked to believe that underneath his magnificent firm body that there was a soft spot.
Seriously though, how does he look so good in scrubs?
âMorning,â you called out when he walked by.
He paused and turned his head, his eyes narrowed.
âYouâre early,â he said, his voice low and even.
You laughed and you swore you caught the corner of his mouth lift, like he was trying not to smile.
And he shows them pearly white.
âYou say that like Iâm not always early,â you teased.
âI know you are,â he uttered, angling his body to fully face you. âAnd you were here late last night.â
He noticed?Â
You shrugged like it wasnât a big deal. âCase needed finishing, so I stayed.â
âGood work,â he said after a moment.
âThanks, Park,â you said softly, your heart skipping a beat.
Dana, who stood a few feet away, stared at Brendon over her glasses. He was not a man who made small talk. He wasnât the kind of person to throw out compliments for the hell of it either.
His jaw clenched, the subtle warmth in his eyes fading. âLet me know if anyone gives you a hard time,â he ordered before he walked away.
Dana raised an eyebrow at you.
âNot a word,â you mumbled.
But you were smiling.
Another first time character for me! What do we think? Love and thanks for reading. â¤ď¸
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Jake forces himself to finally clean the disaster zone his apartment has become. The place looks like he feelsâbarely functioning. Flight manuals precariously stacked on chairs, lesson plans strewn across the table, empty coffee cups seem to be breeding on every surface, and a laundry pile that looks about ready to start moving itself to the machine.
The cleaning helps him outrun the silence. Silence is the enemy because it gives him a place to wallow.
Silence reminds him that he can't call to hear your voice. There isnât an email with venue choices waiting to be answered. No cute little notes taped to the fridge or the smell of his favorite meal cooking because you wanted to surprise him.
Silence reminds him of everything he lost.
Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty âŚdreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.
He's not ready to deal with it.
Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.
"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box heâd packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.
He had scribbled âSTUFFâ on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.
Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.
He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.
He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. Youâd laughed at him the entire time.
âBabe, itâs just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.â
These arenât forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.
His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, itâs in his handsâa terrible idea because it smells like you.
Jake closes his eyes, âDamn it,â and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.
Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.
He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired âŚdefeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.
Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armorâor whatever this isâhe stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.
âHey.â
You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. âHey.â
Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.
Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. âI have some of your stuff.â
âOh, thanks.â You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.
âThe place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didnât realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.â
Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. âI have something for you, too.â Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.
âNo.â Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.
Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.
âJake.â
âNo.â When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. âIt's yours. I don't want it back.â
You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.
âYou know what kills me?â He's averted his gaze back to the ring. âI kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.â His jaw tightens. âYou didnât, though, did you.â
It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. âJake.â You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.
Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. âYou were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if weâd always have time.â
It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what youâd been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.
Tears blur your vision. âI wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.â
His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.
Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. âI donât know if I missed my shot,â he hoarsely whispers, âbut if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.â
The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.
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Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesnât take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. â¤ď¸ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldnât overdo it.Â
As if he could ever say ânoâ to you.Â
âYou could smile a bit more, you know,â Steve teased, handing him a beer.Â
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. âI am smiling,â he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.Â
âYou only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,â Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Buckyâs gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.Â
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like youâd done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.Â
You were beautiful.Â
âCan you blame me for having a smile just for her?â Bucky asked.
âNot at all,â his best friend replied.Â
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didnât even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.Â
You and Sprout.Â
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.Â
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldnât help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.Â
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. âYou deserve this, you know.â
Bucky swallowed hard. It didnât always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, heâd either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
âSo, youâre saying I deserved to knock up my wife?â he joked to deflect.Â
The blonde snorted. âYeah, thatâs what Iâm saying,â he said, giving him a small smile. âAlso saying you deserve this life.â
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.Â
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
âThanks, punk,â he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
âJerk.â
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
âIs that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, sheâs fucking huge. How many are in there?â
The thought of domesticity and peace left Buckyâs mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.Â
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.Â
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasnât a friend of his or yours. He was only âinvitedâ because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.Â
That wouldnât happen again.Â
âBetter snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.â
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didnât want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
âYou know thatâs Barnesâs wife, right?â The assholeâs friend shifted uncomfortably. âSheâs really nice, and heâs⌠well, heâs pretty protective of her.â
Buckyâs gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Canât kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. âSo? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?â
âŚHeâs fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. âWant me to handle him?â he asked, his voice low.Â
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didnât like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.Â
This was his fight.
âI got this,â he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. âJust keep an eye out for a minute?â
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.Â
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldnât cause a scene out of respect for you.Â
But he wasnât going to stay silent.Â
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.Â
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.Â
âHey, man! You-â
âYou got something to say about my wife?â he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.Â
The manâs eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. âI⌠What?â
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.Â
âYou were talking about her.â Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. âMy wife.â
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.Â
âSay it again,â he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. âWhere I can really hear you.â
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. âUm⌠Barnes, I-â
âMy wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.â His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. âAnd you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I wonât do something about it?â
âI-It was a bad joke,â he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.Â
He wasnât.Â
âOh, now itâs a joke? You think youâre funny?â He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. âYou think Iâll laugh while you crack âjokesâ about my wife?â
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of âinterrogationâ was nothing. Childâs play.Â
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
âI-I really didnât mean-â
âDonât.â His voice dropped even lower. âDonât insult my intelligence.â
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
âYou know what I see when I look at her?â he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. âI see the strongest person Iâve ever met.â
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.Â
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldnât draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.Â
âIâll say it again. Sheâs carrying our baby. Sheâs uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like sheâs something to mock when sheâs the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen.â His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. âYou should be ashamed of yourself.â
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
âGet up, Chet,â he ordered.
âChetâsâ mouth fell open. âThatâs not my-â
âI know what your name is, and I donât care,â he cut him off, straightening up. âBecause you donât respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.â
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.Â
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didnât matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. âSorry.â
âIâm sure you are sorry now, but itâs a little too late for that.âÂ
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it wouldâve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they wouldâve missed the firm squeeze.Â
âMove.â
The prick didnât need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didnât make him leave, too.Â
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chetâs pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.Â
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.Â
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didnât want to add any stress to your plate.
âChrist, man,â Chet muttered.
âYou stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,â Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. âAnd donât you ever disrespect my wife again.â
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. âI wonât.â
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, âYouâll never speak about her like that again. Youâll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.â
âI understand,â he swore, his voice cracking.
âGood.â Buckyâs nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. âAnd the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.â
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.Â
Bucky pointed toward the street. âGet the fuck out of my sight.â
The idiot practically ran to his car.Â
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.Â
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.Â
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.Â
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.Â
âThereâs my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.â You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. âYou okay?â
Bucky stared at you in awe.Â
God, sheâs so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.Â
âI should be asking you that,â he replied, his brows furrowing. âAre you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?â
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didnât take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasnât the same.Â
âIâm just fine,â you assured him, and he knew you werenât just saying that for his benefit. âBut you didnât answer my question,â you added teasingly.Â
Always thinking of me.Â
âYeah,â he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. âEverythingâs fine now.â
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didnât falter under your gaze. There was no need to.Â
âEverythingâs fine now, which means it wasnât fine before,â you guessed.Â
Bucky sighed. He shouldâve known youâd feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.Â
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.Â
âJust⌠needed to throw some trash out,â he said carefully.Â
It was true.Â
Chet was trash.Â
âThatâs one way of putting it,â Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.Â
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didnât chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didnât care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasnât going to pretend otherwise.Â
âHey, Sprout,â he murmured, his entire expression softening. âYou behaving for your mama?â
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.Â
âSproutâs just fine, too,â you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. âYou sure youâre okay?â
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that youâd be a good mom. And how you didnât think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.Â
He wasnât about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.Â
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance youâd cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.Â
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, heâd do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.Â
And heâd take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. Heâd make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. Heâd silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.Â
I love you both so much.Â
âYeah, sweetheart,â he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. âIâm better than okay.â
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! â¤ď¸
Today your shift in the pitt started off great but soon became slightly intolerable.
 Two words. James Ogilvie.Â
An R4 at the pitt, same as you. He was newer to the pitt and you, being a seasoned resident here, got the privilege curse of having him with you for the first few weeks.Â
Honestly he wasn't that bad at first but it seemed like something new came up with him every shift. Truly a thorn in your side.
 It also turns out he is definitely into you.
That poses its own issues with him always asking you questions and following you closely every shift.
 The worst is the constant flirting. Corny at first but now it's like nails on a chalkboard. It truly is harmless which is why you've never brought up being married or who your husband is.Â
It's not something you broadcast. But you keep a constant reminder with your wedding ring on a chain that's tucked securely under your scrub top.Â
Despite wanting to yell, you refrain. You typically laugh off his attempts to joke or flirt with a slight laugh or politely declining advances.
Youâre handing him over to Langdon soon anyways.
Only a few more hours.
ďšďšďšďšďšďšďš
At some point you lose Ogilvie among a series of incoming traumas and donât bother finding him just yet. Heâll likely find you first.
After finishing a chart, you lay your head on the nurses station counter.
The only thing getting you through this shift is knowing you get to leave early today, followed by date night with your husband. The thought alone has you smiling to yourself.
You glance at the clock and it reads â3 p.m.â
âFinallyyy!â you groan as you go to clock out and grab your things.
After you grab your stuff, you're headed to the door when Frank catches your attention from an empty exam room âWoah where's the fire?â he jokes. Okay you might have been moving at a brisk walk, eager to leave and get ready.
âThere will be one if I don't get out of hereâ you huff with a laugh glancing over your shoulder âOgilvies all yours Langdon!â
He shakes his head laughing âYou owe me!â he answers back just as you make it out the sliding doors.
ďšďšďšďšďšďšďš
It's three hours later and here you are back at the hospital. This time you're happy to walk in knowing it's not for another shift.
You're dressed in an outfit you had just recently gotten, specifically for tonight. Your hair is washed and styled, and you even had time for a light makeup look.
You walk up to the nurses station where you find Trinity, Dana, and Frank.
Dana greets you first. âLook at you hot stuff! Hot date I assume?â
âYouâd assume correctlyâ you laugh, a blush covering your cheeks.
Trinity leans forward on the desk âDoes he work here?â curiosity in her eyes.
âYes actually, he's a surgeonâ you smile, giving no more hints.
Your three friends gasp at the new information. âOkay you have to tell us who he isâ trinity pleas with anticipation.
âYeah honey, who's the lucky guy?â Dana chimes in with a smile.
Hmmm. You thought. Let's make this juicy.
You bring up your left hand that is adorned with your wedding ring âMy husbandâ
A bright smile grows on your face as you watch the three around you stare at your hand in absolute shock.
âYOUâRE MARRIED??â Trinity all but yellsÂ
She gently grabs your hand to examine the ring closer âSINCE WHEN?âÂ
âYeah, since when!? You've never mentioned a relationship, let alone a marriage!â Dana says with wide eyes and examines the ring too. âItâs gorgeous though honeyâ she smiles
Frank still stands in shock, jaw dropped âWOW⌠talk about plottwistâ
âI just know whoever he is, he does not play about youâ Trinity says while releasing your hand.
The four of you laugh at her comment until another voice speaks up âWho's married?â
Oh my god. Of allll people.
Ogilvie comes striding up, eyes finding you immediately.
âHoly shit girl, you're hot as hellâ he says with a smile, eyes roaming your figure.
Frank comes up to your side âBack off Ogilvie, not happeningâ
âYeah dingusâ Trinity adds as she joins Frank at your side âand did you not just hear, she's marriedâ she emphasizes.
Ogilvie scoffs âDuh Santos, that's why I asked. But here's the real questionâ he leans forward slightly towards you âAre you happily married?â
You raise your eyebrows and go to reply but he continues.
âBecause this so-called husband of yours isn't even here. What kind of man lets someone as gorgeous as you out of his sight?â he questions with a slight smile, clearly believing he's made a great point.
Before he can continue, a gruff voice speaks up from behind him.
âWho says I do?â
Ogilvie turns around and his stomach drops at who he finds. Brendon Park. The shark. As he was about to quickly find out.
Park stalks up slowly from behind Oglivie, hands clasped behind his back, circling the resident.
âAnd you wonder if sheâs happily married right? Iâd say very by the way she can't take her eyes off me, donât ya think?â He smiles smugly.
He looks directly at Ogilvie âOlive tree was it?â
âI-uh-um itâs uh OgilvieâŚâ he stutters out.
Park shrugs his shoulders âSame thing and still of no concern to me. The same way my wife is of no concern to you.â
He goes to take a step towards the shell-shocked resident before he's stopped by your voice.
âHey handsomeâ you coo at him, gravitating towards him with a hug around his waist. His chilling demeanor slips almost immediately as he wraps you into his chest, as if shielding you from any and everything.
Youâre only for him.Â
âHey sweet girlâ he mutters while laying his cheek against your head.
âAlmost ready to go?â You look up at him.
âYeah baby, just gotta grab my things from the office. Walk with me?â He says while pulling away, hands still holding onto yours, gently persuading you to follow. Of course that was no hard ask. Youâd follow this man to the ends of the earth if he asked.
âWhy yes Dr. Park, lead the wayâ smiling softly you let him drag you along, pulling you into his side, arm around your shoulder.
Ogilvie stands there with Trinity and Frank.
âYouâre such a dumbassâ Trinity breaks the silence .
Frank chuckles at that âYeah olive tree you just became fish food for the sharkâ
Ogilvie looks at the couple, still in shock at the fact his fellow resident & never gonna happen crush is married to Brendon Park.
He sighs in defeat âOf fucking course she would belong to the shark.â
Summary: An offhand remark unites the unlikely team.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: banter, implied threats of violence/death.
W/C: 727
Characters: Rick Flag, Harley Quinn, Bloodsport, Peacemaker, King Shark, Amanda Waller.
Word of the day (May 23, 2026)Â - Chuck
Betas:Â @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Mission briefings reminded you of a high school assemblyâa special form of psychological warfare. The missions were always a shit show. Run toward danger, take out the target or grab the intelligence, and donât die in the process. The briefings, however, were the real battlefield.
Task Force X, the self-appointed âcool kidsâ, sat as close to the back of the tiny auditorium as physically possible, as if they were expecting the room to suddenly fill up and force them into assigned seating, when in reality it was only ever them.
The place felt like a morgue. Didnât smell much better either. The screen at the front of the room glowed with maps and satellite images nobody was paying attention to, because the Suicide Squad collectively possessed the attention span of six caffeinated toddlers locked in a toy store.
Harley sat upside down in her chair, chewing gum and popping bubbles obnoxiously loud. King Shark was eating something out of a paper bag that you wisely decided not to ask about. Peacemaker and Bloodsport were quietly arguing over which one of them had the better kill count.
And at the front of it all stood Amanda Waller, looking perfectly composed and calm as always.
â...failure,â Waller continued, clicking to the next slide, âis not an option.â
Translation: failure means you die. Whether that was from the mission itself or Waller getting bored and pressing the button on her phone, currently clutched in her hand, was mostly a technicality.
You stared at the screen, then at her, then back at the screen. Sheâd spent the last twenty minutes explaining a mission that involved armed mercenaries, secret underground tunnels, and intelligence that looked like it had been gathered by someone throwing darts at a conspiracy board.
This wasnât a mission. It was a group project with explosives. You clenched your jaw.
Seated next to you, Rick noticed your tension. He leaned in, fist pressed against the side of his mouth, to hide it from Waller. âSheâs not worth it.â
âI didnât say anything,â you said through clenched teeth.
âDidnât need to. Your face is saying it for you.â
âHow would you know what my face is saying?â
âI pay attention.â
Waller continued, âIf any of you deviate from the mission parameters...â She trailed off as she held up her phone.
You felt your blood pressure rise. The threat, the show of power, was ever-present.
âOne day somebodyâs gonna chuck a chair at her,â you hissed under your breath.
Silence. Then Rick made a strange, almost inaudible choking sound, and his shoulders shook with the effort of restraint. He had mastered the art of not overtly laughing, which somehow made it worse.
It wasnât funny. Okay, it was. As threats go, a chair was not all that scary.
âYou good there, Colonel?â Bloodsport asked.
Rick coughed, âFine,â sitting up straighter.
Harleyâs voice came from directly behind you, âHypothetically,â closer than she had been a second ago. Sheâd moved three rows without anyone noticing.
She was leaning between your seats, eyes wide with interest, as if someone had just whispered âcrimeâ three times into a mirror. âHypothetically,â she repeated, staring way too intently at Amanda. âAre we talkinâ folding chair? Office chair? One of those little metal WWE-lookinâ ones?â
Rick's eyes widened. âNo. No Chairs.â
âHypothetically, though?â
âNo hypotheticals.â Rick spat in a whisper.
Harley looked offended. âYouâre no fun,â she pouted.
âYeah, Colonel,â you agreed. âWay to crush creativity.â
âAre we throwing for distance or accuracy?â Bloodsport asked.
âSpin matters,â Peacemaker added.
âYou want good aerodynamics.â Harley nodded.
âWhy do you know chair aerodynamics?â you asked.
âWhy donât you?â
You bit down on your lip, looking at your desk. Do not look at Rick. Do not make eye contact. If you made eye contact, you were done for.
âIs there a question?â Waller asked.
Nobody moved or breathed.
The world's longest ten seconds passed. Waller made pointed eye contact with each of you in turn, then returned to the irrelevant slideshow.
Rick leaned toward you. âIf I die today, Iâm haunting you.â
You looked at him, feigning innocence. âYou laughed.â
âI hid it.â
You scoffed quietly. âShoulders donât lie, Colonel.â
Harley tutted, âUgh, just kiss already.â
Rick closed his eyes and shook his head. âI hate every single person in this room right now.â
âAww,â King Shark said, âgroup bonding.â
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You're the only woman ben hooks up with anymore- but he thinks your ashamed of him. Time to prove him wrong.
|⢠MDNI (18+!) |⢠cw: jealous!Ben, unprotected P-I-V, oral (fem!receiving), creampie, cold!Ben but he warms up, hooking up, quickies
W.c: 1.8k (not proofread)
Ever since you've joined the group, you've had your eyes on Ben.
How could you not? Yeah, hes scary, hes the soldier boy, for fucks sake. but you cant help the way your knees wobble slightly everytime he speaks to you in his rough tone.
A rainy evening rolls in. The safehouse smells like motor oil, cheap beer and damp concrete. But it always does. Ben is sprawled across the ratty couch like he owned the place, boots on the coffee table while hughie argued with frenchie in the kitchen about explosives- atleast it sounds like it. You sit cross-legged on the floor, cleaning blood off a knife.
"...why d'ya always stare at me like that,"
he drawls. "People are gonna think you like me." You didnt even look up.
"People think alot when the days long."
He grunts. The thing was- you hadn't meant to stare. You never do- it just comes naturally. It started ugly and impulsive after a mission had gone sideways.
Adrenaline. Screaming. Bruises. The two of you alone in some ratty motel bathroom while water from the shower collected on the tile floor to drown out the noise.
One minute, you were yelling at him for nearly getting MM killed, the next he had your wrists pinned against cracked tile and you were kissing him hard enough to make his lips hurt. Not that he'd care. After that, it became a pattern. Quick, secretive, never discussed. Quick fucks against walls, in abandoned motels, even in the safehouse late at night when everyone was asleep, a hand slapped over your mouth to muffle any noise from your mouth while he rammed his cock into you.
And soldier boy- who had spent decades fucking his way across America without a second thought, realized one evening in a bar that he hadn't touched another woman in months.
Not because he couldnt.
No- because he didnt want to. Which was fucking ridiculous. He told himself it didnt mean anything when you rested your head on his chest after sex. Didnt mean anything when you absentmindedly played with the chain around his neck while half asleep.
Or on that quiet afternoon. You angered him on a mission, and fuck if he could wait until you're back at the safehouse. He cant. Thats why he has you on some scrappy, dirty floor, fucking you hard in prone-bone. The tip of his thick cock slams into that perfect, spongy spot inside your warm cunt, and you feel like you might cry. With your cheek smushed against the floor, and feet dangling weakly behind you, your hand reaches out, searching for something to hold onto while every harsh thrust inches you a little forward, and your hand finds his. Your eyebrows knit together while his scruff tickles the sensitive skin of your throat, and he quickly pulls out, still holding onto your hand while his warm cum shoots all over your back.
Not even that meant anything-....right?
That afternoon had stayed with Him. Your palm against his, breathing uneven and eyes squeezed shut while he held on so tight he thought me might break your fingers. People who were just fuck-buddies didnt do that. Right? But then the next day you'd barely look at him infront of the others. Like he embarassed you.
The bar is crowded and loud, neon signs reflecting blue and pink against sticky and nasty floors. Ben sits alone in some dusty corner, nursing whiskey while Butcher hustles some idiot at pool. You're sat at the bar waiting for drinks when some guy slides up beside you. Young. Pretty. Smug. Ben watches your face carefully over the rim of his glass, a perfect eyebrow slightly raised. The guy says something that makes you laugh politely, and then- he touches your arm. Soldier boys jaw tightens.
What. The fuck?
...why is he even mad- you're just fuck buddies, but hes still halfway to standing when you shake your head and say something short. Final. He cant hear it but the guy looks annoyed. You glance across the room one time- directly at Ben. Automatically, the guy hitting on you looks over too- but once he catches sight of the massive supe glaring holes through him, he basically evaporates. Right after, you grab your drinks and walk straight back to ben's booth.
"You looked homicidal,"
you smile a little, sliding him a Beer.
"I am homicidal."
At his words you snort softly and scooch into the booth next to him, slightly close like its instinct. Warm. Easy. His arm settled along the back of the booth behind you.
"You could've gone with him,"
he says casually, making your brows furrow. "Why would i do that?" He shrugs, pretending not to care. You stare at him for a second too long before looking away.
And only two nights later, you're back at it. Stubble scratching along your thighs, you moan quietly. He eats you out like a man starving, ridiculously- plump lips wrapping around your clit and sucking on it with a loud slurp.
Jesus Christ, hes a real womanizer. His beefy arms wrap around your thighs, stopping you from squirming with ease- one of your hands tangled in his hair while the other one braces against the sheets.
"....mm-, fuck-"
you whisper breathlessly. He only hums in response. "....mhmm?.."
A floorboard creaks outside.
Both of you freeze.
Then comes footsteps.
Your eyes widen in Panic. "Fuck-" and the doorknob rattles. In one panicked- intrusive reaction, you shove at ben's face with your foot.
Hard.
He stumbles backward with a loud thud into the nightstand. "OW-- Jesus fucking--"
"Shhh!" The door cracked open and inch. "Everything okay?" Hughie asks sleepily. He heard whining. You sit upright instantly, clutching your blanket to your chest while ben crouched besides the bed, rubbing his jaw with murder in his eyes. "Fine!-" you squeak. "I--uh--nightmare,."
Hughie blinks. "....Right. okay." The door shut.
Silence.
Ben slowly looked up at you.
"You kicked me in the fuckin' face." You'd almost be scared of him right now if you werent so caught off guard.
"I panicked-!"
"You panic like a goddamn mule."
You bury your face in your hands. "I'm-...sorry-."
But he barely hears you. Not because of the kick to his face- because all he could think of was how terrified you'd looked at the idea of someone finding out.
Not embarassed.
Terrified. Of him.
Something cold settles in his chest. Colder than it always does.
So he pulls away after that. Subtle at first.
He stops touching you casually. Stops sitting beside you. Stops lingering after missions to trade sarcastic comments while everyone else cleans up.
And you notice.
Of course you notice.
He can tell by the way your eyes track him across rooms now. By the little crease between your brows whenever he brushes past you without stopping.
Still, neither of you say anything.
Until one night, you finally corner him in the kitchen after everyone else went to sleep.
"You're avoiding me."
Ben scoffs, swallowing. Not nervous. Not really. Just....tense. "You're paranoid."
"Bullshit." You hiss.
Making you flinch, he slams the fridge shut harder than necessary. "Maybe i got tired of sneakin' around like your dirty little secret."
Your face falls.
The instant regret hits him like a truck, but he keeps going because hes soldier boy.
"You act like people finding out about us would be the end of the fuckin' world."
"Thats not---"
"You kicked me in the face because hughie touched a doorknob."
"I panicked!"
"Why?" His voice cracks through the Kitchen sharper than intended.
"Why are you so scared of people knowing, huh? Are you so ashamed of me?"
You stare at him like he'd slapped you. Then you laugh once- small and disbelieving.
"Ashamed of you?-"
"Sure looks like it."
"Oh my god." You drag both hands down your face before stepping closer.
"Ben, i'm- scared because this team is already hanging together by threads and if Butcher realizes we're involved he wil absolutely use it against us-"
He says nothing.
You swallow the lump in your throat, shaking your head. "You really thought i was embarassed of you?"
"When people get close to me," he says quietly, "it usually ends badly."
The honesty in that nearly breaks your heart. His expression had gone guarded in a way you rarely saw-- less arrogant, less untouchable. Just...tired.
You step closer slowly, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.
"I turn other men down because i want you," you mumble softly. "I sleep in your bed whenever i can, because i want to. There's no other guy who's hand i hold during sex-..."
His eyes search yours carefully, like he doesent trust what hes hearing.
"And for the record," you add, voice trembling slightly, "if someone had opened that bedroom door while you were eating me out? I would've died of humiliation because they caught me completely in love with you."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then ben kissed you.
Not rough this time,- not hungry. Just deep- and wrecked and relieved.
His hands cradle your face like something precious while your arms wrap around his neck.
"You love me..?" He mutters against your mouth like the words still confused him. His rough hands trail up your waist under your shirt.
You laugh shakily. "Unfortunately."
A huff escapes him- almost a laugh.
Then he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, eyes closed.
"Mh,"
A few soft kisses get pressed against the smooth line of your throat, making you exhale shakily while one of your hands braces on his chest.
Your and ben's heavy breathing fills the room. His hands tug your pants off, and your hands fumble with his sweatpants too. Of course hes not wearing any underwear. Pig. Biting down on your lower lip, you spit into your palm and stroke up and down his length a few times, before he pushes your panties aside and lines up with your pretty cunt.
God, hes missed it.
Once he bottoms out in you, a grunt leaves him and a quiet moan leaves you. Every thrust feels different from the other times- Like you both finally admitted something thats been killing you. Your hands scramble for leverage on the counter and the back of your head hits the cupboard with a deep thrust. If only you could bring yourself to care. Your arms wrap around his neck.
"Nnh- mh-mh-mh-...shit..."
You pant. His hips move faster and faster until he finally throws both of you over the edge, bodys locking up and limbs tangled with eachother. He pulls out of you, his cum leaking out of you with ease.
Summary: Nothing is ever easy with Task Force X, you should have known better.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes:Â peril, danger, canon type situation. W/C: 538. Pairing: None.
Word of the day (May 21, 2026)Â - Agree
Betas:Â @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Amanda Waller had said it was a simple âReconnaissance mission.â Surveillance. Observation from a safe distance. Harmless spy work with a fancy title.
The term 'simple' should have been enough of a warning, because nothing is ever simple when it involves Task Force X.
âEasyâ was the word Rick used. âAn easy recon mission.â
Apparently, you are surrounded by liars.
The two of you are currently crouched behind a crumbling stone wall near an abandoned warehouse. âI still donât understand why I had to come,â you hiss.
The place is like something out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare. Rusted metal beams jut into the dark sky like fingers reaching for the heavens, to escape the hell within. The room you just escaped from was grimy with dust and substances you really don't want to think about, covering every surface. It was thick enough to write your last will and testament in, and the way things were going, you might need to.
Rick spares a glance at you, âBecause youâre good at recon,â then picks a chunk of something off your cheek.
âMm.â
âAnd you wanted more field experience.â
Narrowing your eyes, you chastise, âThat sounds suspiciously like youâre using my own words against me.â
His mouth twitches. âI would never.â
He loses the battle with the smile as you continue to stare him down. The audacity is breathtaking. Youâve known Rick long enough to recognize the signs. The way his features subtly shiftâthe almost smile, eyes creasing slightly at the corners, the lower pitch of his voiceâ when he knows he's winning an argument.
âDonât look smug.â
âIâm not.â
âYou are. Your face is doing a thing.â
âMy face is not doing anything.â
His face is absolutely doing a thing, but before you can continue your very reasonable argument, Harleyâs voice comes through the comms.
âSoooo.â She pauses. âTiny issue.â
Rick's sigh is immediate, chin hitting his chest, as his head drops with a shake. âHere we go.â This man, who has lived through several wars, dealt with loss and destruction, and suffers through countless battles with Waller, finds Harley Quinn more stressful and exhausting than anything he's ever been put through. âWhat did you do?â
âI may have pushed a button.â
A brief moment of dead silence, and then Rick tilts his head back with a groan. âHarley...â
âIn my defense, it was a very pushable button.â
Seconds later, a cacophony of dissonance fills the night, like an orchestra without a conductor. Sirens scream, metal doors screech, voices shout commands, truck engines roar to life, all against the backdrop of flashing red lights and bright white search beams.
Rick taps your arm and tilts his head to indicate direction.
âNo!" you growl.
âNo?â he huffs back.
Rick's expression morphs to the same one he uses when dealing with Harley, and it stings a bit. âI didnât agree to this.â
He's done talking. "You did," he gruffly states, as he secures his gun, preparing to stand.
âI agreed to recon.â Gunfire erupts on your left. âI agreed to observe. To binoculars and note-taking!"
Rick grabs your arm and pulls you up with him, commanding, âMOVE!â
Covering his back, you angrily shout, âI DID NOT AGREE TO THIS!â
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Summary: The danger has passed but emotions are still running high.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: bit of angst, bit of fluff. W/C: 845  Pairing: Bradley x Reader.
Word of the day (May 20, 2026)Â - Wreck
Notes: Follow on from Chaos In The Clouds
Betas:Â @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Despite the personal relationship with Rooster, you have to remain calm and confident and finish your job. Assessments have to be taken, reports have to be written and filed, and now there is an unscheduled meeting to attend.
Emotions will have to wait. Besides, you aren't sure whether you want to slap Bradley upside the head or kiss him stupid for scaring you like that. Either way, it's probably best to delay seeing him. A full-fledged breakdown in front of the team and your commanding officers would not be professional.
As soon as you're dismissed from the meeting, you head straight for your office. Leaning against the closed door, your carefully crafted composure finally drops. Body trembling, you breathe deeply to keep from hyperventilating. When your wobbly legs allow, you grab your keys from your drawer and speed-walk to your car.
The pilots had been released hours ago, so you know they are at the Hard Deck by now. After narrowly missing being involved in a car wreck, you make it safely into the parking lot, the car bouncing as you slam it into park.
Upon entering, your eyes immediately zone in on the pool table area. It's where they always gravitate to. Relief is expelled on a deep sigh at seeing them all together, smiling and joking like any other ordinary day. Only, this hadn't been an ordinary day, and you are still feeling the aftershocks.
Fanboy spots you first. âHere comes the lady of the hour,â he calls.
With a tight smile, you tease, âSucking up will not earn you more points, Fanboy.â
Catching Bradley's eye and seeing the firm set of his brow despite the smile, emotions begin to surge. Apparently sensing the rising tension in you, he broadens his smile and proudly quips, "I deserve extra points for style.â
âNegative, Rooster,â Hangman says, pocketing a ball on the table. âI think you lose points for almost becoming a cautionary tale.â
Of course, the teasing doesnât stop. The worry they all carried released in their taunting jabs. Silently, you agree with Hangman, though youâd never say it aloud.
Rooster rolls his eyes, then focuses back on you, still getting one last taunt in. âJealousy doesnât look good on you, Hangman.â He gives you a subtle nod toward the back door.
âSomeoneâs still high on surviving,â you tease, trying to sound amused.
Hangman smirks. âHeâs been insufferable for three hours.â
âThree?â you ask, moving toward the back door.
Fanboy snorts into his drink. âThree hours, twelve minutes,â
âAnd seventeen seconds,â Phoenix adds as if theyâd rehearsed it.
Holding the door open for you, Rooster points at her. âNobody asked you.â
The evening air outside is cool, and you welcome the crisp ocean breeze and the soft sounds of waves rolling onto shoreâa backdrop to the now muffled laughter spilling from inside. It's a little surreal. Life would have carried on even if today had turned out differently.
Bradley is here, flesh and blood. You could reach out and touch him, gaze into those soulful eyes, but you don't. Those terrifying moments are playing on a loop in your mind, churning up all the 'what ifs'.
Sliding up next to you, he shoves his hands in his pockets. âSo,â he says carefully.
âSo.â
A beat passes.
âYou mad?â The incredulous look you give him makes him bob his head. âRight. Stupid question.â
âAffirmative,â you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.
âOh crap," he stands up straighter, "youâre using the voice.â
âWhat voice?â
âThat voice.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
Except you do. Itâs not his fault, but seeing him drinking and laughing with the team after struggling through the rest of the day with the weight of what could have been is overwhelming. Heâs had hours to process it, move past the fear, and get to the point of being able to joke about it. While you've had the same amount of time, you've had to hold it in, stay disciplined, and stoic.
Walking to the rail, you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze until it hurts.
âBabe?â
âLieutenant Bradshaw.â
Heâs at your side immediately. âLieutenant Bradshaw?â he repeats.
You nod, completely serious. âDo you have any idea how much paperwork I had to do because you decided to audition for Survivor: Naval Edition?â
âI didnât...â
You poke a finger into his chest. âIâm not done!â Pressing his mouth closed, he stands nearly at attention. âYou disappeared. You went quiet. Hangman could see you, and then...â You jab him again. âYou said I love you, and then you were gone. I thought...â Your throat closes around the rest because you canât say it.
You feel the tears well, and take a deep breath to try to find some control.
âYou gave me a heart attack.â
âI know.â
Bradley holds out his arms, and you finally surrender, falling into his chest, letting him hold you until the tears stop.
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Tags: @alexxavicry / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @imjess-themess Â
Summary: A joke-filled training session takes an unforeseen turn.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: bit of angst, bit of fluff. W/C: 777 Pairing: Bradley x Reader.
Word of the day (May 19, 2026)Â - Dusty
Betas:Â @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The Pilots are in rare form today. As usual, routine training exercises have turned into unofficial competitions, and today is no different.
Youâre in the control room, headset on, eyes moving between monitors and the long runway outside the tower window where fighter jets scream into the sky and descend back to earth. Itâs easy laughter and endless trash talk from a group of people who trust each other enough to be relentless.
Fanboy set the challenge. Hangman set the record. Phoenix beat it minutes later. Itâs somewhat controlled chaos, but of course, you have to play referee.
âPhoenix, youâre cheating.â Rooster jests over comms.
Phoenix cuts in instantly. âHow exactly am I cheating, Rooster?â
âI donât know yet, but give me time.â
You smile, pressing a button on your console, and taunt, âAre you questioning my integrity, Lieutenant Bradshaw?â
âYeah, Rooster,â Fanboy joins the melee. âAre you questioning your ladyâs integrity?â
âBradshaw,â Hangman drawls, his voice carrying that infuriating grin you can practically hear through the radio. âYou being slow doesnât mean the rest of us are cheating.â
You roll your eyes. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Hangman is always waiting for opportunities to antagonize Rooster.
âIâm sorry,â Rooster fires back, âdidnât Phoenix just leave your ass in the dust?â
âOkay,â You interrupt before it turns into the predictable back-and-forth bickering. âLet's lock in pilots.â
They descend into kindergarten warfare, but they listen to the instructions they are given. Phoenix beats her own record, and then it all goes south.
âControl to all aircraft. Weather pattern change.â Petty Officer Parkerâs voice suddenly cuts through.
What? It was clear seconds ago.
You stand up, looking for the issue. Your stomach drops. On the horizon, closer than it should be, moving with terrifying speed, is a dust cloud that temporarily blots out the sun.
One by one, the pilots report in, Phoenix and Bob, Fanboy and Paycheck are directed to return and land. Hangman reports heâs behind the cloud, following it in.
Shit.
âControl,â Hangman says. âYou have approximately three minutes before youâll be blind.â
âRooster.â You whisper-shout into your mic. Heâs the only one who has not checked in. âRooster.â
Nothing. In the stillness, it feels as if everyone is collectively holding their breath.
Inhaling sharply, you shake your hands out to dispel some of the anxiety as you watch Phoenix land. âDoes anyone have a visual on Lieutenant Bradshaw?â
âI got him," Hangman calmly relays. "I can see his tail. He's âŚâ The pause feels like a lifetime in a situation where seconds count. âIt's gone.â This time, there's a bit of reticence in his tone.
A lump clogs your throat. Itâs not your job to keep an eye on the weather, but itâs something you find yourself doing regardless, because Rooster's a pilot. Because somewhere along the line, weather patterns, wind shifts, and cloud formations stopped being data on a screen and became something that could take him away from you.
Except today.
Today youâd been distracted, mind up in the clouds with him. This morning, Bradley stood in your kitchen, sunlight spilling over him while he stole your coffee and smiled at you over the rim of your mug. Heâd looked at you with soft eyes and sleep-rustled hair and said the three words you didn't expect to hear.
I love you.
The universe feels cruel enough to make it the first and last time.
NO!
Slamming your finger onto the microphone button, you try again. âControl to Lieutenant Bradshaw. Report.â
The sand-filled gust hits the tower, and the sunlight vanishes. Glass rattles as dusty debris scrapes against the windows.
Itâs over as quickly as it started, and as he said, Hangman has followed it in. From your position, it looks as if the nose of his jet is nudging it forward. It wouldnât surprise you, he likes to flirt with danger.
Silence fills the room as the storm moves beyond the field. Seconds tick byâa minute passes. When your legs refuse to hold upright, you collapse into your chair.
Then comes a triumphant, âWoohoo.â
He made it!
His laugh, loud and breathless, has everyone cheering. Still, beneath it, you hear the tiny tremor in his voice. âHoly shit, that was close.â
There's still no visible sign of him, though. âRooster. Location.â You need to see him to believe your brain isnât playing tricks.
âIâm righhhhhhhhht here!â he shouts, a split second before buzzing the tower.
A deafening roar, and everyone ducks as the building shakes. Someone yells, someone else curses. Laughter erupts.
Opening the comms, you smile as Rooster's jet circles back to land. âPhoenix, he just beat your record.â
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Icy cold rain pelts the pavement, stinging where it hits his face. The brown paper bag of groceries is nearly soaked through. He's certain it will crumble to nothing at any moment.
Bucky picks up his pace to nearly a sprint. As he passes the alley beside his building, he's assaulted by the smell of garbage, made worse by dampness.
Just a few steps from the entrance and warmth, the storm worsens, sending a torrent of water and wind down on him. He barely catches the small, pitiful cry that pulls him to a stop.
The tiny mewl happens again, and he abandons all thoughts of quickly escaping the weather and turns back to the alleyway.
Eyes scanning, he focuses his hearing, waiting for a sound to give him direction. Turning at the angry cry, as if it were shouting at the falling sky, Bucky spots the bedraggled white kitten.
âHey, little guy,â he coos.
Distracted from the pointless war with the weather, the feline presses tighter against the wall, eyeing him suspiciously, before rushing toward him. Bucky squats and scoops her up just as the cat reaches his feet.
âWhat are you doing out here?â he asks, holding her up to his eye level. âOh, little lady, I apologize.â
Shuffling the grocery bag, he tucks her under his jacket and hurries into the safety of the building.
Apparently, having been there a while, the kitten smells like a landfill, so Bucky bathes her. The scratches on his arm from her distaste for the process are worth it to see the fluffy white furball she becomes.
After setting her on his bed, he finally changes out of his wet clothes. She yowls the entire time. He keeps his voice low as he speaks, trying to calm her, but she persists until he picks her up again.
"Iâm not keeping her," he mutters for the hundredth time. Still, he wraps her in a kitchen towel and carries the tiny cat burrito to the living room.
âOkay, thatâs better,â Bucky says, dropping to sit on the couch. As he lightly strokes between her ears, the little fluff ball begins to purr. The bath time betrayal apparently forgiven. âNow weâre both dry and warm.â
Her eyes begin to droop as if sheâs fighting sleep.
âItâs okay,â he soothes, âYou can sleep, youâre safe now.â
Almost immediately, her eyes completely close, as if all she needed was his reassurance.
âOh crap,â he sighs. âIâm keeping you, arenât I?â
A knock at the front door startles him, and he freezes, making sure he hasnât disturbed the tiny creature. But sheâs too warm and content to notice.
Gently placing her in the corner, behind a cushion so that she wonât roll off.
A groan escapes as he looks through the peephole and sees Denise Livingston, the president of the HOA, and his downstairs neighbor.
âMiss Livingston,â he says, pulling the door open.
Forgoing a greeting, Denise snaps, âDo you have a cat in there?â
âNo,â he answers immediately.
âI heard something screeching.â
âTelevision.â
âWhere did you get those scratches?â
âUhm, not that it's any of your business, but I was helping a friend with landscaping.â
Eyes narrowed, she tiptoes to look over his shoulder. âThe bylaws prohibit pets, Mr. Barnes.â
âI know,â he says.
âBreaking the bylaws is cause for eviction.â
âI know,â he smiles, wide, too wide. âGood night, Miss Livingston.â
He slowly closes the door, giving a little wave.
Leaning against the closed door, he whispers, âShit.â
Bucky has been smuggling cat supplies into his apartment like contraband for almost a week.
The former assassin who fought aliens and survived Hydra is now being psychologically outmaneuvered by something the size of a sock and Denise Livingston, first of her name, protector of the Bylaws!
Alpine is six pounds of mischief, chaos, and affection.
Itâs the first time, in a long time, Bucky has found himself laughing out loud at anything. The fiesty attacks on his shoelaces, the dramatic sideways hop before pouncing, the way she insists on supervising every single thing he does like a tiny, furry chaperone, elicit warm, comforting emotions he thought he'd never feel again.
Until the one time it isnât funny anymore.
Two minutes. Maximum.
Two minutes while he was in the bathroom, and now sheâs gone.
Silence. No purring, no patter of tiny feet. No suspicious rustling. No tiny white butt sticking out from beneath furniture before she launches herself at his ankles.
The kitchen is empty. He checks the fridge, just in case, because panic apparently destroys his critical thinking. Under his bed. The closet. In his boots by the front door.
Sheâs gone.
âOkay, Alpine,â he tries for stern but lands somewhere closer to desperate. âNot funny.â
He throws the cushions off the sofa, more frantic with each one.
âAlpine.â
The only answer he gets is a quick succession of three knocks on his door. It almost sounds conspiratorial.
Bucky freezes.
Denise.
Fuck. Denise finally found the cat, and now heâs going to be evicted because of a wet-nosed Houdini.
He opens the door cautiously, already preparing a lie, only to find you standing there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
âHey,â he says warily.
You reach into the front pocket of your hoodie and pull out Alpine like a magician revealing the world's fluffiest rabbit. âI think this belongs to you,â you whisper.
Relief floods through him a second before the panic replaces it. âI can explain.â
âItâs a cat, not a body,â you chuckle.
Alpine chirps happily at the sound of his voice and immediately stretches toward him.
âShe came through the vents, heard her cry because she couldnât get out my side.â
âRight, yeah, sorry.â He takes Alpine carefully, like sheâs made of glass. âSheâs apparently committed to ruining my life.â
You grin. âIf all the laughter Iâve been hearing is you, I donât believe that for a second.â You reach out and scratch under the cat's chin.
You hear it at the same time, the ping of the elevator arriving. You exchange the same look of immediate horror.
Bucky shoves Alpine toward you on instinct. You shove the cat back. Alpine mewls.
âHelp me hide her,â he panics.
âIn my hood, quick.â
You spin around, and Bucky carefully settles Alpine against the back of your neck, pulling your hood up over your head, as he tucks in her tail.
âWhat if she moves?â he whispers.
âShe wonât, sheâs already snuggled up.â
âShe likes you.â
Denise turns the corner, and without thinking, Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you into his apartment, positioning himself between you and the doorway as Denise marches over.
âI heard it again,â Denise complains.
Neither of you responds.
Denise elaborates. âI heard crying through the vents.â
âSorry,â you say quickly. âThat was me.â
Denise squints. âYou were crying through the vents?â
âWe were playing a game,â Bucky adds.
Deniseâs eyes narrow further, features full of disbelief. So you fully commit. âA sex game.â
Denise goes scarlet.
Bucky cough-laughs into his fist so hard his whole body shakes.
You smile brightly. âVery immersive.â
Denise looks moments away from passing out. âWell,â she splutters, clutching her necklace. âKeep it down.â
âLet me guess,â you mock, âthere are Bylaws about that?â
She nods once, âIndeed,â before turning and speed-walking back toward the elevators.
Bucky slowly closes the door. The second the latch clicks, you both burst out laughing.
Alpine pokes her tiny head out of your hood at the commotion.
Bucky points accusingly at her. âYou are a menace.â
The kitten blinks at him innocently.
âOkay,â you say, reaching up and stroking the kitten. âWe need to find a way around this stupid bylaw.â
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
your childhood best friend is synonymous with âthe guy you call when something (inevitably) goes sour.â clark is dependable, steady, safe. and maybeâwell, more than maybeâthe grass is greener in his bed.
or: two times your love life needs a little clark kent tlc. third timeâs gotta be the charm, you swear.
wc. 18k+
tags. 18+ explicit nsfw, unprotected piv/mating press, size kink, slightly (?) jealous sex, first time cunnilingus, fingering n squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, creampie, light hair tugging, pathetic clark who whimpers, anecdotes and yearning, talk of past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort if u squint (!!!)
â basically what ciderclark could have been if they werent pussies LMAO. title from the cure's just like heaven aka the most romantic song forever ^u^
Clark lives through every day like the ice cream storeâs about to close.Â
In other words, heâs an avid believer in carpe diem, and he is never too busy.Â
Itâs admirable, really. How heâs always bustling in tandem with Metropolis, zipping in and out of the Daily Planet with a Jitters Coffee in hand and two suits on his shoulders. Flying up and down town to open doors for grandmas, kick lost balls back over the fence, zoom past Strykerâs Island to let Lex Luthor get a real good look before he starts another day in prison.Â
âSuperman doesnât have time for selfiesâ is bullshit.Â
He always makes time for one more thing. One last squeeze in his itinerary, whether it be volunteering to take pictures for someone elseâs article or being the one in the picture himselfâposing straight and strong, beaming that friendly grin before he takes off to seize the day!Â
Which is why he's the first one you text when you finally dump the guy you've been seeing.Â
It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air.Â
The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and itâs balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD.Â
Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: âGosh, we have a testâI know, why on Mondayâbut you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!âÂ
Or, if youâre going by last night: âSeize the day!âÂ
And last Friday: âStrike while the ironâs hot,â which mightâve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because thatâs just how he is.Â
Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clarkâs specialty.Â
Your heart flutters.Â
You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half.Â
Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I likeâÂ
The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows.Â
Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand.Â
Itâs weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering youâre fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one.Â
You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call itâa date here and there, just getting to know each other.Â
Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadnât passed.Â
Heâd fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, whoâs six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life.Â
(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you mightâve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.)Â
Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioningâs still onâyou always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends youâand youâre shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead.Â
Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. Itâs from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to youâsomething to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you.Â
The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail.Â
So does Clark, with his good morning motivational textsâexactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends.Â
Itâs clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl.Â
Once, it was âSunâs up, guns out!â with a photo attachment.Â
It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline.Â
He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over.Â
You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but thatâs all there was to it. Seriously.Â
Itâs just so endearing that in the lifetime youâve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say.Â
You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you.Â
Two minutes ago: âHit a home run like Clark.â Â
Heâs added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C. Â
A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable.Â
You werenât aware that he kept it. Hell, you didnât even know that he brought it to Metropolis.Â
But thatâs just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works.Â
Heâs tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing heâs done in the space between your heart and lungs.Â
And itâs the steadiness of that which grounds you here.Â
When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen.Â
Heâs down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do.Â
Thatâs the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didnât start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does.Â
Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time.Â
You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response.Â
A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so thereâs no point.Â
Your phone buzzes, twice.Â
Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27Â
REMINDER: 4th date, MatthewÂ
You grimace at the second pop-up banner.Â
You still havenât cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates.Â
In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend.Â
Chores, laundry, dates.Â
You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars.Â
You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clarkâs text.Â
Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you canât possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head thoughâhow it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when heâs excited.Â
You really havenât spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if itâs a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise.Â
Youâve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business.Â
Heâs definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but...Â
Thatâs a silly thing to worry about, isnât it?Â
Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'ĂŞtre. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that heâs superb at making up for things. Â
Maybe you should take a page out of his book.Â
TO: clark kentÂ
u busy tonight?Â
we should bring back friday dinner for good lolÂ
but at ur place, mines messyÂ
Delivered with a whoosh.Â
You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face.Â
Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale.Â
Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didnât stammer for several beats after you punched the send button.Â
Heâs probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like heâs still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles.Â
All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldnât be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city.Â
A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit.Â
You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again.Â
Heâs in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble.Â
You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. Thereâs no going back now.Â
TO: clark kentÂ
my boyfriend said so btwÂ
Nice to let him know, right? Â
(You hope he remembers the joke.)Â
Clarkâs dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling.Â
Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order.Â
Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms.Â
FROM: clark kentÂ
Haha, ok.Â
Iâm not flying thoÂ
and I don't have melon pops.Â
A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face.Â
He remembers.Â
Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times heâs come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis.Â
Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you couldâve just asked me) practically runs in his blood.Â
And heâs right. Itâs pretty dotingâand dare you suggestâboyfriend-like already.Â
âŚOh. You freeze.Â
It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile thatâs strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face.Â
Oh, no.Â
â
Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville.Â
Well, itâs less heartbreak and more embarrassment.Â
Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how itâs cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside.Â
Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kentsâ like Clark asked you to.Â
The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droningâouurrrrr.Â
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please donât be mad.Â
He picks up on the first ringâclick! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, âSo. Nate's a jerk, isnât he?âÂ
Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. âYeah. Sorry.âÂ
ââS fine.â You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. âWe all learn some way, right?âÂ
âMhm,â you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings.Â
Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counterâmilkshakes sold out todayâand Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up todayâs round of rummy in the back.Â
No sign of that asshole Nate.Â
No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave.Â
âJust say it.â You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, âTold you so, sunshine.âÂ
Clicking his tongue, âI donât sound like that.âÂ
âYour Ma would disagree.âÂ
âWell, I didnât tell you so, sunshine,â he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. âI just said that the grass isnât always greener on the other side.âÂ
âRight.â You draw out the word, honey-slow on the âiâ. Â
âRight?â Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. âI only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.âÂ
You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your headâwhy the hell are you calling him anyways?Â
Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldnât even care for you like he does.Â
But he isnât. Heâs so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet andâÂ
Fuck, if you arenât sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but youâre half-desperate when you say:Â
âPlease pick me up.â You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. âClark? Hey, you know Iâm sorry forââÂ
You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, âPa! Iâm going out!âÂ
âDrive safe!â Another beat. âDarn boy left the phone hanginâ again. That you, sunny?âÂ
You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. âYeah, itâs me, Mr. Kent.âÂ
He clicks his tongue, a mannerism thatâs almost identical to the way Clark does it. âMm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. Whatâre you doinâ out in this heat anyway?âÂ
You set your mouth into a flat line. â...Things.âÂ
The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a âhey, Mr. Morrisâ without even looking up from the counter.Â
Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. Heâs been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kentsâ awkwardly big son.Â
You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh.Â
âThings, you say,â rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. âDoes this have something to do with Clark beinâ all mopey this morninâ?âÂ
âUm,â you stammer, swallowing. You wince. âMaybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.âÂ
âOh. See, Iâd say if a boy doesnât show up to take you himself, he inât worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,â Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. âWell, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find meâprobâly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limitâI'll be in the barn.âÂ
He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward.Â
âYeah, Mr. Kent, IâI'll see you âround.âÂ
You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone.Â
Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark.Â
Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel. Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like itâs just another day.Â
Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head.Â
And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hairâit's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the backâand if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving.Â
You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek.Â
The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass.Â
(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing heâd randomly blurt out if he was here.)Â
Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark. Â
He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kentsâ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window.Â
And then he taps the glass.Â
Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection.Â
Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force.Â
âWhatâClark!â Â
You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter.Â
âHi!â Your best friendâs broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. âI think you ordered a chauffeur?âÂ
You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck.Â
âVery funny.â Still, youâre helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand.Â
The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. âI came, you called.âÂ
Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. Youâre earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, âThank you, Clark.âÂ
A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. âItâs nothing. Come on.âÂ
He urges you to a nearby alleyâstrange.Â
You donât remember hearing the truck, and thereâs no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier.Â
You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides.Â
âWait,â you start, steps stalling, âhow did you...?âÂ
Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. âOkay, donât be mad.âÂ
âDudeââÂ
ââI flew here because I didnât want you getting heatstrokeââÂ
ââIâve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.âÂ
He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams.Â
Clark didnât take the truck. Heâs going to fly you back home.Â
Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass.Â
Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. âSure, I guess that works out.âÂ
You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day.Â
So maybe thatâs not normal. You should probably seek medical attention.Â
You circle around him and reach to grip his shouldersâthey're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics).Â
Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back.Â
He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk.Â
Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak woodâsame as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom.Â
Itâs more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kentâs stew.Â
You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to.Â
You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. âHave I ever told you how much I love you?âÂ
Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. Heâs always a stickler for eye contact when talkingâit's inscribed into his heartland manners.Â
The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing.Â
âHmm,â he hums, weak, âI donât know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.âÂ
âHelped me, you mean.âÂ
âYeahâŚâÂ
You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off.Â
âYouâre mean.âÂ
âI love you too, by the way,â he quips, pushing off the floor gently.Â
Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back.Â
That shouldnât make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isnât just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else.Â
âCâmon.â You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring.Â
You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes.Â
Itâs okay like this.Â
Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot.Â
âJust this once, okay?â Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldnât mind a round two. âBecause weâre already skipping school.âÂ
âRight,â you nod, grin widening, âand we should totally be back in time to finish up Porterâs final essay.âÂ
He pinches his mouth. âWhat do you mean you havenât finished?âÂ
âOkay, I only need my thesis.â You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. â...And everything else after that.âÂ
The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, thereâs the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you.Â
Youâre going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a stormâs approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking.Â
Automatic, the most natural thing in the world.Â
âSunshine, youââ he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. Youâve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till theyâre pitch dark and plastered to his forehead.Â
He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned.Â
âThatâs barely the introduction.âÂ
â
By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment.Â
Itâs small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and youâre sure thereâs a strange stain in some dark corner.Â
And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO.Â
(But itâs all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isnât settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side.Â
This is temporary, he said, âtill I can find a place in Midtown. But thatâs for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet.Â
Wait...)Â
The temperature doesnât work, either.Â
Well, it does. Kind of. Â
But itâs confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you canât even feel it if youâre more than five feet away.Â
His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress thatâs been plopped in the middle of the room. He couldâve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even couldâve done his entire studio in a day, but he didnât.Â
Because he was âwaiting for youâ. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all.Â
You think back to how you got here.Â
Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand.Â
What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville.Â
Ergo, you did what any best friend would do.Â
You chose Clark, because it has always been that way.Â
Clark doesnât give ultimatums. Doesnât get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl.Â
Heâs forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative.Â
For godâs sake, he exclaimed âwhat in tarnationâ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway.Â
âMy boyfriend sent me here,â you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding.Â
Thatâs how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures youâve been fluent in since your formative years.Â
You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short.Â
The ultimatum.Â
How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends. Â
How that jerkâyou refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would coughâwas so gung-ho about being the guy for you.Â
The first one you had to call. Â
As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in BlĂźdhaven (Clark).Â
As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, âUm, sorry babe, Iâm a little busy.âÂ
And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you werenât really bitter about breaking up.Â
You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all âcause he mightâve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days.Â
Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here.Â
He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions.Â
Which was weird. Because heâs always meticulous about his laundry.Â
âWait, sunshine,â he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. âThe plumbingâs opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.âÂ
âThanks, Clark.âÂ
And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented.Â
You remembered this one.Â
Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake.Â
You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead donât say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall.Â
You didnât push. Didnât pry. Because Clarkâs just like that.Â
Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line.Â
And besides, youâre here now. Thatâs better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your exâs face.Â
You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body.Â
The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment.Â
Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw.Â
Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in.Â
Like all of Clarkâs life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if thatâs fine.Â
It is, for a fresh graduate whoâs paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet.Â
(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.)Â
Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and heâs already deep cleaned every surface.Â
Dust specks float past you, and thereâs a breezeâslightly clammy from the aftermath of a stormâcirculating from an open window.Â
Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill.Â
The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise thatâs starting to grate on your nerves.Â
You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. Thereâs a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague.Â
You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark.Â
Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze.Â
But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirtsâyou stifle a laugh, itâs the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryerâand the pair of shorts you left with your underwear.Â
Small miracles.Â
You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way heâs so familiar that he feels like home.Â
The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides.Â
You dig into the freezer nextâbecause ice cream makes everything better, obviouslyâkitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like itâs barely working.Â
Thereâs a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it.Â
You move on.Â
The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. Andâeven worseâthere's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches.Â
Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves...Â
Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles!Â
And thereâs one left. Itâs semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape.Â
You get that heâs all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day?Â
A flutter of movement catches your eye just as youâre ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist.Â
Right. Old building like thisâthere's a fire escape.Â
You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled.Â
Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirtâCrabjoys again, this time the right size.Â
(You donât want to know how many of those shirts he has.)Â
An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved.Â
Tom Sawyer. Of course.Â
An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time.Â
(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)Â Â
Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream.Â
"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light.Â
"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your handâyou wrinkle your nose. "You're gross."Â
"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.âÂ
He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him. Â
âHowâd you dry the rain off the grate?â you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. Itâs weirdly warm against your skin.Â
Doesnât feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge.Â
Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list.Â
âHeat breath.âÂ
Perks of being superpowered. âHuh.âÂ
You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind.Â
Below is a street you donât remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles. Â
A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet.Â
The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears.Â
"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six."Â
"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings.Â
Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when heâs in the sun.Â
He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closelyâeyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils.Â
In themâcloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine.Â
You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?"Â
"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!"Â
You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two."Â
"Fine, Smallville Half and Half."Â
"But which Half comes first?"Â
"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate."Â
You shove his shoulderâdoesnât budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you arenât sure if itâs really him or you thatâs warmer. Â
âCheeseball,â you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth.Â
He laughs with the odd, boyish charm heâs never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups.Â
You want to hear it forever.Â
You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis.Â
âOh!â Clark straightens like heâs been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. âLook, Pa sent me this.âÂ
Itâs home in the Kentsâ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas.Â
You squint at the screen.Â
Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy?Â
You canât tell them apart like Clark can.Â
Thereâs an irregular shape shadowed by Franklinâs back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and ohâitâs a calf.Â
Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything.Â
The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. Itâs just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing.Â
He had torpedoedâyes, like a missileâout of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place.Â
Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm. Â
âCute,â you say. âWe should go back sometime soon.âÂ
He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyesâhard lines and veins rising beneath tan skinâand you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty.Â
You clench your jaw and duck your head.Â
âAnywaysâ âhe cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. âUh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, âcause I havenât set up my bedframe yet.âÂ
You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. âCan I be the first to see?âÂ
He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how theyâre so ready to just appear even when heâs only talking.Â
âDonât be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.âÂ
âThank you for the astute observation,â you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks.Â
âA-S-T-U-T-E.â Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like itâs no big deal. âIt was in the crossword this morning.âÂ
Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. âOkay, third place winner of Smallville Middleâs spelling bee.âÂ
âWellâ! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,â he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek.Â
You mumble, âApparently not Loretta and Marcie.âÂ
âIâll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.â Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. âBouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.âÂ
You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you donât remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win.Â
And if you still call Marcie âMarcie-Farcieâ in your head? Well, Clark doesnât have to know that. Â
Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. âHey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?âÂ
âLo...?â Clarkâs brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. âOh, donât be mean. Andâhey is for horses.âÂ
You blow a short raspberry. âYouâre no fun.âÂ
âIâm very fun,â he stammers, voice pitched high. âI wear trunks on the outside. IâI like Neapolitan âcause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.âÂ
âRight,â you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. âRight.âÂ
âAnd I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isnât that great? Ohâand I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.âÂ
He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. âTwo households, both alike in dignity. In fair VeronaââÂ
A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. âAlright, alright, youâre fun.âÂ
âI knew it,â Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you canât name.Â
The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick. Â
You still havenât pulled away, arms tight around his chest. Heâs warm, alive, grounding.Â
Safe, in the way heâs always been.Â
And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H.Â
In that whatâs so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way.Â
It never made any sense.Â
Clarkâs nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parentsâ cows after Peanuts characters.Â
The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldnât cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldnât either.Â
âŚWould it?Â
Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. âWeâshould start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, weâre gonna have so much fun once we settle in.âÂ
âDude, you make it sound like weâre gonna live together.â You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd.Â
Like your heartâs about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of.Â
âI meanâŚâ He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if heâs truly considering it. âYou honestly slept at my parentsâ house more than your own.âÂ
Your throat runs dry, caught. âYourâwell, your bedâs just comfier.âÂ
âYeah, itâs âcause Shelby farted on it.âÂ
âEw.âÂ
â
The thing about lightbulbs is: they arenât the same as before.Â
Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks.Â
Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clarkâs old apartment.Â
Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the fingerâflick and light, like a Zippo. And thatâs you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations thatâs about to hit you full force.Â
This is familiar.Â
Standing in front of the door to Clarkâs apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood.Â
Familiar, but not the same.Â
For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This oneâs Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue.Â
And for another, youâre nervous beyond reason, and youâre seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in.Â
Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clarkâs super-hearing is sure to pick up on.Â
Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others youâve had.Â
Except, youâre kind of dolled upâas in, a smidge more makeup than youâd usually wear around him (which is close to none, because heâs seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didnât have lint on them.Â
Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious.Â
âOne sec,â you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and thereâs Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. âHi.âÂ
Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop.Â
Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs.Â
The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint ofâŚvanilla bean, which isnât his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt andâno.Â
You think of him agonizing over two bottlesâextract or bean syrupâin the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head.Â
Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when youâre staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you?Â
Sure, you might have realized that what youâve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did.Â
But thatâs different. Â
Thatâs pining and idealistic stuff. Â
This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the tableâs edge-y.Â
Itâs one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, youâre suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasnât your best friend.Â
In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Supermanâs best angle, so much that youâve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever.Â
(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didnât hear it from youâŚ)Â
Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-machĂŠ of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didnât stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture.Â
Orâyou dread to thinkâSmallville.Â
When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology.Â
Oh.Â
The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall.Â
You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent.Â
Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like âwhat the hayâ and âoh, sakes alive.âÂ
The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he couldâve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked.Â
Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with âno.1 most dependable and would die for you.â Whose toddler pictures youâve had a guest-starring role in.Â
You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. âSunshine?âÂ
âHi,â you blurt, a little flat. âClark.âÂ
Youâre sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. Youâre half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror.Â
He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting.Â
You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside.Â
âAre you okay?âÂ
âYeah,â you breathe, shifting on your feet. âNever better.âÂ
âOkay,â he says. Simple, short. Like heâs not going to think deeper into itâat least you hope he wonât. He flashes a small smile, âIâm making bagels.âÂ
You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him.Â
Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And heâs unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner.Â
âSeriously?âÂ
âYeah.â Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things.Â
He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow.Â
âWoah.â Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. Itâs ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. âSo, Iâm guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?âÂ
You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, âUh, sure.âÂ
Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyesâhowâs work and you wonât believe what the mediaâs saying about you right now.Â
Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clarkâs bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones youâd find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy.Â
His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off.Â
But thereâs frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is differentâmore sunken in, like itâs seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion.Â
And thereâs stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didnât know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal.Â
CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change.Â
You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark.Â
Together. Pinching each otherâs cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uniâs gift shop. You remember this one.Â
Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady.Â
Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit.Â
It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth.Â
âUh,â he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the ovenâs fan, âare you hungry?âÂ
Itâs barely five. Youâre still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clarkâs watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner youâd call adoring. Like heâs in love.Â
Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one youâve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class.Â
But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like heâs yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like heâs got a spark of desire flickering in his chest.Â
Or not. You could be delusional.Â
You remind yourself to inhale. âNo, IâIâm good.âÂ
âOkay,â he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitchesâthe barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. âBecause I think we need to talk.âÂ
You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heartâfuck, he definitely caught on. If thereâs one thing about his policy of making time, itâs that establishing clear communication is included.Â
Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, âWhat?âÂ
âI mean,â he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. âYouâre acting weird. Did I do something?âÂ
You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but itâs quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and youâre thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, Iâm inâÂ
âNo, itâs not youâIâm justâŚâ you fish for an excuse ââŚa little stressed.âÂ
âWell.â Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. âTalk to me.âÂ
Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. âYou kept it.âÂ
He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. âWhy not?âÂ
You shrug. Stupidly, âDunno.âÂ
A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, âItâs my favorite picture.âÂ
Oh.Â
You didnât know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where itâs impossible to not pass by on the daily. Thatâs fine.Â
Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick.Â
âYouâre kidding.âÂ
âNot,â he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. Heâs almost the same widthâgodâand youâre a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. âYou still havenât answered the question.âÂ
Frowning, âWhat question?âÂ
âWhat youâre so stressed about,â Clark says.Â
Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. Heâs been doing that a lotânew nervous habit, you suppose. âDoes it have something to do with your text this morning?âÂ
Your jaw clenches, caught. âMaybe...âÂ
He knows you too well.Â
Clark does that thing againâtilts his head, going from one side to another. Like heâs trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve.Â
He blurts, âI didnât like Matthew, by the way.âÂ
Whichâokay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and heâs entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable.Â
He insisted on splitting the billânot that youâre salty about needing to pay, for godâs sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, âwell, everyoneâs all about equality these days, right?âÂ
And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing.Â
Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid readerâyou know he was acting, because he couldnât tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him.Â
You mightâve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth.Â
And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour:Â
You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark.Â
Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way.Â
Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste.Â
But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping heâd be the one. He shouldnât know who Matthew is.Â
There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone.Â
(How long has he been listening in on you?)Â
You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice.Â
âYeah, I didnât either,â you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out.Â
âI know itâs not my place to say,â he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. âBut...maybe you havenât gone the best way around finding love.âÂ
âWhy, you jealous?â You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease.Â
But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.
Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and heâs back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. ââŚNo.âÂ
You poke his cheek. Itâs warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. âAdmit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys Iâve cried to you about.âÂ
His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, âJust half?âÂ
Oh, heâs jealous.Â
You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clarkâs pretty eyes. That maybe you arenât alone in this. That just like always, youâre on the same page as your best friend.Â
âOkay,â you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. âSo, whatâs your advice, Mr. Kent?âÂ
He allows himself an inhaleâone he doesnât really need, being superpowered and allâand purses his lips.Â
Heâs blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isnât aware of whatâs starting to brew between you.Â
The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit.Â
But heâs so open about his desires that itâs sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like nowâstanding with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips.Â
His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly.Â
Says under his breath, âWell, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.âÂ
âUh-huh.â Youâre helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. âElaborate.âÂ
Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, âLike, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?âÂ
âRight.âÂ
âAndâyou know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.âÂ
âReally?âÂ
âYes!â he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. âFor example, Catâs really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think sheâs got a point.âÂ
You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh.Â
âSee, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,â Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. âThat ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And itâs easy for them, to communicate their desiresâ âhe finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quicklyâ âand stuff.âÂ
You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, âWanna put that to the test?âÂ
The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. âIâdonât know what you mean.âÂ
âI mean,â you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, âmaybeâyou know, Catâs theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.âÂ
Clarkâs eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, âYeah, yeah.âÂ
You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kentsâ. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room.Â
He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger.Â
Some things between you donât need words. Like when youâre hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh.Â
But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too.Â
âSunshine?â His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. âI can hear your heartbeat, yâknow? Itâs the one where youâre planning something.âÂ
Fuck. You canât take it anymore.Â
âI like you.â It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek.Â
You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. âI like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I justâÂ
I realized nobody loved me like you,â you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didnât know was clenched around your heart has released itself. âAnd I took that for granted when I shouldâveââÂ
âSunshine,â Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang youâve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis.Â
He doesnât say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth.Â
And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you canât name shooting through your heart and oh.Â
Oh, it feels like youâre finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss.Â
One you know you canât turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin.Â
Youâre going to feel this for days, you think.Â
Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like heâs really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings.Â
Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that thereâs a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift.Â
You think he was made for this. To hold you like youâre made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like heâs trying to fuse into your skin. Â
Wouldnât mind, a thought smears by in your mind.Â
He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push.Â
You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest.Â
He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like youâre the most precious thing heâs ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didnât know until now had ridden up.Â
âShouldâveâ âa soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your earâ âdone this sooner.âÂ
âWell,â his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jawâs hingeâkisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. âBetter lateââ sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck ââthan never.âÂ
You register that heâs sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like heâs asking for permission.Â
His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if heâs trying to chase another hit.Â
âWait,â he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed faceâbrows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. âCome back.âÂ
âIâm gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,â you say, tone whispered.
Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like youâre teetering on the knifeâs edge of sanity.Â
You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You donât even know why you lament honestly, âAnd then I canât take this off. And then we canât fuck.âÂ
Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs.Â
Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame.Â
âI prefer the term making love.â His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and heâs holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air.Â
You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. âOh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.âÂ
âAh, we canât have that,â he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird.Â
Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like heâs the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny thatâs making you feel so violently alive. Â
You want, want, want.Â
Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream.Â
Itâs no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline.Â
The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touchâyou curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isnât enough.Â
Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs. Â
He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands.Â
He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your bodyâcollected, steady.Â
Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide upâa line of flinty sparks follows himâto cup your hips. Â
âSunshine,â he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adamâs apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. âDo you mean it?âÂ
You blink up at him, confused. âHuh?âÂ
âThat you like me.â He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. âThat you want this.âÂ
A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course heâs double and triple checking.Â
âSilly,â you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. âI canât lie to you.âÂ
âCan you say it again? Just to be sure.âÂ
âClark.â You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. Youâre all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, âI want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.âÂ
His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like youâre doing something to make him weak.Â
He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you.Â
Except, itâs a little different now. Except, thereâs something terrifyingly raw swimming in hisâyou've just noticedâunnaturally dilated pupils, and youâd be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond.Â
Maybe heâs always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didnât realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but itâs quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up.Â
Youâre fixated on the way his fingers work the buttonsânimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks.Â
Heâs big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit.Â
Your chest tightens for a breath. Â
Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction.Â
Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt.Â
You hope your eyes arenât bugging out.Â
Heâs sculpted like a goddamn Greek statueâsolid muscle, defined pecs and shouldersâyet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that.Â
âCâmere,â he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like heâs drunk off desire. Like heâs also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest.Â
His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you.Â
And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like itâs right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips.Â
Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart.Â
His lips slide over yoursâlonging, like the short minute thatâs passed since he last kissed you was an eternity.Â
And his heartbeat jumps.Â
Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck.Â
He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home.Â
âYou make me so nervous,â Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. âGod, sweetheart, you have no idea.âÂ
His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later.Â
Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim.Â
Your breath freezes in the same moment as his.Â
âPlease?â he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response.Â
His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it.Â
The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom.Â
Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness thatâs gathered in your panties.Â
Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest.Â
You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because youâre a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation.Â
Then youâre laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight.Â
And itâs stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you.Â
Like he wouldnât have this any other way. Like heâs trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows whatâs going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates.Â
Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because youâre a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots.Â
âDonât stare,â you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak.Â
âWhy not?â Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. âI'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.âÂ
You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. âYeah. My eyesâre up here, you know.âÂ
âReally,â he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. âOr as Ma would say, Iâm happy as a clam.âÂ
Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease.Â
âOh,â he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, âor thatâs a sight.âÂ
Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head.Â
Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric.Â
A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didnât expect yourself to be.Â
Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly.Â
He groans quietly but doesnât listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach.Â
Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips.Â
âBaby, youâre so soft,â he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks.Â
You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are.Â
He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it.Â
Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum.Â
âPlease,â you breathe. Canât even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. âClark, please.âÂ
Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. âPatience is a virtue, yâknow.âÂ
You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know itâs bait. âI...âÂ
A gentle smile rises to his face. ââS alright,â he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. âIâll remind you.âÂ
Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal.Â
The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex. Â
You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattressâyou donât miss the subtle way he grinds his hips downâand lays his head against your thigh.Â
âShouldâshould I tell you now that Iâve never done this before?âÂ
Curse your stupid, big mouth.Â
Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. âWhat?âÂ
Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. âNoâfuck. Not like that.âÂ
âIâm gonna need some clarification,â he says, propping himself up on his elbows.Â
âIâm not a virgin,â you blurt. âIf thatâs what you think. I just...âÂ
He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, âNo, thatâsâsunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.âÂ
A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you.Â
Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact thatâ âIâve never had a guy go down on me!âÂ
âAndâ âyou have to fight yourself to be honest about thisâ âhalf the time, I donât come anyway.âÂ
Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes.Â
Just zones out a bit. As if he isnât laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down.Â
But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready.Â
He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really canât believe it, âBut youâre okay?âÂ
âYeah,â you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, âmore than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.âÂ
He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lamentâoh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that.Â
âSo,â he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. âWhat even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you arenât satisfied?âÂ
You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down.Â
âJustâŚI take care of myself after. Obviously,â you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and youâll be damned if you donât find out what Clarkâs whole reminder is about. âLots of sore wrists and stuff.âÂ
An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open.Â
âLike this?â he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two.Â
âYeah,â you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. âI justâgod, youâre thick.âÂ
âEasy, honey,â he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until heâs pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks. Â
You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end.Â
The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like heâs penetrating your entire body. Like heâs going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now youâre more than willing to keep him warm.Â
He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach.Â
âDid you do it like this?â He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. âOr that?âÂ
Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist.Â
âGod,â you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. âThere, there, shit.âÂ
Itâs like a switch has flipped in you.Â
Youâre fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: âOh, Clarkâbaby, fuck, thatâsâgood, so good, Clark, pleaseââÂ
He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into youâa filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you.Â
âCâmon,â he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, âThatâs it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?âÂ
You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until youâre all wound up.Â
Itâs getting to be too much, like youâre being filled to the brim and then some. Like youâre about to spill out of your own skin, all âcause of your best friendâs ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How heâs shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement.Â
Your pulse is pounding. Like youâre trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too.Â
And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sexâfucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot.Â
Itâs not the way heâs lapping at you that makes you break. Itâs not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you.Â
Itâs just Clark.Â
He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair.Â
Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest.Â
Starbursts pop in your vision.Â
You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand.Â
Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like youâve been dunked in the pool and someoneâs trying to talk to you from above the surface. Â
You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clarkâs eager mouth.Â
Thereâs a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like heâs reluctant. Heâs still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like heâs found an altar between your thighs.Â
But he doesnât bring you down. Doesnât let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place.Â
âClark,â you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. âClark.âÂ
His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest.Â
He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies.Â
"Going somewhere?â he rasps, and god, if that doesnât make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some.Â
âNo,â you mumble, heat prickling under your skin.Â
Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin.Â
âOkay,â he says, quiet.Â
This time, heâs slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside. Â
Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead.Â
You donât know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it.Â
You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until youâre rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder.Â
Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moansâloud, honest, fervent, broken in a way youâve never heardâright into your folds andâÂ
Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuckâÂ
Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adamâs apple.Â
He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like heâs the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like heâs the one whoâs been licked within an inch of his life.Â
He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, heâs blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs.Â
âGosh,â he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like heâs tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. âGosh, Iâm so sorry, sunshine.âÂ
You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. âWhatâs wrong?âÂ
He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra.Â
âNot you,â comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. âJustâyou taste too good.âÂ
You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth.Â
You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. âI was about to come again, you know.âÂ
He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum.Â
âGosh,â he stutters, and youâre pretty sure thatâs his word of the day, âIâm sorry, I couldnât take it.âÂ
âTake what?â You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him.Â
He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows.Â
âI thinkâwell, I almost,â he squeezes his eyes shut, âI didnât want to come yet. And uh, I donât have a condom.âÂ
You guess heâs your best friend for a reason.Â
Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that youâve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy.Â
You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. âYouâre funny.âÂ
âSure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,â he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. âSo just to be sureââÂ
âYes, Clark,â you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. âWe can fuck without a condom.âÂ
âYouâre so crass,â he chides, and cool air hits your breasts.Â
Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that heâs thrown it and the rest of your clothesâwith terrifying accuracyâinto his hamper.Â
That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring.Â
Heâs so sweet. There isnât another word for how he makes you feel. Itâs just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes.Â
And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and heâs asking again, because heâs got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker:Â
âWill you let me have you?âÂ
Not can I. Will you.Â
You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops.Â
âIs that a yes?â he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, âFor the recordâoh, godâIâm a yes. Please.âÂ
Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. Heâs scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it.Â
He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is.Â
Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs. Â
âBaby,â he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, âas much as I like thatââÂ
âYeah,â you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. âYeah, I wantââÂ
âI know,â he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back.Â
Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you canât really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville.Â
He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.
Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, âYouâre so pretty. My pretty girl.âÂ
You donât remember how you respond to that.Â
Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath.Â
He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and thereâs so much of him sliding forward that you donât even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and youâre so fucking full of him that you think you wonât be able to get up tomorrow.Â
Good thing itâs Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like youâre one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time. Â
(Yes, youâve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit.Â
The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.)Â
And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needsânot wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sunâto live in your skin.Â
He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, âGod, youâre so tightâsunshine, youâre perfect.âÂ
Heâs everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until youâre trying to arch into him, but you canât, because heâs fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and ohâÂ
You get why he says âmaking loveâ like an old-fashioned loverboy.Â
Because he is. Because heâs pushing and pulling into your cunt like heâs promising, like heâs revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand.Â
âI love you,â you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. âClark, please.âÂ
âI can hear you,â he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. âYour heartbeat, itâsâso fast.âÂ
He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive.Â
âYou liked that,â Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when heâs satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. âHolyâI love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, youâve no ideaââÂ
You canât recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clarkâs face randomly, creeping up on you like all this.Â
The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies haveâbeing late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries.Â
And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek.Â
A ruined whine rips through your lungs. Youâre so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice.Â
He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him.Â
Oh. This is proving to be too much for you.Â
And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding.Â
Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin.Â
Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way heâs looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment.Â
You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue.Â
He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until youâre melting and heâs approaching his orgasm.Â
Clark doesnât slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and youâre still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest.Â
It isnât long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until heâs following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his lifeâs mission all along.Â
â
You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on.Â
Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and thereâs a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. Youâre hungry, and itâs late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand.Â
The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass.Â
And then you remember that this isnât your apartment. Youâre waking up in Clarkâs bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and heâs done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed.Â
Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course.Â
The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor.Â
Heâs standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and heâs balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you canât see well.Â
His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light.Â
Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend.Â
âHi,â he breathes, shuffling into the room. Heâs wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. âGood thing I set a timer on the oven. Couldâve burned our breakfast for dinner.âÂ
âYou spoil me,â you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and heâs there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple.Â
âThatâs because you're the best thing in the world,â Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks.Â
Heâs so gentle. Intimately familiar.Â
Youâve already loved him for a lifetime.Â
You wouldnât mind one more.Â
â kisses to the lovely wonderful betas dee @kentbot and nini @dancing-inasnowglobe for prereading this crazy fic for me! please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33
Summary: Jake's concern grows with each tick of the minute hand.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, language. W/C: 245. Pairing: Jake x fem!Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 12, 2026)Â - Clock.
Betas:Â @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: @deanwinchesterswitch // image in title card taken from Top Gun Instagram.
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The clock ticked over, carving away another hour.
That made three.
Three brutal, excruciatingly long hours with no news.
No news is good news.
So they say.
Whoever they were had clearly never had to watch you eject at four thousand feet with an engine on fire. Jake had seen the chute deploy. He knew Search and Rescue were out doing their job. None of it did a damn thing to calm his accelerating heart rate.
Heâd been grounded, ordered back to base to wait.
âBut I saw where she went down, I know the exact spot!â Jake argued with Admiral Simpson earlier. With his growing frustration, he almost forgot to add the âSir.â
âAnd you relayed that information accurately to Search and Rescue, Lieutenant. They will find her, and they will bring her back.â
Another minute ticked by, and Jake made his decision. To hell with Search and Rescue. Heâd find you himself.
âHangman,â Phoenix warned as he pushed off the couch.
Ignoring her, he sidestepped the foosball table just as the common room door swung open.
Cheek bruised, scratches streaking your arm, one knee of your pants torn and bloody, you limped through the entrance.
Seeing Jake, muscles taut, and features set in a mix of anger and worry as he stared you down, you gave him a cheeky wink and a smile. "Did you miss me?"
âFuck,â he breathed, folding at the waist, hands on his knees, and chin tucked.
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Summary: The decision has been made, and Jake is helpless to stop it.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, break-up. W/C: 900. Pairing: Jake x Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 16, 2026)Â - Mover
Betas:Â @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch // image from fancaps.net
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Jake almost trips over the box labeled BOOKS in thick black marker sitting by the open front door of your shared apartment.
He stares at it from the hallway for a second too long, grocery bag hanging from his hand, duffel slung over his shoulder. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirps into the afternoon heat, almost like a warning.
Deeper into the apartment, something scrapes across the hardwood. Another box slides into view, this one says KITCHEN.
Jakeâs stomach drops clear through the floor. For a second, his brain tries to invent another explanationâspring cleaning, donations, you're reorganizing.
Then he sees the movers. Wearing shirts with the same logo as the van he passed outside. Big guys in matching black shirts carrying your dining chairs out like pallbearers.
One of them gives Jake an awkward nod on the way past.
âCareful with that one,â he hears you call from inside. âThe legâs loose.â
You sound calm, steady, maybe a little excited. Somehow that's worse. He reluctantly moves forward, dodging boxes, pulse hitching with each step like walking through the aftermath of a crash site.
Faded shapes dot the walls where pictures and decor once hung. The refrigerator's surface is bare. No longer cluttered with Polaroids and old notes suspended by kitschy magnets. Cabinet doors stand open, hollow like spent missile shells, void of the very thing that gave them purpose.
In the middle of it all, you're bent over a box, smiling, his old Naval Academy shirt hanging loose on your shoulders. Tape dispenser in your hand like a gun, shooting directly into his chest at the screech of sealing boxes.
âHey.â
Hey. As if heâd just come from work to find you reading your favorite book, like there wasnât a man currently carrying your life down three flights of stairs.
Jake drops his duffel to the floor and cautiously sets the groceries down on the counterâbread, beer, the coffee creamer you likeâordinary things.
âWhatâs all this?â
The question comes out rougher than intended. The way you delay a response, securing the tape with the heel of your hand, tightens his chest.
Still not looking at him, you move to seal another box, then finally reply, âYou know what this is.â
Jake laughs once under his breath. Short. Disbelieving.
âNo. I donât.â
You lay the tape gun on top of the box and finally turn your attention to him. He wishes you hadn't. Thereâs something devastating in the fact that you donât seem angry or upset. You look tired.
âI took the job, Jake. I signed a lease three weeks ago.â
Three weeks. How had he not known? Because, of course, he didnât know. Heâd been gone more than heâd been home. Training, deployments, heâd accepted a teaching job too.
âYou couldâve said something.â
Your eyebrows lift slightly. âI did.â
He remembers now. Every âNot now, baby.â âIâm sorry, baby.â Every promise to talk later that dissolved into another deployment schedule or another night when Jake pretended he didnât see the distance growing between you.
âYou decided to do this while I was away?â
âYouâre always away lately.â
âYou knew I was coming back today.â
You shrug. No yelling or theatrics. It's worse than if there were screaming. âThe last seven times, seven, you said were coming home, you called to say something else had come up. A day turns into a week, a week into a month.â
He looks around the apartment again, really looks this time. He doesnât recognize the coffee table beside the armchair where you like to read or the lamp atop it. How long had that been there? How long had it been since heâd been home?
The empty bookshelf. The missing pictures. The absence of you is everywhere because heâd never lived here, not really.
A slow horror starts crawling across his skin. This isnât impulsive. This isnât a fight.
Another mover shuffles through the scene, carrying more boxes. He wants to yell at them to stop, for everyone just to stop and give him a damn minute, but he knows it's futile.
Youâre already gone.
âSo this is it? Youâre not even gonna fight for us?â
You shake your head, looking up at the ceiling, and he knows you're fighting back tears. âThatâs just it, I have been. Iâve been fighting so damn hard, but I canât keep begging you to notice me, to put us first, just once.â Sighing, you angrily swipe at the falling tears. âIâm tired, Jake. Iâm done.â
It's not the leaving, or the boxes, not even the tears, it's the exhausted sigh, because heâs never seen or heard that before.
Jake crosses the room before fully thinking. âYou want me to notice you?â he says, voice sharp with panic. âBaby, I see you. Iâm here.â
âNo,â you whisper. âThatâs the problem, youâre always halfway out the door even when you are here." Holding up your left hand, you look him square in the eye. "You put this on my finger, but youâre always too busy to take the next step. Iâve tried...â Your voice shakes. âI passed up two promotions to be here with you. Iâve put my life on hold for you, for us. I canât anymore.â
Jake stares at your hand while the truth swirls in the air along with the dust motes.
He loves you. Everyone knows that. Hell, you know that. But love unattended starts to warp and rust, like an unkept engine. Until it finally breaks beyond repair.
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Summary: Confidence begins to waver under the desire to please.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff, implied smut. W/C: 775. Pairing: Bradley x fem!Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 14, 2026)Â - Waver
Betas:Â @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Frankly, there should be laws. Laws against a man looking like that in the morning.
The sun spills through the kitchen blinds in warm golden stripes, catching on the broad line of Bradleyâs shoulders, the faded gray Navy tee stretched across his back, bare feet planted on your kitchen tiles like heâs lived here for years instead of spending the night for the first time.
One night. One spectacular, sleep-lost, heartbeat-stealing night.
And now the man who can land a fighter jet on a moving aircraft carrier is standing at your counter, absolutely losing a war with a slice of sourdough.
You lean on the doorframe, arms folded. âNeed me to call in reinforcements?â
He glances over his shoulder, hair sleep-ruffled, mouth still swollen from kissing you senseless hours ago.
Your knees file for resignation, but you shake it off by taking a step forward.
âIâm fine,â he says.
The bread springs out of the toaster, startling him enough that he nearly drops the knife.
You snort.
He points the butter knife at you, smiling. âDonât.â
âOh, Iâm going to, youâre being beaten by breakfast.â
He turns back to the counter with the grave focus of a man defusing a bomb. His hands, tanned and capable enough to make your skin remember things instantly by just watching him work, drag the butter across the toast in uneven trenches.
And there it is again. That tiny shake. That little waver in his hands.
Barely noticeable if you hadnât watched those same hands confidently guide steel through the clouds, gentle at your waist, reverent against your skin in the dark.
âBradley.â You step close.
âMm?â
âYouâre nervous.â
It happens again, the slight shake of his hands.
âI am not.â
âYour hands are shaking.â
He tries for casual, but it falls short. âThat is slander.â
âYouâre buttering toast like youâd waterboard Hangman for pissing you off.â
You move beside him, hip brushing his. He stills immediately.
The great Bradley âRoosterâ Bradshaw, king of easy smiles and laid-back confidence, is suddenly very interested in the countertop again.
You soften. âWhy are you nervous?â
He exhales once through his nose. âBecause.â
His pause is too long. âCompelling answer.â
âBecause,â he says again, quieter this time, âI really like you.â He keeps talking, eyes glued to the knife in his hand. âAnd I know Iâm supposed to be cool and casual this morning, maybe even charming or say something funny.â He sets the knife down. âInstead, Iâm in your kitchen with my hands shaking over dairy products.â
You stare at him. Then you laugh, not at him, but from the sheer unbearable sweetness of it all.
His head drops. âAnd now sheâs laughing.â
âIâm sorry,â you say. âYouâre just unbearably sweet, and I donât want to mess this up, so now Iâm nervous.â
His head lifts at that, surprise chasing the embarrassment off his face.
âYou?â
You huff a laugh and step between him and the counter. âYes, me. Shocking development, I know.â
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Heâs trying to fight it, but it's slow and warm and dangerous to your ability to think straight.
âI thought you were the calm one.â
âI was, right up until I saw you standing in my kitchen looking like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike a problem.â
That earns you a real grin, the confident, bright enough to rival the morning sun smile. âA problem?â he asks, sounding a little too proud.
âA serious one.â
He steps closer, crowding into your space until your back presses into the counter behind you. His hands settle at your waist, no waver remaining in his touch. âGood,â he mumbles. âIâd hate to be the only one having a crisis before coffee.â
He dips his head, nose brushing yours, giving you every chance to pull away, but you donât. This kiss is different than the ones in the dark.
Last night had been heat and hunger, months of stolen glances snapping under pressure. This is slower, softer, the kind of kiss that says this isnât fleeting, this is the real deal.
He makes that sound again, the same rough one from last night that ruined you as he moves from your mouth to your neck.
The toaster pops a second slice into the air, and you both jolt.
Bradley groans into your shoulder. âI hate that thing.â
âYouâve flown combat missions, and you're letting breakfast defeat you.â
âWorth it,â he says, lifting you onto the counter before kissing you again.
His hands are steady now, roaming and exploring again.
The toast goes cold. The coffee never gets poured. Neither of you is troubled by it.
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