Or: You can't help but notice how strikingly familiar Superman looks when he crash-lands into your living room.
Warnings: Sort of angsty because reader doesn't know how to deal with an injured Superman and rightfully freaks out lol, still happy ending // Ofc reader doesn't know Clark is Superman // Around 3.6k words with an abrupt ending cause why not
Morph's thoughts: I've seen so many (delicious) fics of Peter Parker crashing into reader's apartment as Spider-man and idk why it made me think of Clark so here's that version :p // Feel a little guilty due to how little i've been posting + there's only one more week of Picture perfect posts so double update today yayy // Feedback always welcome and appreciated <3
Fuck, how is it happening again? The creaking of a window giving into the weight pushed into it, the way glass panes slam against the walls and the consequent thump of a body hitting your living room's floor. You'd moved out of Gotham for a reason, and you were getting really salty really quickly, seeing as that reason had seemed to follow you into your new life in Metropolis.
With a muscle memory you'd much rather not have, you easily reach into the cupboard by the stove âquickly turning off the heat source and damning your dinner to a half-cooked and lukewarm stateâ, focusing on getting the heaviest pan and quietly making your way out of the kitchen.
The next thing is taking your phone out, sending a quick text to Clark in hopes he'll see it soon enough to come help or call the police if something is seriously wrong, you trust your boyfriend to know what to do in a moment like this. Stoping at the living room's doorway, you take a deep breath and prepare for whatever might come next.
With as much stealth as someone riding a high of adrenaline can muster, you poke your head in and take a quick look around. You come out empty.
Doesnât mean you trust it, though. You've seen weirder shit happen before, and a burglar noticing there's someone home and crouching down behind the couch or under the table wouldnât be that far fetched, anyway. So you tiptoe your way past the entryway and into the room, staying with your back pressed as close as possible to the immediate wall and slowly raising your pan to hit whatever intruder dared to think themselves smarter than you.
That is until you round the couch. Then the pan is falling directly off your hand and loudly clanking against the floor, barely muffled by the bit of carpet it bounces onto. The loud sound causes a wince from him.
For the man laid out on that same carpet. The one that sports a bright blue suit, a red cape that looks like it could be made from the softest fabric you'd ever touch, and an all-too-easy to recognise big S symbol on his chest.
Your hands fly to cover your mouth, eyes widening until your brows push into your hairline. Not just because thee Superman is in your house âwhich admittedly is already a lot to take inâ but at the sheer state of him.
There's a few rips on his suit, enough of them stained with red and releasing a coppery scent to make it clear that whatever made the cuts went deep enough to spill blood. Something that already feels shocking on its own, because based on how many clips of him being attacked by all sorts of tactics and weapons, just for him to come out unscathed every time, you didn't think it would be possible.
To that you mentally add the twitching on his hands, the harsh and shaky breaths that have his chest raising in uneven patterns and the way he's somehow both, limp on your living room floor, and tense as if bracing for the next wave of pain.
It's even worse when you manage to snap out of the initial shock, when you move closer and kneel beside him. Because now you have full sight of him; of the way his eyes are so unfocused and rolled back that you can mostly see white, of the layer of sweat that is making his skin clammy and has his curls sticking to his forehead, of how pale he's gone and how easy it is to see every vein in his body.
It has to be some kind of poison, you're sure of it, you just canât fathom what sort of substance could affect him in this way.
A light groan leaves Superman, his trembling hand reaching for you for a moment before it drops again. His eyes search the room, that surely has to be spinning around him, but don't quite manage to land on you before his head is falling back onto the carpet.
"Hey⌠Hey, um⌠Supermanâ" okay, you're not being helpful, at all. You run a hand over your face and then do the closest you can to locking in, shifting a little closer and carefully guiding his head so it isn't just slumped to the side. "Can you hear me? You here?"
There's no formal reply coming from him, but a couple sluggish blinks and another effort to move his hand is good enough to make sure he's at least somewhat conscious.
"Good, alright. That's good," you mutter, probably to reassure yourself rather than him, while inspecting the rest of his body for any bigger wounds you should take care of first.
Luckily it seems like it's only the scrapes and cuts you'd already spotted before. Great, so you mostly have to figure out an antidote to whatever is in his organism while having next to no medical knowledge at all. Specially knowledge that applies to fucking Superman of all people.
To avoid freaking out, you decide to deal with the little bit you understand first. Carefully setting his head down onto a throw pillow before you begin to push onto your feet. Something stops you, and you have to blink a couple times before realising his hand is suddenly wrapped around your wrist with more strength that you'd expect him to have right now.
"âŚDon't g-goâ" you're back on your knees in an instant, free hand moving to curl around his freezing cold one. "'M notâ Stay."
His eyes are glassy and unfocused, but you still feel the weight of the pleading in them settle on your chest. Your head is nodding before you can really push out any words, guiding his hand off your wrist and around yours instead.
"I'm not leaving. I'm here," it's a quiet reassurance, barely louder than a whisper, but it seems to be loud enough for him to hear even in this state. His grip on your hand softens and you take the chance to run your free one through his curls, pushing them off his forehead and feeling for a possible spike in temperature.
You have to push away the weird feeling that crawls over you, the one that itches at the back of your brain and screams about a familiarity you canât quite pinpoint. Instead you focus on the heat radiating from him, and the desperate way in which his head tilts into your touch, most likely following the relief of your cooler skin.
"I'm not leaving, okay? Just going to get some bandages," you nod along to your own words, brows lightly rising as you search his expression, trying to find some sort of sign of his understanding. "Supermanâ" it's soft, not quite the scolding you should probably fall into given his refusal to let you try to save his life. "You need to let go. I'll be in the other room for less than a minute, then you can hold my hand again."
It takes a couple more careful tugs but he ends up giving in and letting your hand slip from his grip, not without a mix of a grunt and a whine that makes it clear he's not in agreement. Hurriedly, in case he gets another burst of energy and stubbornness, you rush onto your feet and in search of anything close to a first aid kit you might have sitting around.
What you manage to gather is a little too sad to call a kit, just a bunch of gauzes, a disinfectant spray and a pack of bandaids that you're sure doesnât contain any big enough for his injuries. In your defence, you'd never planed for an injured superhero to crash into your place when you moved in. The array in your hands seemed enough for something like a stubbed toe or a slip of a knife while cooking â which was as much of a medical need you expected to have.
Settling it all by him, you avoid his grubby hands with a squeaked apology as you rush into the kitchen next. For his barely expressed delight, you come back shortly after, this time finally kneeling back beside him and placing a cold pack to his forehead.
"I know, i know" you murmur, guiding his hand that is desperately looking for yours again, letting it settle on the side of your thigh instead. You adjust a little closer, a sigh leaving you at the idea of having to both figure out how to get the suit open and off of him. "I'll hold your hand in a minute, okay? Have to clean these cuts first."
It's surprisingly nice, the way his calloused thumb lightly rubs against you, the cold of his fingers seeping through your pyjama pants and contrasting with how warm the rest of him is. It's distracting, too. You force yourself to ignore it, along with that nagging tingle, almost pain, in the back of your head whenever you look at his face for too long. It's like a brain fog appears every time, an instinct to point out a pattern that doesnât manage to fully manifest itself.
Ignoring the pressure that seems to form behind your eyes from it, you go back to looking for something, anything, that will make possible undressing him⌠Okay, that sounds wrong. Not undressing, just making his wounds accessible.
"How do you even get into thisâŚ" it's a grumble to yourself, a frustrated mutter as you try to look for any signs of an opening in the thick material while moving him around as little as possible. Still, it must be loud enough for him to hear, because with a pained grunt that you would've preferred not having to hear âgiven the way it makes your heart clench as if you'd been the one feeling the painâ, he's moving to lay into his side.
Instead of his hand, it's his face pressing into the side of your leg now. And you should probably make quick work of the zipper he's just revealed and push him back onto his back, because he's too hurt to think of what he's doing and way too weak to stay like this for long. You really should prioritise his physical well being over coddling his surprising levels of clinginess . But you canât bring yourself to do that, instead one hand gently cups the back of his head to help him stay like that while the other carefully pulls the suit undone.
"Fever is not going down," with concern, you adjust the cool fabric so it presses more insistently against his skin as you guide him to lay flat once more. Letting him hold onto you however he wants now, you focus on finally getting the fabric off, making yourself zero-in his injuries instead of letting yourself think to long about the fact that Superman is laying just in his underwear right in front of you.
If the disinfectant stings, he doesnât show it, too busy with wrapping a sluggish arm around your waist and pulling you further into his side. You pretend not to notice, but you can definitely feel the way his eyes follow every little thing you do, the light hitch of his breath and the tension on his muscles whenever he thinks you might pull away again, just to melt back when you stay.
"Okay, those should be all set," with an approving nod, you stick down the last gauze with a couple more bandaids. It looks incredibly dumb, a shoddy job of trying to keep all injured skin protected, making it seem more like you've put a few patches of scrap fabric on a broken soft toy than nursing a superhero back to health. Still, it's good enough to prevent infection, and given that his fever and poisoned state aren't getting better, you think it's fare to assume a half-arsed bandage is the least of his concerns right now.
At some point you reach for your phone, text Clark again. To let him know there was no robber and because you know he's interviewed the man stubbornly refusing to pass out on your living room's floor before.
In a desperate attempt you text him everything, the fact that Superman crashed into your home, that he clearly needs some antidote you canât even phantom how to get, and how you hope he's more of a friend than a journalist to the hero and can give answers to all your questions. Every few minutes you check the screen, hoping to get a reply, when none come you try to call. But it is just your luck that the one day you need Clark to immediately answer his phone, it's on silent.
You try a few more times but they all go to voicemail, which you can't really blame him for, given it's past midnight by now. The best you can do is hope he'll eventually call back, but it's clear you're alone now.
That's how the next few hours go by, with your desperate attempts at finding a solution and his body's refusal to cooperate in any way or form. The fever won't go down, nothing in your medicine cabinet reduces the paleness of his skin or the way every vein seems to raise to the surface. No infusion or tea relieves the tacky feeling of his sweaty skin nor the laborious work every breath seems to demand.
You're all out of ideas by the time you settle back on his side, carefully guiding his head to rest on your lap when the nth pained sound leaves him. You keep one hand in his hair and the other wrapped around his, withstanding that insisting headache so you can hold his pleading gaze. "I don't know how else to help you," it's a quiet mutter, something croaky with the not that settles on your throat. The idea of not figuring it out causing a tightness on your chest that hurts more than the migraine that has formed by now.
He just gives your hand a soft squeeze, clumsily guiding it to rest on his chest and over his heart, his bigger one blanketing it to hold it there. Its beating is much slower and softer than it should be, you're sure of it, but it's also constant. A reminder that he's still there, holding on.
How much longer you spend like that is unclear, but your legs have definitely gone numb by now, not daring to shift even a bit as to not jostle his head around. His eyes have drifted shut at some point, although you don't think he's really asleep, given how his thumb swipes over your knuckles every few minutes.
The headache has been insistent this whole time, and by now you're convinced it's purely out of exhaustion. You hadn't had the chance to have dinner, spent all night in vigil looking after him and the sun was starting to rise by now.
It's okay, Clark might call soon and he'll be over. He'll know what to do and you'll get the chance to rest and eat and shower, and do everything to forget that you're not doing enough to save this city's hope. Until then you'll say here, feeling his faint heartbeat and brushing your fingers through his hair to offer at least a little bit of comfort while watching the way the sunshine slowly sips into the room.
You lean back against the side of the couch, ready to let your own eyes close for a bit, hoping to catch at least a few minutes of sleep before back up can get here. It's then that it happens, that he shifts and his eyes open, his body stretching so more of his foot can fall into the golden square that has formed on the hardwood floor nearby.
"S-sunâŚ"
You don't think you hear him right for a moment, convinced it's another pained grunt or a muttered curse, maybe. But then he's saying it again and shifting once more, and it snaps you out of your half-asleep state.
"Sun," you echo, much more awake now. In a moment, you're nodding your head and gently guiding him off your lap to get up, rushing to the window and fully opening the blinds.
A relieved sigh leaves him almost immediately, head dropping back in relaxation instead of disgruntled pain. Carefully you help tug him closer to the window, making sure as much of him as possible is covered in the golden glow.
It's like magic, how quickly his body stabilises. In what feels like seconds, the prominent veins fade into the skin âthat just as quickly gets back its healthy glowâ and his breathing grows into a confident and regular rhythm. When his eyes find yours again, the blue in them seems to shine with a spark that hadn't been there before, and a bashful little smile forms on his lips. "âŚHey."
"Hey," right after you reply, it strikes you. Just how surreal the whole thing is, how you've just spent all night awake nursing Superman, just for him to magically be cured by some sunshine and have him now greeting you like nothing happened. Maybe it's out of exhaustion or because that pressure behind your eyes still hasn't given up, but all you can do to release all the pent up emotions is let out a shaky laugh.
"You don't do this often, do you?" Your brows raise as you ask the question, a little bit of accusation in the words. "You don't go around crashing into places and all that?"
It's his turn to let out a little breathless chuckle âone that makes your heart speed up and something inside you go all warm and gooeyâ and he shakes his head, managing to sit up now, still making sure to stay in the sunny spot. "No, no, i don't⌠Just youâ I mean! It's just this one time, it just has happened this one time. In your home. Because of Kryptonite."
You nod along to his words, having half a mind of adjusting your hair and pyjamas a bit, now that he's fully aware and able to see how exhausted you might look. You push that thought away, somewhere along with the nagging voice that insists you've seen him up close before.
"Okay, good. That's good because⌠Well, I- I didn't mind you know, happy to help." You adjust back a bit, sure that now that he feels better he doesnât need you to be all up into his space. For your own sake, you ignore the way his hands twitch before he tucks them on his own lap. "But that was, well, a lot⌠Because of Kryptonite."
An embarrassed chuckle leaves him and he runs a hand through his messy hair, he mumbles something, you're sure it's some sort of apology. But you don't quite hear it, because that melodic little sound has the fog that has been clouding your thoughts this whole time seem denser for a moment.
His expression shifts then, like he's noticed something being wrong and this time he's the one moving closer and reaching out to stabilise you. "Hey, are you okay?" He guides you back so you're leaning against the side of the couch, now warm hands carefully cradling your cheeks to look you over. He calls out your name, something soft and sticky-sweet, like honey. You can only blink a couple times before finding the baby blue in his eyes once more. "Let me bring you some water."
With that he gets up, not quite like nothing happened, because he still moves a bit sluggishly and holds his made up bandages while heading down the hallway â but still, it's with way more ease than you would've expected from what his state was just minutes ago.
Trying to shake the feeling off you close your eyes, lean your head back and wait for him to return.
When he does, it's to kneel in front of you, one hand carefully cupping the back of your neck and guiding your head back up while the other moves a cold glass of water closer to you. Hydration is the last thing you pay attention to, though.
Because he's somehow fetched the water without needing to be told where your kitchen was, he has said your name with the reverence usually reserved for prayers without you having to introduce yourself, and his hand fits against the curve of your neck all too well. And it's like it suddenly all clicks into place; the fact that he'd clung onto you since the beginning ânot even a bit of fear or doubt when a stranger had reached out for him in such a vulnerable stateâ, why he seemed so familiar with your touch and your place, with the ways of comforting you while being in pain. Why your boyfriend hadn't answer his phone a single time since he'd appear, not even now when he'd usually send a good morning text.
So, while he tries to get you to respond and take a few sips, the headache suddenly clears on its own and you hand is moving to rest on his chest again âright where the S symbol would've been if his suit hadn't been discarded somewhere behind the couch hours ago, where you can feel his heart speed up right on time with yoursâ.
Comments and reblogs are welcome and encouraged <3 Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai // Š gothamorphosis 2026 all rights reserved
summary: after worrying that scott has hated you for the past year, an overheard conversation confirms your fears... or does it? based on this ask
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap (reader is mentioned to be younger than javi and referred to as 'kid'/'kiddo' by him, but in a familial way), power imbalance briefly mentioned, reader is insecure and can't communicate, scott is a dumbass and can't communicate, idiots in love?, almost exclusively dialogue oops (sorry if i missed any!)
word count: 6.9k
a/n: i'm so sorry this took so long!! turns out writing a sweetheart reader is much harder for me than i thought lmao but i had a lot of fun with this! she gets a little sassy, but she's just overwhelmed!!
divider credits to @saradika-graphics
Youâre not one to dwell on the negatives of anything.Â
Normally, you can keep your head held high, focus on the positives, and get through life with a wide smile on your face.
But Scott Miller has been testing your patience for the past year.
You know why he doesnât like you. You know he thinks your position on the team is simply a product of nepotism given youâre Javiâs cousinâand youâre the first to admit that heâs kind of right.Â
But you also know that, family or not, you wouldnât be here if you werenât good at what you do.
Which is why, usually, you can ignore his quips and the way he introduces you to every new person you meet as the ânepo babyâ of the team.
It doesnât hurt that heâs ridiculously gorgeous, but that is not the point.
This morning, as usual, youâre first in the parking lotâradar and satellite images already pulled up on your tablet.
And, again, as usual, Scott is the second person out of his room.
âMorning!â You greet with a wide smile as he approaches, typical aviator sunglasses and baseball cap on.
He grunts in response, same as every morning.Â
And, like every day before today, you bite your tongue and wait for the others to join you.Â
âŚAnd maybe take the time to admire his jawline that youâre a little convinced he only chews gum so frequently to show off. So, really, it would be rude not to appreciate it.
At the sound of more motel doors closing, you snap your eyes back to your tablet, rocking back and forth on the heels of your shoes. As you drag around the radar imagery to appear busy and not like you were just practically drooling over your boss, a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug.Â
âMorning, kiddo,â Javi greets, patting your shoulder twice before releasing you as more of the team starts to gather around.
You hum, angling your tablet toward him. âThere are some good cells out west, like we called. As long as we leave in the next 20 minutes, we should be right on time.â
âYou heard her, folks!â Javi announces, clapping his hands together once.Â
âUh, hold on,â Scott interjects, effectively halting everyoneâs movements and sending your stomach straight to your ass. He pulls up the radar on his tablet, dragging his finger across the screen before turning it towards the group. âWhat about this cell to the south? It looks just as goodâif not betterâthan the ones to the west. Since when do we go based on one personâs assessment and not a discussion?â He tilts his head, tone laced with a condescending edge.
You freeze, feeling heat spread through your body like wildfire.
No matter how many times Scott challenges your calls, it never gets any less mortifying.Â
You open and close your mouth a couple times before Javi spares you any further embarrassment by cutting in smoothly.
âI looked at the south cell right before coming out.â He shrugs casually, not at all fazed by Scottâs confidence or patronizing tone. âIt does seem strong, but it doesnât look better to me. I was gonna suggest going west either way.â He steps closer to Scott, peering down at the tablet still in the taller manâs hands. âIf you think it does, though, we can talk about it! We have time.â
You watch as Scottâs jaw works, like heâs making his response more palatable. He stares at the screen for another long moment. âNo.â He clears his throat. âWest is fine.â
âSick,â Javi says with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder before shooing everyone. âI wanna be on the road in 15, so get to it!â
You turn on your heel immediately, making your way to Wizard to help make sure all of the equipment is functioning properly.Â
âThat seemed more tense than usual,â Kate murmurs as she helps you get to work turning on the large monitors in the back of the van.
âYup,â you say as evenly as possible, shrugging one shoulder. âMaybe heâs just stressed. We have had a few failed chases recently.â
Peter snorts quietly from where heâs booting up the rest of the equipment next to you before quickly clearing his throat, pretending not to be listening to your conversation.
âYou always try to find an excuse when heâs being an ass,â Kate sighs.
âHe has his reasons.â
âDoes he?â She asks, popping a hip and resting a hand on it, looking at you.
âMost people arenât assholes for no reason.â
âKey word, most.â
âItâs fine, Kate, really,â you say, turning to face her after turning on the last screen. âI know he doesnât like me, and Iâm sure that, to him, his reasons are completely justified. I canât make him like me.â
Kate frowns.Â
âThatâs incredibly mature of you.â
You shrug, shooting her a toothy grin. âThank you. Do you need help getting Lion ready?â
She shakes her head with a soft smile, but thereâs a knowing look in her eyes. âYou are too nice for your own good, you know that?â
âSo Iâve been told.â
- - - -
âAre you getting anything?â Javi asks as you follow the rest of the team into the packed bar, celebrating a very successful chase. âIâll just order for both of us, you can go grab a table.â
âOhâ thanks! UmâŚâ You glance around to search for an open table, eyes locking onto one before leaning closer to Javi so he can hear you over the thumping music. âA vodka cran, please!â
He gives you a thumbs up and starts to weave through the crowd towards the bar behind the rest of your teammates while you split off to make a beeline for the free table, managing to snag it just before another group appears.Â
âOh!â You wince before shooting them an apologetic smile. âSorryââ
The guy closest to you just scoffs and rolls his eyes before stalking off with his friends trailing behind him. Your smile falters as they walk away, eyebrows drawing close together.Â
Was that rude of you?
Youâre not the only group searching for a table, obviously. And itâs not like you were specifically trying to take it from themâŚ
No, you remind yourself. They were probably just annoyed that they didnât get here first. It wasnât personal.
You slide into a tall chair at the end of the table, fingers tapping restlessly against the sticky wood while you wait for the others to come back once they have their drinks. The few minutes it takes feel like forever, and you let out a relieved breath you didnât know you were holding when Javi sits down next to you with a loud sigh.
He slides you your drink, and you lean forward to take a long sip, avoiding his narrowed eyes that are raking over your face.
âWhat happened?â
âHm?â You sit up straighter, meeting his gaze. âNothing.â
âYou look upset.â
You wave him off. âNo, some guy was just upset that I got to the table first. It was nothing.â
Javi hums, clearly unconvinced. âDid he say something?â
You shake your head quickly. âNo, he just walked away. Really, it was nothing, I just wasnât sure if I was rude or something.â
His brows furrow. âYou donât have a rude bone in your body.â
Scott plops down in the seat across from you then, quickly followed by the others claiming their own seats and finding spots to stand at the table.Â
âItâs almost annoying,â Scott comments dryly, taking a swig of his beer.Â
You frown, which Javi catches immediately. âHeâs kidding,â he says, shooting Scott a look.Â
Scott just shrugs one shoulder before angling himself to speak to Andy, whoâs standing behind him.
It takes a few more sips of your drink for the tension in your shoulders to start to drain, but soon enough youâre back to your usual smiley self, listening intently to the conversations around you.
When Javi gets up to use the bathroom, Kate swoops in almost immediately to take his spot. You get engrossed in talking with her, barely noticing when Javi comes back and simply stands behind the chair she stole to continue his conversation with Peter.Â
During a lapse in the conversation, you let your eyes roam over the other patronsâonly allowing your gaze to linger on Scottâs side profile for a couple seconds before continuing your sweep.Â
When you spot the Wranglers at a table across the bar, you elbow Kateâs side gently. âTylerâs here.â
She snaps her head to follow your gaze, the movement making you turn toward her with your eyebrows raised. Her cheeks are flushed now, and you grin.Â
âI knew it!â You whisper.
She smacks your arm. âShut up!â
âYou are so painfully obvious,â you chuckle, earning yourself another smack, which just makes you laugh harder. âWanna go say hi?â
She hesitates for a second before schooling her expression and rolling her shoulders back. âSure,â she says casually with a shrug.
You roll your eyes playfully as you both stand, quickly finishing the last couple sips of your drink.
âWhere are you guys going?â Javi asks.
âThe Wranglers are here.â You point them out. âJust gonna go say hi.â
âOh, good,â Scott mutters sarcastically. âCanât do anything without them showing up.â
You frown again. âYou didnât even know they were here. Theyâre not bothering you.â
âTheyâre everywhere. Whatever, go say hi to your boyfriends,â he says, waving you off.
You just stare at him for a moment, but decide pretty quickly that you have nothing nice to say to that. Thankfully, Kateâs grabbing your hand and gently pulling you behind her toward the Wranglersâ table before you have to figure out how to walk away without making it more awkward.Â
Youâre both greeted warmly by Tyler and his team, and you feel more at ease almost instantly. Despite having limited interactions with them, theyâve always been nice.
Itâs a nice change of pace.Â
The conversation flows easily, and youâre genuinely surprisedâbut not at all upsetâwhen Dani and Lily are creating a group chat with you and Kate.
This job can be more lonely than people think, and while youâre eternally grateful to have Kate, itâs always nice to have more friends.Â
When you both return to your team, youâre feeling significantly betterâaccepting Scottâs comments as his usual irritation with Tyler and his crew versus irritation with you or Kate.
But the wide smile on your face falters ever so slightly and you stop hearing what Kateâs saying when you notice a girl leaning in too closely to Scott, giggling excessivelyâ
No. Thatâs mean. Sheâs pretty, and heâs clearly interested as well, and thatâs okay.Â
You turn back to Kate, blinking once. âSorry, what?â
She studies you for a beat, eyes flicking briefly to Scott before repeating herself.
You spend the next 20 minutes forcing yourself to engage in the rapidly changing topics of conversation with some of your teammates, but your focus gets pulled entirely when Scottâs chair scrapes as he stands. You watch as he walks toward the door, the girl pressed against his side, and feel your stomach drop when they leave together.Â
This is fine.
Youâre fine.
Itâs not like youâre in love with him or anythingâyou just find him attractive and itâs natural to be a little disappointed when someone you find attractive shows interest in someone else.
Thatâs all this is.Â
Thatâs what you tell yourself while you lie in bed later that night, repeating it until sleep finally pulls you under.
- - - -
When you exit your room in the morning, your steps falter for a second when you spot Javi and Scott already in the parking lot, backs turned to you as they lean against Lionâs bed.
Weird.
You keep your steps quiet as you head over to get Wizard readyânot wanting to disturb their conversation.Â
But you regret that almost immediately when you catch snippets of Scottâs ranting.Â
â...annoying. Itâs like sheâs trying to win me overâchange my mind, or something.â
You freeze halfway to the van, your stomach twisting in knots.
He called your kindness annoying just last night.
âŚIs he talking about you?
Is that what he thinks youâve been doing? Trying to win him over?
Is that what youâve been doing?
â...tell her that.â
Javiâs voice is so casual that you feel a small sense of betrayal.Â
Surely he doesnât think thatâs what youâve been doing too, right?
No.
No, you canât keep listening. Itâs rude.
So you slide open the side door to the van with a bit more force than necessary, making sure itâs loud enough for them to hear.
At the whoosh, both of their heads snap toward you.
Javi immediately pushes off the truck and approaches you with a smile. âHey, kid! Didnât hear you come out.â
You shoot him a tight smile before turning back to the monitors. Your fingers fumble with the button on the first one, and you have to try again to successfully turn it on.
He watches you move through the cargo space with a frown on his face.
âYou okay?â
âYes.â You close your eyes briefly. âYup,â you correct more cheerfully, though it sounds flat even to you.
â...You sure?â
âI just didnât sleep well.â You shrug, moving stiffly to the next screen.
Itâs not technically a lie.
âIâve literally known you your entire lifeâyou canât lie to me.â
âJavi.â Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to when you still, squeezing your eyes shut again, staying turned away from him. âPlease.â
The silence after stretches. Long enough that you almost force yourself to look at himâmake sure heâs still there.
âOkay,â he nearly whispers. âSorry.â
You keep your eyes shut tightly, swallowing hard.Â
âThank you.â
He leaves after that, and you finally feel like you can breathe.
- - - -
Three days.
Thatâs how long you manage to fool everyoneâeven Kate and Javiâbefore youâre cornered.
It happens after a chase.Â
One where nobody could get their positioning right because the tornado kept shifting, leading to an entire day wasted.
So itâs safe to say youâre all a little on edge.
You donât go up to your room right awayâfeeling too restless. So you decide to sit at the small table set up in the back of the van to work on the report that the rest of the team has decided to put off until tomorrow.
âYour measurements are off,â a familiar gruff voice says lowly, startling you.
âJesus christ,â you whip around with a hand on your chest to see Scott leaning against the door youâd left open for airflow. âYou scared me.â
He just stares at you. Waiting.
You blink.Â
âYour measurements are off,â he repeats, climbing in beside you.
You scoot over awkwardly, trying to make space for the giant of a man.
âWhere are they off?â
He rolls his eyes.
As if your lack of argument is annoying to him.
A small, slightly evil part of you thinks good.
He points a finger at the value youâd typed out for the distance between Scarecrow and the tornado. âThatâs not how far I was.â
You huff a little, deleting the number. âThat was a typo,â you mutter, correcting it.
âSure it was.â
âAnything else I can help you with?â You ask, spinning to face him. Your hands are clasped tightly in your lap as you stare at him expectantly.
His eyes narrow briefly before his lips slowly curl into a small smirk.
âSomeoneâs grumpy.â
âIâm not grumpy.â
âYouâre absolutely grumpy.â
âMaybe Iâm just done trying to win you over.â The words slip out before you can stop them. Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth.
His smirk fades, replaced by genuine confusion.
âIâm sorry,â you rush out. âI wasnât trying to eavesdrop, I just heard you and Javiââ
âWaitâyou heard me and Javi?â
You nod. âOut by the truck. After the bar. I didnâtâ thatâs not what Iâve been tryingââ
His eyebrows press even closer together. âHold on,â he interrupts. He stares at you for a moment, like heâs replaying the past three days in his head. Understanding washes over his face. âThat wasnât about you.â
All you can do is blink at him.
âThat⌠what?âÂ
Now youâre confused.
âI was talking about Amy.â
âWho the fuck is Amy?âÂ
Scott snortsâthoroughly amused by the swear you let slip.
âThe girl from the bar,â he explains with a small chuckle.
âWhat could you have possibly been talking about?âÂ
He sighs. âI told her I didnât want anything serious, she agreed, then suddenly she was trying to, like, ask me on a date.â
Ouch. Ignoring that punch to the gut for a bit.
âWait.â He sits up straighter. âWhat did you think I meant?â
âI thought you were talking about me!â You exclaim, gesturing with your hands.
âWhy would I be talking about you?â
âI donât know!â You put your head in your hands, closing your eyes. âI thought you were annoyed because you thought I was just being nice to try to win you over, or something.â
âI mean, I think youâre annoying, but not because youâre trying to win me over,â he says dryly.
You whip your head up, eyes wide. âScott!â
He laughsâa real laugh. âIâm kidding.â He takes a second to let his laughter die down, then shifts uncomfortably. â...Why did it bother you so much?â
And thereâs the question you were hoping to avoid.
You look down at your hands in your lap, feeling your cheeks warm.Â
Because you canât come up with an answer that doesnât sound like a poorly hidden version of âIâve had a crush on you since the day I met you, and your validation means more than I let myself admit.â
He watches you carefully, the teasing gone from his face. âWould it really have upset you that much if I were talking about you?â
âWellââ you cut yourself off, debating for a second just how honest to be. âI mean⌠yeah, a little.â
âWhy?â
Youâre taken aback by the genuine bafflement in his expression.
âWhat do you mean, why?â
âWhy do you care so much what I think?â
You look at him like heâs grown a second head. âBecause it sucks thinking that someone youâve worked with for a year doesnât like you.â
âBut I never said I didnât like youâwell, her, in this case.â
âNo, you just said that my entire personality is annoying.â
âI didnât say that, though.â
âBut I thought you did.â
âRightâŚâ He nods once, lips rolled in. âWell⌠for what itâs worth, I donât not like you.â
âBut you donât like me,â you supply.
âI didnât say that, either.â
That makes you pause.
â...Youâve been pretty obvious with how you act,â you say quietly, stomach twisting as you finally say whatâs been secretly, sneakily eating you alive for the past year.
âWhat do you mean, how I act?â Thereâs a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone that makes you bristle.
âI just mean the constant correcting in front of the entire team, introducing me as the ânepo baby,â ignoring my greetings.â
âI do that with everybody,â he tacks your name onto the end, and you almost choke.
He almost never uses your name, and certainly not in the tone he just did.
Because this wasnât angry.Â
It wasnât commanding.
It was almost⌠soft?
âYou donât call everybody the ânepo baby,ââ you deadpan once your lungs figure out how to work again.
âWell, thatâs because youâre the only nepotism hire.â
âScott,â you sigh, exasperated.Â
âYou are!â
âOkay.â You stand, brushing off imaginary dirt from your jeans. âIâm glad we cleared that up, but I donât think this is going anywhere anymore.â
He stands quickly, almost slamming his head into the roof of the van, ducking at the last second. âWaitâ what?â
âJesus,â you breathe out, taking a step back from his slightly hunched form. âIâm trying to tell you why I was upset, and youâre arguing semantics.â
He huffs. âIâm not arguing semanticsââ
âThat is, quite literally, exactly what youâre doing. Like, right now.â
âIââ He cuts himself off, brows furrowed as he mentally replays the conversation. âOkay⌠yeah, maybe a little.â
âThank you,â you sigh. âLook, if you do think my kindness is annoying, or whatever, thatâs fine. But I would prefer knowing that right now instead of walking away from this conversation thinking weâre like⌠fine with each other.â
He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, thinking intently before finally speaking. âI donât think your kindness is annoying. I didâwhen you first started. Mostly because, yeah, I didnât think youâd actually bring anything to the team.â At your frown, he rolls his eyes. âJavi brought in his younger cousin without an interview. What did you expect me to think?â
â...Fair enough.â You gesture for him to continue.
âBut, unfortunately, youâve proven that you know what youâre doing.â
âUnfortunately?â You repeat incredulously.
âIâm kidding. Jesus, lighten up.â
You narrow your eyes at him. âThat doesnât explain why youâve continued to treat me like that. I thought you hated me.â
He shrugs. âI wasnât intentionally being an ass.â
You look at him, unimpressed.
âThatâs just how I am!â He throws his arms up in exasperation.
You point at him. âExcept thatâs not true. Because you treat Kate just fine now, and I heard you started out with pretty much the same assumptions about her.â
âCan we do this outside?â He brings a hand up to the back of his neck, wincing. âThis stupid ass van is too short.â
âOhâ yes, yeah.â You scramble out of the van, waiting for him to follow.
âI still challenge her decisions if I disagree with them,â he argues as he stretches his back outside.Â
âBut you challenge her in a way that feels professional. You challenge me in a way that feels personal. Thatâs the difference.â
âI think youâre the only person that thinks that.â
You cross your arms over your chest. âKate herself agrees with me.â
He pauses, frowning. â...She said that?â
You nod. âMore than once, actually.â
âOhâŚâ He exhales. âWhat did she say?â
You shrug, looking down at your feet as you scuff the toe of your boot against the pavement. âThat your problem with me feels deeper than it ever did with her.â
He hums.
And for what feels like an hour, you both stand in silence, save for the sound of the crickets and birds as the sun gets lower.
âWell⌠I didnât mean to make you think I hated you.â
You sigh, looking up at the sky.
âBut that doesnât change the fact that Iâve felt out of place the entire time Iâve been here.â
Youâre not even trying to argue.
Youâre just tired.Â
When you look back at him, his face is doing something complicated.Â
He looks a little guilty, a lot confused.
âWell, Iâm⌠sorry⌠that I did that.âÂ
He winces as he fumbles his way through the apology, and itâs, unfortunately, a little endearing.
Because now you know he didnât have any malicious intentânot that you thought he wanted to hurt your feelings this whole time.
But it certainly makes you feel better knowing that most of this has been a miscommunication.Â
âThank you.â You give him a small smile. âI appreciate that.â
He looks shocked that you accepted his, honestly, pretty bad apology. But he gives what appears to be his best attempt at a genuine smile of his own.Â
âSo are we, like⌠good now?â
You roll your eyes, but thereâs no real irritation behind it. âIâve tried to be good for the past year.â
He grimaces. âMy bad.â
You nod once, sharply. âYes. Your bad.â
The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he raises his eyebrows. âOh, you think youâre funny.â
âOh, I know Iâm funny. Youâd have known that earlier, if you wereââ
He sighs loudly, interrupting you. âWerenât a dick, yeah, I got it,â he finishes with a chuckle.Â
You stand in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a moment before you realize you should probably get ready for bed.
âGoodnight, Scott,â you say lightly with a nod, turning around, trying to bite back your smile.
ââNight,â he calls after you, shaking his head with his own suppressed grin.
- - - -
You wake up feeling lighter than you have in days.
Which is immediately noticed by Javi and Kate.
âYou look happy,â Kate comments, and she and Javi sit in the seats across from you at the diner where youâre waiting for everyone else.
You nod, sipping your coffee. âTalked through things with Scott.â
She tilts her head. âWhat do you mean?â
âOh, there was just a misunderstanding,â you explain as you set down your cup, glancing down at the menu. âBut we cleared it up!â
âWhat kind of misunderstanding?â Javi asks.
You explain what happenedâoverhearing their conversation about Amy, assuming it was about you, trying not to let it bother youâwhile still scanning through the menu.Â
When neither of them say anything for a long moment after youâre done, you look up.
Kate looks confused.Â
Javi looks almost devastated.Â
âYou thought Iâd let Scott bitch about you to me? And respond like that?â
Your eyes widen, and you drop the menu, shaking your head.Â
âNo! Noâ thatâs why I was so upset! Because I knew you wouldnât do that.â
âYou didnât think to ask?â
You frown. â...No.â
âSo you just suffered?â Kate asks, an incredulous edge to her tone.
âI didnât suffer.â
âYou walked around like a kicked puppy for three days,â she points out, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
â...Okay, maybe I suffered a little. But I didnât want to make it worse!â
Javi sighs deeply. âYouâre the dumbest smart person Iâve ever met.â
âHey!â
Kate points an accusing finger at you. âDonât âheyâ him, heâs right.â
You pout.Â
âWhatâs Javi right about?â Scott asks, sliding into the seat next to you as Peter takes the seat next to Kate.Â
Your heart rate picks up, which you pointedly ignore.
âNothing.â
âSheâs terrible with her emotions,â Javi supplies.Â
âI am not!â
âOh, no, you are,â Scott agrees with a nod.
âAnd youâre any better?â You shoot back with a playful tilt of your head.
âOoh, sheâs feisty this morning,â Scott teases.
You cross your arms over your chest with a frown. âIâm not feisty.â
He pinches his thumb and pointer finger together, keeping them just a small distance apart, holding his hand up. âLittle bit,â he muses in a slightly higher-pitched voice than usual.
You huff and glare at him, but itâs weak. He just responds with a wide, smug grin before addressing everyone now that the rest of the teamâs arrivedâimmediately launching into logistics for todayâs chase.
And, for once, you just take it in.
Because this is finally starting to feel right.
- - - -
The shift in your relationship with Scott doesnât register right away.
Mostly because it doesnât happen right away.
It starts with the teasing.Â
Then, over the next couple of weeks, it turns into him asking for your opinion on chase routes and data interpretation.
A week later, heâs offering to let you ride in Scarecrow with him and Andy for a chase.Â
Then heâs sending Andy to take your place in Wizard for the day and offering you the passenger seat with just him.
Itâs not hard to read into it a little bit. Youâre not completely devoid of emotionsâof course your very attractive boss whoâs finally trusting your professional judgement and talking to you normally is going to make you giggle and kick your feet a bit.
But youâre also not insane enough to think he might feel anything for you past professional appreciation.Â
âŚKate apparently is, though.
âYou know he likes you, right?â She asks as you both settle into your beds the night after the chase where it was just you and Scott in Scarecrow.
You shrug, turning off the lamp next to your bed, plunging the room into darkness.
âI mean, I know he trusts me now, yeah.â
âNot what Iâm saying.â
You roll onto your side, facing her. âThen what are you saying?â
Even in the low streetlamp lighting streaming through the curtains, you can make out her unimpressed expression.
âYou know what Iâm saying.â
You blink.
Then snort.
âYeah, okay.â
She sits up in one sharp movement. âIâm serious! And I know you like him!â
âI do not like him.â
âYou absolutely like him.â
âI mean, I think heâs attractiveââ
âBitch.â
âWoah!â
âHe kicked Andy out of Scarecrow.â
âHeâ he did not kick him out. He just gave me a chance to get closer to the action. Iâm sure heâs offered the same to Peter.â
Kate shakes her head.Â
âHow would you know?â You ask, propping yourself up on an elbow.
âBecause I was just talking about it with Javi.â
âTalking about what?â
âScott! And how heâsâŚâ She trails off, gesturing at you as a whole.Â
âI donât like the implication of that.â You narrow your eyes at her.
âWell, I donât like how oblivious youâre being,â she shoots back.Â
âI am not being oblivious, Iâm being realistic. He tolerates me, heâs not in love with me.â
But even as you say it, you can feel the way your heart rate picks up.
âI wouldnât be so sure about that.â
You roll onto your other side, tucking the blanket tightly under your chin. âGoodnight, Kate.â
âIâm just saying!â
âGoodnight, Kate.â
- - - -
Unfortunately, Kateâs words have gotten in your head.
Even more unfortunately, Scott keeps doing things that make it very hard to keep denying that she may be right.Â
Including offering to let you ride in Scarecrow for the rest of the weekâglaring at Andy when he opened his mouth to question being in Wizard for even longer.
You wince guiltily at that.
But itâs admittedly very nice having four days in a row of one-on-one conversation with Scott that doesnât end with you making excuses for his behavior.
On day five, though, something feels different.
Not necessarily wrong.
But different.
Heâs quieter.Â
Not in the way youâd grown used to at the startâthe one that feels full of awkward tension where youâre just waiting for him to tell you what youâve done wrong.
This feels like heâs holding something back in a way that makes you nervous for entirely different reasons.
So you wait until youâre on your way to the new motel after the chaseâboth soaked to the bone from the rain and your hair a tangled mess, but your limbs vibrating with adrenaline.
âAre you okay?â
He freezes, eyebrows drawing close together as he continues staring out at the road. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
You shrug, studying the side of his face. âYouâre quiet today.â
He hums, the muscles in his jaw flexing a few times. âJust thinking.â
âAbout?â
âAmy.â
Oh.
You swallow down the sick feeling climbing up your throat, tilting your head curiously.
âWhat about her?â
He shrugs one shoulder lazily. âWhy I didnât want anything serious with her.â
You stay silent, waiting for him to elaborate. Because youâre honestly not sure how to respond to that.
âI shouldâve,â he continues, almost like heâs talking to himself. âShe was my type, we had a good time. I want a relationshipâI think. She was the logical choice.â
The more he talks, the more your stomach turns. But you push anyway.
â...Then why didnât you?â
âBecause she wasnât you.â
He says it so casually youâre certain you misheard him.
âIâ sorry, what?â
âBecause. She wasnât you,â he repeats more firmly, finally glancing at you for a second before returning his gaze to the road.
And all you can do is laugh.Â
That gets you a longer, more incredulous look.
âWhy are you laughing?â
âBecause I thought you just said you rejected Amy because she wasnât me.â You laugh even harder at that, nearly to the point of tears.
âThat is what I said.â His voice rises slightly in pitch, the incredulous expression morphing into something like concern.
Your laughter dies down slowly as the words sink in.
Because she wasnât you.
The combination of the revelation, adrenaline, and exhaustion makes you react⌠poorly.
âYou what?â You almost snap.
His eyes widen.
âOr not?â He tries sheepishly.
âNo! Iâ what? For how long?âÂ
âI donât know!â He rushes out, a twinge of panic in his tone.
âPlease elaborate on that!â You practically beg.Â
âIââ He cuts himself off to take a deep breath, taking one hand off the wheel to set his hat in his lap and run a hand through his hair. âI thought you were attractive day one. But I think I started to actually have, like, feelings right before the Amy thing?â
You throw your arms out. âScott!â The panic has taken over both of your tones now.
âI know!âÂ
You groan loudly, dropping your head back against the seat.
âIâm getting the feeling that this was not the right thing to say,â he says. âItâs fine if you donât feel the same wayâI wouldnât blame you. But can you just, like⌠say that? Instead of yelling at me?â
âI do feel the same way!â You blurt, looking at him like it should be obvious.
âThen what the hell is the problem?â
The glare you shoot him is deadly, by your standards.
âThe problem is that I spent the first year thinking you hated my guts, then had to adjust after learning you didnât anymore, and now Iâm finding out you have feelings for meâfeelings so big, apparently, that you rejected a woman who you shouldâve liked instead! Thatâs a lot to take in, Scott!â
The silence returns after thatâbroken only by your ragged breathing after practically exploding.
He stares at you like youâve grown a second head.Â
Then, slowly, his eyebrows draw closer together, and the corners of his lips turn down slightly.
âYou actually thought I hated you?â
The softness in his voice makes you pauseâonly for a second.
âYes! I told you that!â
âI thought you were being dramatic!â
You groan, scrubbing your face with both hands.
âWhy would I exaggerate that?â
âI donât know!â The panicked edge is back.
âOkay.â You take a deep, steadying breath. âOkay. We need to talk about this.â
âIâm tryingââ
âAhââ you cut him off, pointer finger in the air. âNo. No more defensiveness. From either of us. We both need to shut up and listen.â
âIââ
âNo!âÂ
His frown deepens, but more playfully this time. âYouâre bossy.â
âScott,â you sigh, exasperated.
He fails to hide the growing smirk on his face as he smoothly changes lanes to the right, keeping his blinker on for the upcoming exit.
âWeâre still, like, 20 minutes from the motel,â you point out, the end of the sentence pitching up slightly in confusion.Â
âThis is not a conversation I want to have without being able to look at your face.â He takes the exit for a small town youâve never driven through before. âAnd I donât feel like waiting 20 minutes to do that.â
Your cheeks burn at his words. You open and close your mouth a couple times, but canât formulate a response that doesnât sound lackluster compared to the significance of what he said, so you stay silent.
It doesnât take long for him to pull into the empty parking lot of a small park he rerouted the GPS to, and, unfortunately for you, your brain still hasnât quite caught up to whatâs happening.Â
Because when he unbuckles, turns to you, and very plainly says, âYou are the person I want to try a relationship with,â you start laughing again.
âOh, come on,â he sighs, but thereâs amusement in his eyes. âStop doing that.â
âI canât help it!â
You keep gigglingâall attempts to stop failingâuntil suddenly both of his hands are on your face, cupping your cheeks.
Your mouth snaps shut, and it feels like every system in your body has stopped working.
âThis was all I had to do to shut you up?â He teases quietly.
âI barely talked to you for months,â you mumble, the words slurred a little by the pressure on your cheeks.
âIâm aware,â he murmurs, thumbs absentmindedly stroking the apples of your cheeks as he holds eye contact.
âIf you want to have a conversation, I need you to stop holding my face.â
âWhy?â
âBecause I canât think.â
He looks far too pleased with himselfâstopping the motion with his thumbs, but not loosening his grip.
âI make you speechless?â
âYou also make me nauseous,â you shoot back weakly.Â
His mouth twists as he finally releases your face. âOuch.â
âWell, itâs true.â You take a deep breath, regaining your composure, sitting up straighter. âAll right, you start.â
âWhy do I start?â
âBecause youâre the one who made my brain short-circuit when you said you rejected practically the perfect woman for you because she wasnât me.â
âCalling her the perfect woman for me is a stretchââ
âScott. Semantics.â
âRight.â He at least has the decency to look sheepish. âSorry.â
âI just⌠why me?â
Itâs not hesitant or shy like it has been in your head since his revelation.
Because, while you can make an entire list of reasons youâre insecure, right now you just need to know the logic behind his choice.
He, apparently, hears the insecurity anyway and frowns.
âWhy not you?â
He says it soâŚ
Simply.
Like he hasnât questioned it once since realizing.Â
You blink.Â
âI⌠you make it sound so simple,â you breathe out with an attempt at a chuckle.
âIt is simple.â It sounds a lot like duh.
âOkay, well, not for me.â
He nods slowly, then scrunches his eyebrows together like heâs trying to figure out the best way to explain it for you.
âI mean, it was kind of weird, at first. Because once you proved that you deserved your spot on the team, I felt very⌠neutral towards you, I guess.â
You raise your eyebrows. âCrazy, considering I thought you hated me.â
âYeah, Iâm realizing there was a very big difference in how we interpreted that,â he chuckles.Â
You nod, like no kidding, then motion for him to continue.Â
âBut then I started noticing you more. Not just, like, how you looked, or whateverâthough that, too. But the little things. Like how you crack your knuckles one-by-one to give your hands something to do when youâre standing in place for too long. Or how you clear your throat when talking in front of the entire team to give yourself an extra second to calm down first.
âOrâthe biggest oneâhow your kindness is so fucking genuine itâs almost sickening. Because I saw how youâd make excuses for any and everyoneâincluding meâeven when you absolutely shouldâve gotten mad.â
The more he speaks, the tighter your throat feels.
You feel rawâmore exposed than you ever haveâand itâs terrifying.
But something about it is so beautiful.
âYou noticed all of that?â You manage to choke out.
He shrugs once. âYouâre very easy to read.â
âAm I?â
âYes.â He nods once, sharply. âYouâre very⌠expressive.â When you frown, he rushes to elaborate. âNot in a bad way!â
âSometimes I think Iâm too expressive.â
âNot possible,â he reassures, hands slowly coming back up to your faceâslow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.
You donât.
âYou should be more expressive,â you tell him, leaning into his touch almost involuntarily. âWouldâve saved me a lot of confusion.â
âWhy do you think Iâm spilling my fucking guts right now? âM trying to take after you.â
You swallow thickly, letting yourself finally admire his face after only allowing yourself brief glances for the past year.
The freckles that dust the bridge of his nose.
The curls plastered to his forehead from the rain.
The sharpness of his blue eyes that you donât get to see nearly enough thanks to his insistence on wearing sunglasses.
âJavi might lose his mind,â you whisper finally.
He snortsâbecause of course your focus is on Javiâs reaction right now.
âI think Javi will be okay,â he says, matching your volume as he leans closer over the center console.
Your breath hitches, and your eyes flick to his lips before quickly returning to meet his.
âHopefully,â you squeak out.
He huffs out a laugh, grip tightening on your face just enough to ground you.
â...Can I kiss you?â He asks after a moment, not at all shy about his own focus on your lips.
You donât trust yourself to attempt any words, so all you can do is nod dumbly, forcing yourself to take a shaky breath as he draws closer.
Your eyes flutter shut just before his lips meet yours.
Heâs firm, but not roughâsitting still while your brain struggles to catch up.
But when your mouth moves tentatively against his, he returns the movement immediately.
It only lasts a few seconds, but when you pull apart, youâre both breathless.
Not from lack of air.
From overwhelming emotion and pure relief.
His forehead rests against yours as you work to steady yourselvesâeyes closed, just feeling for once.
âSoâŚâ he starts, not moving. âDo you wanna try a relationship with me, too?â
You canât help the small chuckle that escapes at his nervous tone.
âWas me kissing you back not enough of an answer?â
âJust wanna make sure,â he mutters, tilting his head so his lips brush against yours as he speaks.
Instead of speaking, you close the distance again.
Description: Bad date after bad date, and a roommate with a bad habit. Whatâs a little touching between friends?
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!Reader
Warnings: porn with plot (fingering, oral (m & f receiving), p in v, begging, clark is whiny and a little pervy, dry humping, cum play(?), big dick!clark yet again, they get a little freaky with it), jimmy olsen is a rascal
Word Count: 7.5k
a/n: and they were roommates!
âHoney, Iâm home,â Clark sang out as he snuck in through the window.
He grinned, his cape settling and a bit of dust still coating his hair that he shook out near the windows, much to your dismay. He always promised heâd clean it up, and kept that promise about sixty percent of the time. You watched him, only half amused by his greeting. He pouted, though heâd deny it if you dared call it out.Â
âYou always laugh at that,â he stated, hands on his hips.
You merely groaned, sinking further into the couch cushions where you sat. Your hands went to cover your face, legs tucked up under you.
âIs there something wrong with me?â
Clark raised a single brow, flopping down onto the couch next to you. âExcuse me?â
You groaned, dropping your head on his shoulder. Either something was wrong with you, or literally everyone else. You were certain of it. Youâd attempted once again to date someone. Last time, a girl talked about her ex the whole time. Before that, someone else had been very adamant about splitting every bill to the exact cent. Tonight, youâd given a chance to a guy who seemed a little insecure on the dating app youâd found him on. That was your mistake. He appeared normal enough at first. Maybe not totally your type, but you were always willing to give someone a chance if you thought you might at least have a compatible personality and a similar sense of humor. This dude had neither.Â
âOnce again, I give a chance to some loser on a dating app. Once again, I get fucked,â you huffed out, cheek smushed to Clarkâs shoulder. âAnd not in a fun way.â
His ears went a little red, but they always did when you spoke like that.
Heâd found you through Jimmy a couple years ago. You were an old friend from high school who was looking for a reliable roommate, and Clark, at the time, could certainly use someone to help ease the load of his bills. Metropolis wasnât cheap for an up-and-coming reporter. You were sweet, funny, and according to Jimmy, extremely reliable. Clark found out that you could also be a bit of a mother hen, which he was more than happy to be on the receiving end of. He liked coming home to someone who cared about what happened to him. Especially when that someone made him blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings and liked to go bowling with him on Tuesday nights.
But, you were never one to be terribly shy. Years later and he was still a little squeamish when youâd swear like a sailor or talk about your sex life. He didnât want to think about you like that. At least not in front of you.
When he was alone, though, it was a bit of a different story.Â
Of course, he felt guilty about it every time it happened. But he could only take so much, and it's not like he was one to date around or get his fix with a girl he doesnât know all that well. He tried hard not to, but sometimes youâd discuss your latest escapade or walk around in nothing more than your cute little panties and a t-shirt and he would suddenly find any excuse to run to his bathroom. He didnât always touch himself! No, that would be rude. Sometimes he just took a freezing cold shower, or heâd just stand there and think of his Pa talking about one of the cows giving birth or Steve eating a meatball sandwich. That usually got rid of it fast.
But, every now and then, he just couldnât help himself. Heâd scurry off to his room for a while, and try his best to see how quickly he could make himself finish. His record was two and a half minutes. No more than a casual bathroom break. He would be quite proud of it if it weren't for the overwhelming shame and guilt that followed for jacking off to the thought of his roommate.Â
He gulped, resting his cheek against the top of your head. âWhat happened?â
âIâm never dating a man with zero confidence ever again.â You patted his thigh, pretending you didnât notice how he tensed from the contact. You thought it was sweet how shy he seemed to be. âGo get dressed and Iâll give you the run-down. Youâre gonna dirty up our couch in your little get-up.â
He snorted a laugh. âYes, maâam.â
âDonât you âyes, ma'amâ me.â
He just got up, smiling to himself. You watched him go, that giant of a man. Part of you almost wanted to just ask him to bed you. Maybe not date, you werenât sure you were exactly his type. But god⌠if it wouldnât totally fuck up your roommate situation, youâd have tried getting in his pants the first time youâd met him.
You still remembered it.Â
When Jimmy had told you that he had a friend from work who was looking for a roommate, you didnât expect 240 pounds of bumbling gorgeous. He blushed when you said hello, told you heâd cover three quarters of the rent while you got your bearings after your last roommate had put you out to couch surf, and could hardly look you in the eye after youâd made an extremely mild flirtatious comment. You may or may not have casually asked Jimmy if Clark was single after that. Jimmy shoved you and told you to leave the poor guy alone.Â
In retrospect, he was looking out for both of you. It probably wouldnât have ended in a signed lease as much as a single, glorious night. If you even got that far. You were certain that Clark was the boyscout to end all boyscouts. Once heâd told you he was Superman, you knew that your suspicions had been confirmed.
But agreeing not to fuck him didnât mean you couldnât look.
You ended up being glad you never did, anyway. Heâd become a great friend in the time youâd been living together. He was courteous, kind, and you didnât have to carry groceries a single time in over two years any time youâd gone shopping with him. He always bent to your will when it came to picking out what to watch for movie nights, and was shockingly funny when he wanted to be. It was a good deal. A great deal. A fantastic deal with a cute butt and stunning dimples.
Clark shrugged out of his suit in the privacy of his room, briefly pressing his nose to the shoulder of his suit where he could still smell your shampoo before he came to his senses. He took a fast shower, rubbing one out for good measure. He figured if he got ahead of the curve, there was less chances of getting hard out of the blue if you touched him literally anywhere. He bit into his lower lip, spilling against the shower wall with a soft sound that sounded suspiciously close to your name. But heâd never admit as much, even to himself.
He found himself on the couch with you that evening, listening intently to you spill your guts about yet another date from hell. He frowned as you recounted the manâs behavior, an arm slung around your shoulders as his face was pressed against your hair.
âMaybe you should take a break from the apps,â he mumbled after youâd finished.
You sighed. âMm⌠maybe. But god, what gives? Itâs not like Iâm specifically seeking out true love right now. Some consistent sex would suffice, but even that is impossible.â
He coughed once, cheeks going red again. âUh⌠right. WellâŚâ
âSorry. I know you get squeamish about that,â you mentioned with a chuckle.
âIâm not squeamish.â
âYou get all blushy if I talk about sex.â
He huffed. âItâs⌠you just⌠you talk about it likeââ
âSee? Squeamish.â You chuckled, adjusting to look up at him.
Clark groaned, pushing you away. You laughed harder, pulling the tiniest grin from his lips.
âYouâre mean to me. Just cause I don't share all of my⌠experiences.â
You raised a brow. âTo be fair, I didnât realize you even had experiences.â
He flushed again, hand on the back of his neck. Taking care of himself in the shower evidently didnât prevent anything. He crossed one of his legs over the other, trying to mask what jumped up in his sweats.
âItâs not like Iâm a virgin.â
âCouldâa fooled me.â
He glared at you. âBe nice.â
âIâm plenty nice.â
âYou make fun of me.â
âOnly cause I love you,â you teased, pinching his cheek. âAnd cause I donât think Iâve ever heard you talk about a girl since you dated Lois.â
He sighed, head leaning back onto the couch. âI donât like doingâ doing that unless I really like somebody. I just havenât found the right person in a while is all.â
You smiled, softer now. You took his hand in yours, squeezing it softly as your head found its way to his arm again.
âThatâs very sweet.â
âDonât make funââ
âI mean it, Clark.â
He glanced down out of the corner of his eye to where you leaned against him. His thumb brushed over your knuckles gently as you both refocused to the tv that was running in the background. He leaned over, kissing the top of your head.
âYou deserve better than those folks youâve been out with lately, you know?â
âI know.â
âMm.â
You let out a soft breath. âThe last girl I was out with tried telling me she didnât like how I kissed.â
âOh.â
âWhich is total bullshit, by the way. She said she could âhelp me figure it outâ.â You rolled your eyes. âI know for a fact that I donât need help.â
Clark just nodded once. âR-right.â
âI donât think anyone has ever told me that before.â
âHm.â
âAre you going to say anything else to me?â You glanced up at him with a laugh.
âIâm, uhâ Iâm sure youâre a very good kisser?â
You snorted. âHave you ever had someone tell you that?â
âTell meâŚ?â
âYou canât kiss. Or need help or whatever.â
He shook his head. âUh, n-no?â
âYou think youâre good at it?â
He flushed again, looking away. âCome onâŚâ
âAlright, you big baby. Iâll quit asking.â
He let out a slow breath. That ended up being a long night for him once he went to his room for the night.
Weeks later, he groaned as he woke up, still a bit dazed from a deep sleep. He woke to the sound of you shuffling around the apartment, but couldnât yet bring himself to climb out of his cozy bed. It wasnât until he heard his door creak open that he made an attempt at opening his eyes.Â
âGood morning, sunshine,â you whispered, sneaking into his bedroom.
He laid there in his plaid pajama pants, washed in sunlight and tangled in his sheets. He blinked groggily as you walked in, smiling a little at the sight of you in little more than a t-shirt and panties. He wasnât sure heâd ever get used to you being so⌠comfortable.
âYou took my shirt again,â he rasped, holding out a hand as you crawled into bed with him.
You made yourself comfortable on his bed, cross-legged and taking his hand as he turned onto his back on the mattress.
âI like this shirt. Itâs soft.â You shrugged, tugging lightly on the hem of his old Met U t-shirt. âBesides, if you keep throwing your clothes into my hamper, you canât be mad when I take them.â
He just hummed once, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. âGuess so. I like it on you anyway."
âFlirt.â
âThat was not.â
âSo you think Iâm ugly?â
He scoffed, eyes going wide. âWhaâ I didnât say that!â
You tried to keep it together, but his immediate defense and embarrassment was too much to handle. You chuckled a little, his features softening but still stern as he muttered your name in a scold.Â
âYouâre so easy to rile up.â You grinned.
âYouâre rude.â
âYou adore me.â
He sighed, arm around your waist as he pulled you down with him. You squealed, settling yourself with your knees on either side of his hips. He intended merely to bring you a little bit closer, maybe get you to quiet down, but Clark realized too late what a pickle heâd just gotten himself into as he loosened his arm.
âOh, geezââ he mumbled, feeling himself freeze up.
âIf you wanted me on top of you that badââ
âQuit it.â
âYes, sir.â
He frowned, stomach dropping as he felt his blood rush south. You chuckled for only a moment before something else caught your attention, something that wasnât there before suddenly insistently pressing against your bare thigh.
âOh.â
âIâm sorry,â Clark squeaked out, eyes squeezing shut. âShoot, Iâm sorry, I didnât mean toâŚâ
âNot your fault.â
âIt kind of is.â
âYou didnât get hard on purpose, Iâm sure.â
He groaned. âPlease donât talk about it.â
âToo late, itâs touching me.â
He whined. Honest-to-god whined. His hands settled on your hips, trying weakly to push you away. You had two options in front of you, you realized: allow him to push you away and pretend it never happened, orâŚ
You gripped his wrists, stopping him from pushing you away. He looked up at you, alarmed with his ears turning red as fast as his cheeks did.Â
âWhat are you doing?â
You just shrugged, pushing your hips back up from where heâd tried shoving you away. Clark gasped at the small amount of friction it provided to his restricted length. He breathed out your name again, though whether it was meant to be a warning or praise you werenât quite sure. What you were sure of is that he looked really cute with rosy cheeks and parted lips, and a little dry-humping between friends never killed anyone.
âYou can stop me if you really want to,â you spoke, voice barely louder than a whisper, your hips rolling against his with more purpose.
His jaw ticked, his eyes still closed. âI⌠I know.â
âAre you going to?â
He swallowed, hands gripping the fat of your hips with more strength, helping you along as you rocked against him again. He knew it would be reasonable to stop this. He didnât do casual, he knew that he couldnât. He also didnât ever cross that line with you, despite the thoughts about you that seemed to plague his mind at any given moment. But this technically wasnât anything, he rationalized with an extremely clouded mind. You both had clothes on, mostly. The most intimate skin contact was his hands on your hips and thighs. It was fine. He decided it was fine, so it would be fine.Â
âNo,â he finally answered after a moment.
Your hands ran over his wrists, his forearms, his fingers. You watched him carefully as his eyes slowly blinked open, hooded and dark. He watched the way your hips, clad in those soft blue panties, dragged over the evident bulge in his pajama pants. He let out a shaky huff, groaning under his breath.
âGoshâŚâ
âYeah,â you breathed out with a short chuckle, hands against his bare stomach. Your fingers traced the little happy trail that snuck from his belly button down into his pants. His stomach jumped at the contact. âThis is⌠nice. Good bonding time.â
âBonding?â He laughed, breathing heavily. âI, uhâum⌠this is a heck of a way to bond.â
You just nodded, a small sound of agreement on your lips as he took a firmer hand guiding you over his erection. You felt the flimsy material of your panties clinging to your skin, soaked in your own arousal. You were sure youâd leave a spot against his pants, but you couldnât bring yourself to feel embarrassed about it.Â
Clarkâs sounds grew louder, needier. His head was clouded over with want, his cock throbbing with a desire to be freed from the confines of fabric separating him from what he was sure would be a very soft, warm place between your legs. Heâd thought about you a million times before, but this was the first time he could remember feeling truly, horribly desperate to be inside of you like this.
âBabyâŚâ he groaned.
Fuck. You whined softly at the petname, your body moving against his with even more intention than youâd had a moment earlier.Â
âDonât stop,â you gasped, feeling a familiar coiling in your stomach.
He smiled, dazed out. âWouldnât dream of it.â
You dragged yourself against the length beneath you, pleased to become so aware that he was just as big as youâd imagined him to be. A new buzz beneath your skin intensified as your clit caught on what felt like the thick head of his cock. You tried the same movement again, garnering the same result. Over and over and over.Â
Clark whined underneath you, fingers dug into your thighs. âW-wait. Wait, honey, Iâmââ
âNo. N-no, please, Iâm so close.â
He grunted, frustrated and ready to finish as well. âM-me too.â
âDonât quit.â
âOkay,â he rasped. âOkay. O-okay.â
âRight there, just like this.â
He sucked in a sharp breath, one arm tugging you down against his chest. His face buried in your hair, a harsh groan coming from the back of his throat as his hips rutted up against you. You moaned against his ear, cumming hard, pussy clenching and pulsing around nothing. Clark could hear your heart speed up as you finished, his own release coming only a few seconds later. He spilled into his pants, one hand on your waist, the other in an iron grip on your thigh.Â
You both laid there for a little while, the glow of your shared orgasm settling between you. You felt elated, cheek against his clammy bare shoulder. Clark felt⌠humiliated? Excited? A scary combination of both, it seemed.
âIâm⌠Iâm really sorry.â
You breathed slow, pushing up on his chest to look down at him. âFor what?â
âThat was, uhâŚâ He looked away. âI didnât mean to do that.â
âTo cum?â
He mumbled your name. âGosh. Donât say it like that. No, I meant doing all of that. I donâtââ
âI liked it, for the record.â
He swallowed. âMe too, but I shouldnât have.â
âClark. Come on,â you whispered, tilting his head to look at you again. âIf you liked it and I liked it, then thereâs nothing wrong. It was fun. You had a good time, right?â
He gave a pouty nod. âYeah.â
âQuit pouting.â
âIâm not pouting.â
âYou totally are. You just came and found a way to feel immediately guilty about it. Youâre not Catholic, cut it out.â
âMa did bring me to church sometimes when I was littleâŚâ
âClark.â
He sighed, a soft smile making its way to his face. âSorry. Iâ I did like it. That was nice.â
âWe didnât fuck. I think we can chalk it up to a fun activity between roomies.â
âYou have an odd idea of what a roommate activity is.â
You smiled, brushing his dampened hair away from his face.Â
If Clark thought he was struggling with how he felt about you before, it was a whole new ballgame now. He knew he had a bit of a crush, as evidenced by the way his dick would jump to life if he thought about you too hard. But it was suddenly leagues worse.Â
He didnât have to wonder what youâd sound like under him, he knew. He didnât have to guess if youâd be soaked and warm for him, he had evidence in the form of a wet spot on the pants heâd worn that morning. You came rubbing yourself on him. He came in his pants. You got each other off. He wasnât going to be quick to forget it.Â
Going into work that morning didnât help him out at all. He was certain his cheeks were still a little pink as he stumbled into his desk chair at the Daily Planet. Evidently, he wasnât making it all up in his head.Â
âDude.â
Clark glanced up to see Jimmy staring at him pointedly. He raised his brows in question.Â
âWhoâs the girl?â Jimmy asked, his arms crossed.Â
Clark sputtered. âWhaâ thereâs no girl.âÂ
âBullshit. You look like you got laid.â
âI did notââ Clark sighed, adjusting his glasses. âWhy would you even think that?â
âYou just look⌠satisfied. Too happy to be here at nine in the morning.â
âI like my job.â
âNot that much, man. Come on, Clark,â Jimmy huffed, certain he wasnât imagining things. âI havenât seen you like this in⌠ever.â
Clark bit the inside of his cheek, turning back to his computer, trying to ignore Jimmy commenting on his behavior under his breath. Jimmy didnât often let him be for very long, though.Â
Clark was making an attempt to mind his business on a bench outside, quietly eating the PB&J heâd packed for himself that morning, until Jimmy found him. Clark glanced up, cheeks filled.
âHi?â
Jimmy sat on the bench next to him, stretching out. He sighed heavily before he looked to his friend.
âYouâre really going to do the whole âsecret girlfriendâ thing again?â
Clark frowned, swallowing. âIâm not.â
âYouâre really bad at lying.â
âIâm not lying. I donât have a girlfriend.â
Jimmy snorted a laugh. âSo you are hooking up with someone? Of all people?â
Clark sighed, his sandwich dropping down in his limp hand. âIâm not doing that either.â
âIâll find out eventually, you know that, right?â
Clark just took another bite, ignoring the comment. Jimmy was annoyingly perceptive sometimes. Clark often thought Jimmy shouldâve been an investigative journalist when he acted like that. But, he was finally offered some reprieve when Jimmy changed the subject, talking about some plans to go out for drinks that Friday. Clark nodded along politely, not bothering to fully listen until it was too late.Â
He realized after Jimmy grinned and told him to bring you along that heâd accidentally nodded to going with them.
Clark showed up at home with a shy wave, and a request on the tip of his tongue.
âSoâŚâ
You looked in his direction as he washed the dishes that night, sipping wine while propped up on the kitchen counter. He was still in his button up from work, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, humming to one of your songs playing softly in the room. He looked downright delicious. You wondered if your little tryst that morning would become a welcome addition to your routine as a pair, or if Clark would try to brush it under the rug like it had never happened. You hoped for the former.
âYeah?â You replied after a second.
He let out a small puff of air. âUh⌠Jimmy asked me to go out with him and a few folks from the office on Friday, after work. He said you should come with us.â
âOh?â
âUh huh.â
âIs that an invitation?â
He shrugged once. âIf⌠if youâd like to come with, Iâd love to have you.â
âYou half-had me this morning already,â you quipped with a snorted laugh.
He felt his cheeks warm, your name a soft, almost disapproving sound on his lips. It only made you smile further, causing him to grin back against his better judgement.Â
âI, uh⌠maybe we should talk about that. At some point.â
You raised a brow. âYeah?â
âYeah,â he affirmed with a nod, drying his hands after putting the last plate in the drying rack. He turned to you, crossing his arms. His breath hitched a tiny bit at the way your eyes dropped to his biceps. âUm⌠I just⌠I donât know. That was different. For us.â
âIâd say so. Not exactly dry humping our brains out on a regular basis.â
âHun,â he huffed, the pet name slipping out easily. âIâm trying to be serious.â
âOkay, okay,â you conceded, setting your glass down on the counter next to you. âYeah. It was⌠unusual for us, for sure.â
âYeah.â
âDo you think thatâs a bad thing?â
He blinked, his eyes a bit wider. âW-well, no. Not bad, just⌠just different.â
âIs it something youâd want to do again?â You got to the point, tilting your head in question.
âI donât know. Maybe? But it wasnâtââ He paused, taking a breath. He had to look away, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. âI donât usually do stuff like that.â
âYou seemed pretty damn good at it.â
He flushed, all the way down past his collar. âI-I mean with somebody Iâm not dating. I donât do that unless Iâm with somebody. This time was different.â
âIf you donât want to, we donât have to. But for the record, I had a very good time.â
âYeah. I did too.â He nodded, meeting your eyes again. âCan I think about it? If I can do it again?â
You agreed softly with a smile. He gave you a warm hug, letting it linger a little longer than he usually would. You graciously ignored the bulge you felt against your leg again.
He acted as normal as he could, still quite obviously thinking about what youâd done together, but trying not to let it show. He couldnât help it. Heâd fantasized for so long that getting a taste felt absolutely surreal.
Friday night came, and so did his lingering gaze on your chest in the tight top you wore to go out with his coworkers. He didnât mean to look. It was just hard not to when your breasts were pressed up the way they were.Â
He sat by your side through the night, sipping on a sprite and getting all of your margarita refills from the bar. He laughed at every joke you made, hardly noticing the looks between Jimmy and Cat at his behavior with you.
The moment he excused himself to go to the âbathroomâ, aka he caught wind of a burning building and had to do his Super-thing, they all moved in on you.
âSeriously?â Jimmy started with a laugh.
You looked at your long-time friend, his expression bewildered. âWhat?â
He merely groaned, leaving it up to Lois to shake her head at you. You glanced at them all, unsure what the gossip was.
âHe has that lost-puppy look,â Lois said with a short chuckle into her drink.
âMaybe a dog in heat,â Cat added in, laughing when the comment pulled a few sour looks from the phrasing. âOh, you know what I mean.â
You sighed. âWhat are you guys talking about?â
âClark,â Jimmy replied simply. âHe looks like heâs actively holding back from bending you over the table.â
âYouâre gross.â You snorted a laugh, sipping your drink. Little did he know.
âAnd youâre no better,â he quickly added. âLeaning into his side, giggling at his jokes. He is not that funny.â
âBut heâs super cute,â Cat sang out with a grin.
âHeâs been staring down your shirt literally all night.â Lois looked at you with a raised brow. âHe is classically horrible at hiding how he feels. You canât seriously say you havenât noticed him falling over himself for you.â
âYou guys are all ridiculous.â
Jimmy groaned. âOh, please. Iâve known you forever, dude. And we all know Clark. Like Lois said, he is classically shit at hiding his feelings. She would know.â
âAnd dare I say, heâs acting even more desperate than anything I saw from him in the beginning,â she mentioned with a grin.
Cat laughed. âOh my god. Itâs so cute, come on. You two would be so sweet together.â
âShe likes a big boy, too,â Jimmy noted.
âJames,â you scolded.
âJust saying. You always went for the tall ones in high school. Except that one guy⌠Emmett?â
âOh my god.â
âHe was an interesting choice.â
âHe was nice!â
Jimmy snorted, muttering under his breath, âand a freak.â
âYouâre soââ
âWhat?â He laughed. âDonât be like that, weâre just having some fun. Like Iâm sure Clark would love to have withâŚâ
You all looked at him as he trailed off, like heâd come to an epiphany all of a sudden.
âWhat?â Cat prodded first.
Jimmy smiled, which was often dangerous.Â
âAre you the reason he came into work the other day looking like he got some?â
You were taken off guard. Oh boy. âPardon me?â
âYou so are.â
Cat gaped. âYou already climbed that?â
âNoââ
âOh, she so is,â Lois mentioned softly to Jimmy, gossiping like you werenât sitting right there.
You scoffed, floundering. They were all out to get you, you were certain of it.
âWhy donât you all bully Clark about this instead of me?â
âWe bully him every day,â Jimmy explained.
You huffed a breath, melting into your seat as they chattered on. Fortunately, your drink ran out, and you had an excuse to leave in order to grab a new one. You got up, making a beeline for the bar, and placed your order for a hard lemonade. It was time to slow down if you didnât want to wake up hung over.
You waited for a couple of minutes before the smell of Clarkâs cologne clouded your head. He always wore a little extra when you went out, and god, he smelled good as fuck when you were a bit tipsy. You looked up to see him sidling up next to you with a smile.
âEverything go okay?âÂ
He nodded. âYeah, of course. Firefighters did a great job, I just grabbed a nice old lady and her cat. Everyone else was already taken care of.â
âGood.â
âEverything okay here?â
âYour friends are horrible.â
He furrowed his brow. âWhat happened?â
You chuckled. âTheyâre just⌠nosey. Itâs all Jimmyâs fault.â
âNosey?â
âYeah.â You thanked the bartender, tipping her as she handed over your bottle. âThey were interrogating me about you.â
âAbout me?â He crossed his arms.
Your eyes flicked to his shoulders, his arms testing the limits of that baggy t-shirt. âMhm.â
He gulped. âWhatâd they say?â
âTheyâre trying to figure out if weâre fucking,â you stated, meeting his eyes again. âI told them no, but they have officially made up their minds.â
He let out a breath. âGosh.â
âYeah. Said youâre like a dog in heat who wonât stop staring at my tits.â
You laughed, but Clark blushed, shifting on his feet. Now it was his turn to let his eyes drop down. Okay, maybe they had a point about him looking at your boobs.
âThey do look really nice.â
Oh shit.Â
You blinked, not expecting him to be so forthcoming. But, to be fair, you did rub up on him until he made a mess of his pants only a few days before.Â
âHuh.â
âS-sorry, I didnât mean toââ
âDonât fucking apologize.â
He paused, nearly pouting. âButââ
âItâs okay. Quit worrying so much, Clark,â you said softly, touching his arm. You glanced back at the table, the small group talking amongst themselves. âCome on. We should probably go back.â
He didnât budge. âOr⌠maybe we can go home.â
âOh?â
âY-yeah.â He shrugged, trying like hell to be nonchalant. âIf you want.â
You nodded, your final drink left full on the edge of the bar.
The walk back to your shared apartment was quiet, your hands brushing with every step, though neither of you made the move to do more than those soft touches. It wasnât until you walked into your building, waiting for the elevator that you realized he was taking you home. Kind of. Did it count if you shared that home? Maybe it didnât matter.
You both stepped into the elevator, Clark hitting the button for your floor.Â
You glanced over first, eyes lingering on his jaw, his hair, his ear, his lips⌠everything. Clark followed, his eyes flicking over your arms, stomach, chest, face, and landing back on your eyes. It was a blur. Neither of you knew who moved first, only that suddenly you were against one another, your lips locked.
His hands gripped your waist and hips, pulling you into his body. You deepened the kiss, slipping your tongue against his, sucking on it when he tried pulling back. He groaned, his knees feeling weaker in an instant. He whispered your name, kissing down your neck.
You let him pick you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He shuffled out of the elevator and towards your door, grateful that the hallway was empty. He fumbled with his keys, finally shoving it into the lock and stepping inside.Â
âWeâre gonna, like, really do this, huh?â you breathed out, giddy as he let you back down to kick off your shoes and jacket.
He grinned, dimples poking into his cheeks. âYeah. Gosh, yes.â
He was on you again the moment you both were freed of your outerwear, scooping you up with ease. You worked on his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. It got flung somewhere in the living room. He pressed you to the wall in the hallway, tugging your top off and undoing the button and zipper of your jeans. His lips hardly left yours.
He walked again, leaving a trail of clothes behind like breadcrumbs. The moment he had you on your back in his bed, spread out on top of his sheets like you belonged there, his excitement turned to utter desperation. You watched as he pulled off the glasses heâd worn for the night and suddenly started pulling his belt loose, clearly trying to rid himself of his clothing as fast as he could. You followed suit with a thrilled fervor, shimmying out of your jeans and panties, ripping your bra off and flinging it somewhere unknown.
He groaned deep in his chest when he looked back to see you bare and waiting.
âI donât deserve you.â
You chewed your lip. âYouâre one to talk.â
He swallowed, your gaze burning his skin as it trailed from his chest, to his stomach, settling on his cock, bobbing and drooling, his tip swollen and aching.
âYouâre so hot. Holy shit.â
His chest tightened at the rasp in your voice. He crawled on top of you, hands everywhere he could reach. He gripped your skin, lips and tongue and teeth leaving lasting marks down your neck and chest.
âClark.â
He whined. âI wanna be in you so bad.â
âDo it.â
âN-no. Gotta get you ready first.â
You sighed in ecstasy, his fingers slipping between your legs. You let him kiss you like he needed it to live, two fingers shoved into your needy heat.
âYouâre so wet. How are you so wet?â He heaved a few breaths, kisses all along your cheek.
âI was soaked the second you came out of your room before we left. You looked so fucking hot, and you smell so good, and⌠fuck, Clark, I wanted to choke on your cock when you put those dorky fucking glasses on before we left.â
He groaned pathetically. âYou⌠Do you like the glasses that much?â
âYou look like the hottest loser in the world with them on.â
He huffed a short laugh, though it was weak and wrecked. âNoted.â
âLet me suck it.â
âW-what?â
You pushed his hand away. âIâm ready enough. Back up. Please.â
He whined, reluctantly taking his fingers out of you. He shoved them in his mouth, eyes fluttering as he tasted you. You nearly drooled watching it. He let you push him onto his back, eyes locked on you as you took him in your hand.
âThought youâd feel heavy,â you muttered, sucking his tip into your mouth. A broken noise escaped his chest. You slapped his dick against your tongue, the heft of him even better than you were hoping. âFuck. Gorgeous cock.â
His hips jerked, his chest heaving. He thanked the heavens he had an abnormal ability to keep it up because he was certain that if he let himself, he would've cum all over your pretty face before you even took him.Â
You sucked him into your warm, waiting mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you started bobbing your head. He gasped, tiny sounds leaving him at every motion against his desperate length. You felt yourself dripping down your thighs, his cock down your throat further and further every time you went down again.
Your hand stroked what your mouth couldnât fit, wanting every bit of him to feel cared for. But as good as it felt to suck his pretty cock, the kind of sound that he made when you moved down further caused the slick between your legs to increase even further than you realized your body was capable of.
Your lips closed around one of his heavy balls, your hand still insistently stroking him. His body tensed as he tried not to jerk hard against your face. You sucked on his full sack, alternating each side, unable to fit both in at once (even though youâd made an attempt). He nearly sobbed your name, your hand focusing on the hyper-sensitive head of his length.
You only pulled off when he physically pulled you away.
âKeep it up and Iâm going to finish too fast.â
âThatâs not bad.â
He huffed, a weak smile on his face. âTrust me, Iâd love that any other time. This time, I want to do it right.â
You let him manhandle you, dropping you down against his pillows. He spread your legs apart, one look at how much wetter youâd become and his eyes closed for a few seconds.
âHoly c-crap.â
âWhat?â
He shook his head, looking back down. âYou are just⌠dripping. Your legs are covered in it.â
âYou have a really perfect dick. I got excited.â
He shuddered, rubbing your thigh gently. He knelt between your legs, draping your legs over his. He stroked himself, just staring at you. It was a minute before you made a quiet, impatient noise, finally calling him to action.
Clark pushed his flushed tip through the wetness between your legs. He watched the way your pussy glistened with arousal, his jaw slack and heart pounding. He let his heavy cock rest against your clit, slowly rutting against you just to watch the way your body jolted with the contact. He groaned, his eyes flicking briefly to your face.Â
âYouâre so beautiful. Pretty girl. Pretty⌠geez,â he huffed, eyes drawn back to your pussy.Â
He gripped the base of his cock, tapping the blunt head against your sloppy clit, committing the sound of the wet slap to memory. He wanted to make sure he never forgot. He felt desperate. Overcome by need and the way you laid out for him, cunt on display just for him to play with. What an honor.Â
âCan I put it in?â he mumbled, words slurring from pure want. âPlease. Pretty baby, I wanna feel you. Youâre so wet. Prettiest p-pussy ever, sheâs so cute. Wanna feel you squeezinâ meââ
âYeah. Yes, Clark, please. Put it in.â
He groaned, his eyes fluttering as he dragged himself down to your opening, chewing his lip as he pressed against you. He gulped, moving forward just enough to let you swallow his head. He gasped, chest heaving.Â
âO-oh gosh.â
âFuck, Clark.â
âMmâŚâÂ
He adjusted his hips, pulling your lower half up onto his thighs. Your back arched, shoulders still pressed to the mattress as he molded your body to his, letting his cock slip in further until he was fully seated in you. He practically winced, holding back with everything in him.
âFeel better than I thought youâd be,â he mumbled under his breath.Â
You breathed heavy, hands gripping his wrists where he held your hips as he delivered some shallow thrusts. Your eyes met his. âYouâve thought about it?â
He nodded, any of his usual guilt dissipating. âYes. Yes, so many times. Knew youâd be perfect.â
âShit. Here I thought you were a pure little boy scout,â you responded with a short laugh.Â
âMânot bad. Just⌠just like you. Youâre so⌠Geez,â he trailed off, head tilting back as his hips moved against yours. âYouâre just really nice and pretty. Youâre so sweet to me. Couldnât help it, I just thought about you sometimes when I⌠whenâŚâ
âYou jerked off thinking about me?â
He whimpered. âDonât say it like that.â
âBut you did.â
âY-yeah. I did,â he admitted, pulling you up onto his lap.
Your arms circled his neck as he held you to his chest, thrusting up into you. You tried your best to assist, weakly bouncing on his thighs, but he was Superman, after all: he could very easily move you how he wanted to. And he did. He moved you along his cock with ease until you were quivering and whining his name. He moaned weakly as he felt your teeth sink into his skin, your pussy clenching and squeezing around him. He could hardly stand it, the sound of your soaked pussy even louder after youâd finished for him. He fucked into you with strong arms locking you in place until you were feeling him pump you full of his cum, breathing into your ear like heâd run a marathon.Â
âBaby. Baby, baby, babyâŚâ he whined, hips jerking a few more times as he babbled against your skin. âOh, gosh. Youâre so perfect, so good, honey. So good, you feel perfect.â
âClark,â you sighed, blissed out.
He just shook in your grasp, body spent and somehow still so needy for you. He kissed up your neck, his lips moving along your skin. He nipped softly just under your ear. He pulled out of you slowly as his lips moved to your cheek, and finally to your mouth to kiss you properly. His tongue slid into your mouth as he laid you back down on the mattress, dancing along your own tongue. You kissed him back slowly, the action messy and full of want and untold affection. His hands touched your cheeks, moving down over your breasts.
âGorgeous,â he spoke into your mouth, squeezing the soft flesh. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, sighing softly when they pebbled under his touch. âI love these.â
You just smiled, watching him kiss one perky nipple as an act of reverence. His lips moved along your breast, down your stomach, his fingers slipping over your slick pussy, catching on your sensitive little bundle of nerves.
âWanna taste you,â he whispered against your thigh.
âYou just came inside of me, Clarkie.â
He grinned at the name. âI know, baby. We made a mess, Iâll clean it up. Promise.â
His smile widened as your head tilted back, a heavy breath pulled from your lips. He moved his way up, a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your pussy when he finally met her. You moaned, eyes rolling back. He slid one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up further as he licked his cum out of your fucked-out cunt. One hand gripped your thigh, the other kneading your tit, his mouth working you over. He sucked on your throbbing clit, tongue moving over every part of your soft flesh he could taste. Your hips jerked against his face. He chuckled quietly, his voice reverberated through you.
âShit. Right there, please.â You gripped his hair, panting.
He obliged, eating you out like a man starved. His tongue scooped inside of you, his hips jerking against the mattress, already hardened again at the mixture of your flavor and his. It didnât take long for him to have you careening over the edge again, gasping and whining, your grip in his hair tighter. He swallowed down everything you had to give him, gently licking you clean until you were begging him to slow down.
âYou like it?â He looked at you with raised brows as he shifted his body to be over yours once more.Â
âSo much. Did so good, Clark.â
He brightened at the praise, licking the inside of your mouth like he did your cunt.Â
âIâm ready again when you are,â he whispered against your lips.
It was a long night. A long weekend, in fact. One that ended in him deciding, while balls deep, that it would probably be a good idea to ask you out at some point.
Clark made it to work that Monday, floating on cloud nine with his head still swirling around little more than you. He smiled to himself as he stepped off the elevator, a pep in his step walking to his desk. He set down his things, scruffing his hand through his hair as he logged into his computer. He hadnât noticed the suspicious eyes on him.
Jimmy watched him, shaking his head to himself. He let Clark have a moment, clearly elsewhere in his thoughts. But he couldnât let him stew in love-sick peace forever.Â
âDude. I could pretend I didnât notice you looking at a certain someone like you wanted to pull her into the nearest bathroom stall on Friday night,â Jimmy stated with a sigh, noticing the way Clarkâs ears turned bright red before he even turned around. âBut seriously, Clark. You definitely got laid this time.â
There are many things Scott has given you in a short period of time: migraines, high blood pressure, and a son you would do anything for. A son he doesnât know exists. Cutting him off was hard enough â welcoming him home might be worse.
⸠PAIRING: Ex-FWB!Scott Miller x F!Reader
⸠WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, former situationship to baby daddy to lovers (all at the same time tbh), fingering, slight degradation and dumbification, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, bickering is their foreplay, breeding kink, mean in bed!scott, grumpy scott in general, hurt/comfort, emotionally avoidant!reader, miscommunication (my favorite, of course)
â¸Â WORD COUNT: 14.1K
⸠A/N: wowowow this is the second and final part of this story!!!! thank you so much for all the love in the first one <3 i'm glad we're all hyperfixated on this man who has no screen time together. i wrote this over a month ago but i've been rereading it aggressively to make sure it's good to free into the world. one of my fave things i've written and i fucking love scott my angsty husband <33 i hope you enjoy. if you do, please comment and reblog, i'd love to hear your thoughts!!!!
⤠main masterlist | part one
âI extended my trip.â
Itâs the first thing you hear when Scott shoulders past you in the evening. Youâre still standing, shell-shocked by the door, trying to comprehend how this man is in your apartment hours past his supposed flight time. He comes in bearing paper bags with your local fancy grocery store stamped onto the front.
Scott has never grocery shopped a day in his life.
âWhy?â You question slowly. Your eyes briefly fly to Ben whoâs scribbling on the coffee table, he looks up curiously when he sees the familiar face.
âUncle Scott,â he beams in greeting.
Scott matches that expression, the sweetest heâs ever looked, as he comes over and ruffles his hair. âHey, big man, whatâre you working on?â
âMe, mom, and dog.â
âDog, huh?â he chuckles, âIâm sure we can arrange that.â
Ben brightens, hopeful eyes turning to you. Youâre going to strangle this man. âLetâs talk about it after dinner, bud.â Your narrowed eyes switch over to Scott. âA word?â
He confidently strolls back over to you, disregarding your glare as he begins to pull out all sorts of things. Mushrooms, vegetables, packs and packs of meat. USDA Prime. Jesus Christâ âWhat are you doing?â
âUnpacking groceries.â
You pinch his side. Heâs built like a brick wall, he doesnât even flinch. âScott.â
He says your name in response. A teasing lilt hanging to each letter.
âWhy are you here? What is all this?â
âGroceries.â
âDonât be an ass. Why did you extend your trip?â
âTo spend time with you.â He begins to organize your fridge. Worst part? He knows exactly how you like your fridge arranged so heâs putting all the things in all the right places.
âIâm serious,â you hiss.
âWhat makes you think Iâm not?â
You swallow, gaze flying to Ben again whoâs back to drawing out his dream dog. It looks more like a deformed puppy but you get the gist of it. âWe canâtââ you take a deep breath, âListen, Ben is young. Heâs going to latch onto you if you keep coming around.â
âWould that be so bad?â
The question infuriates you. You scowl, âAre you fucking kidding me? That would be a nightmare. What happens when you leave? Heâs going to be asking around for Uncle Scott who will never come around again. Thereâs a reason why I donât bring around just anyone to meet him.â
Scottâs eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, but you know him better than that. âYou bring others around to meet him?â
âIâ no, thatâs not what I meant. Jennaâs really the only person who comes over other than my mom. The staff at the hospital know because he pops by time to time. I donâtâ Iâm careful about who I expose him to. I donât want to have to answer questions about where someone went or pick up the pieces of a boy who shouldnât have his heart broken because people disappear on him.â
He seems to mull over this for a moment. His next question sends a shock through your system.
âWho says Iâm leaving again?â
Your heart slams against your ribs. Traitorous little thing is getting excited for nothing. âWhatâre you talking about?â
âStorm Par is set up and running. We have a good team down in Oklahoma always collecting data. Iâve been managing mostly strategy and investor relations.â He looks a little too pleased when he says, âI need to be closer to potential funders anyway, a lot of them are in the northeast.â
âYouâre notââ Your breath hitches in your throat, âyouâre not considering moving back, are you?â
A proud look settles on his face. âJust signed for a sublet for the next couple of months while I look for a more permanent apartment. Howâs this neighborhood? I donât remember it being particularly nice, but it seems good. How do you feel about moving?â
âScott,â you snap. âThatâs insane. You canât justâ thatâs crazy. You were literally supposed to leave today. Suddenly, youâre deciding to stay here? On a whim? Whatâs wrong with you?â
âNot a whim, Iâve been thinking about it. Iâve⌠just decided itâs the right move.â
âIn one night?â
âI donât need more time than that.â
You give him a look. âThatâs stupid.â
âItâs efficient decision-making.â
âScott.â
âWhatâs for dinner? Does he have any allergies?â
âScott.â
He takes a deep breath, sapphire eyes dulled out as he looks up at the ceiling, praying for some lord almighty to save him. âWe can spend all night arguing about this but itâs a done deal. I like Boston, Iâve decided to come back. Is that so hard to believe?â Before you can say yes, absolutely, Scott continues, âIâve thought about this for a while. Trust me when I say I am not doing this impulsively and Iâm not just going to change my mind.â
The two of you are locked in a stare-down, neither budging. Two stupidly stubborn fools.
Scottâs eyes are jagged when they first land on yours, sharp in a way that could cut. But the longer he looks at you, the more they thaw, like ice melting in the changing of seasons. Itâs a soft transition that warms your frozen heart.
However, then his gaze trails to your mouth, the way theyâre parted, teeth peeking out in aggravation, tongue pressing against your teeth as your jaw is clenched. His eyes go molten, scorching as they sear into your skin, tracing your bare shoulders, the length of your neck, exposed collarbones.
âShould put more on you,â he mutters.
âWhat?â You jerk back, confused.
âNothing. Dinner? I donât know how to cook.â
âThen get your own damn dinner, Iâm not cooking for you.â
He challenges you with a raise of his eyebrow. âBut I bought groceries.â
âThat I didnât ask for.â
âI fuckinâ forgot how bull-headed you are sometimes. Arguing for the sake of arguing.â He huffs a laugh through his nose, hip leaning against your counter, eyes sparkling. âIf you wanted to fuck, just say so.â
His voice is low, low enough that you know Ben doesnât catch it over the sound of the television, but it still puts you on high alert. âCan you not say insane things when my son is around?â
âAlways picked a fight when you wanted a fuck,â he smirks.
Your lips part, ready to tell him off, but he turns to the sink instead, beginning to wash his hands.
âNow, what do you need help with?â
Scottâs reappearance has thrown your life for a loop, adding this new, uncontrolled variable that youâre not sure how to handle. He drops you off and picks you up from work. The moment he heard that youâve been taking the train an hour each way to work, he made that call with no room for argument. He refuses to even drop you off a block away from the hospital so you end up with your coworkersâ curious eyes on you when youâre pulling up every morning in Scottâs stupidly shiny car.
âHave a good day at work, honey,â he would call out obnoxiously through the open window.
The furious glare you throw his way does nothing to deter this behavior. Now, youâre bombarded with questions about him every time you have a moment to yourself, which means you no longer have a shred of peace at work.
He comes by nearly every evening; you say nearly because you had to cut him off, tell him that he cannot show up every single day.
âWhy not?â
âScott. You canât just come here everyday, heâs going to get confused. You are not family.â
âYet.â
âWhat?â
âFine. Every other day, but full weekends.â
Itâs a compromise that you tried to negotiate down, but he refuses to budge on.
The worst part is that Scott is terrific with Ben.
Heâs smart and answers all of Benâs questions with tact. The moment your son learns that Scott works with tornadoes, chasing after them and being smack dab in the middle of the action, heâs absolutely enthralled. You have to emphasize to Scott that you will murder him if Ben ever tells him that he wants to be a tornado chaser.
âIâll protect him, donât worry,â is all he says.
You still worry.
Beyond that, Ben seems to enjoy his company, has started asking when Uncle Scott would be coming around again so he could show him the progress heâs made on the massive Superman LEGO set that Scott had gotten him.
âYou canât spoil him too much,â you frown when he pops by on his assigned day, a gift box in hand. Itâs the fourth in two weeks.
âHeâs a kid. He likes toys.â
âYou canât spoil him,â you mutter.
Your worry is partially rooted in the fact that you canât just give Ben whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but it also stems from your guilt for not being able to provide all this. Itâs not as if youâre not making money; you save enough from your salary, but Boston is an expensive city.
Scott seems to understand this. He dials it back, but you know that heâs itching every time Ben mentions something new heâs curious about. He just picks and prioritizes what he gets him.
Otherwise, heâs good. Too good even. That seems to be a pattern when it comes to him.
You tell yourself itâs because he doesnât know heâs the father. Itâs less commitment, less pressure. He plays the role of a cool uncle who showers Ben with gifts and attention.
Scott has pressed again, of course â whoâs the father, when did this happen, do I need to have a conversation, you could fight for child support â to which you answer no repeatedly. An easy denial to give him none of the answers heâs looking for. It never stops him from asking again; he thinks heâll wear you down eventually.
Truth be told, you think that Scott will bore himself soon. He canât possibly be serious about permanently moving back to Boston. Youâre convinced that in the next couple of weeks, heâll realize that this pretend domesticity isnât the life he wants, and heâll pack up his bags again and leave. When that day comes, you wonât be disappointed.
As long as he never finds out Ben is his son, youâll be fine.
(Maybe if you repeat it enough times, youâll actually believe your own words.)
However, you seem to have a knack for putting your foot in your mouth and speaking too soon, because your worst nightmare comes to fruition one day when you let your guard down. Usually, you do a pretty good job of keeping track of their conversations, making sure they stay on safe territory that gives away nothing. Ben has zero clue about his father anyway, so thereâs nothing really to give away.
Or so you think.
Youâre caught up trying to balance sending work emails and batting away your motherâs efforts to inquire more about Scott. Sheâs been badgering you nonstop to learn more about your history, prodding Scott whenever sheâs here to share more, even going as far as to drop the most obvious hints.
âYou know, she is very single. Incredibly single.â
âMother!â
âIâm aware,â Scott smirks. âRefuses to let me change that.â
You donât appreciate the way heâs looking at you now, how your body is tingling all over from the memories. The press of his fingers on your hip, how his mouth feels mapping out the curve of your breasts, the burn between your legs when he pushes himself in with a hungry groan.
Heat unfurls across your face and youâre quick to turn away, missing how your mother and Scott share knowing looks.
But now that sheâs not here, sheâs still torturing you with incessant, inane questions about him. The only thing you manage to catch in the midst of your stress is Scott saying, âYour birthdayâs in Decemââ
You donât think much of it. Not for a moment. Until it hits you.
By the time you look up, Scottâs already directing his eyes towards you. Your blood runs cold.
Itâs not a question. He knows. Heâs not a fool.
Born the December in the year that you graduated college, itâs not difficult to do the math on when Ben was conceived. If you retrace your steps, itâs not difficult to know who had done the conceiving.
The two of you donât address it, not out loud. Not yet. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to configure an excuse or a lie that would work in this instance. Youâre running on empty, especially when your heart is beating straight out of your chest. Everything feels hot, your body canât seem to handle this stress very well.
You have maybe an hour left before Benâs due for bed and youâre half tempted to keep him awake because that means keeping Scottâs anger at bay. You can feel it roll off him in waves, crackling energy that zaps you even from this distance.
The minutes tick down much too quickly and, before you know it, Ben is yawning on cue and youâre getting him ready for bed. You spend a little longer than necessary tucking him in, reading him his story, all the while Scott is standing in the doorway watching the two of you.
Heâs being considerate of Ben, maintaining his distance before he probably rips you a new one. You appreciate it, but you press an extra kiss or two onto your sonâs face before you exit the room â for good luck.
When the two of you are back in the living room, Ben completely out cold to the world, Scott doesnât ask. He simply states the irrefutable truth.
âHeâs mine.â
You clear your throat. âTechnically, heâs mine.â
âDonât fucking act cute with me right now,â he snarls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the hallway both of you just left. âThatâs my kid in there. Are you fucking kidding me?â
Wincing, you take a step away from him. âCan we not do this?â
âLike hell Iâm letting this slide. Youâve got to be shittinâ me. Thatâs my kid. Ben is mine.â
The pulsing in your head only worsens the harder he glares, the more he seethes. âYouâre the father. Doesnât make him yours.â
You hear the sharp intake of breath. The confirmation landing firm in his chest. âWhy the fuck wouldnât you tell me?â
âWhy does it matter?â You snap, throwing his irritated look right back at him.
âYouâve got to be on another fucking level of insane to think it doesnât matter.â
âI was going to,â you begin, âtell you, I mean, but the timing never felt right.â
Scott looks at you, completely aghast. âTiming never felt right? You knew. You knew before I left, before we graduated. All those times you didnât want to drink, didnât want to eat sushi, this was why. You had all the fucking time in the world to tell me.â
âWould it have changed anything?â
âIt wouldâve changed everything!â
Your lungs feel devoid of oxygen as you look at Scott, his frustration palpable. Fury is carved into the lines of his face, eyes blazing with the sort of anger youâve never seen on him. However, in between the twist of his lips and the fire in his gaze, you see a flicker of something warmer. Softer.
Hurt.
The kind of hurt that comes with a betrayal that you cannot take back.
Scott breathes out. âI wouldâve been here for you.â
âI never asked you to.â
âYou never asked,â he spits out, âyou never let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you let me believe that I had fucked up something between us. You cut me off and I didnât even know why.â
âIt wouldâve been selfish,â you argue.
âIt wouldâve been fair,â he insists. âYou shouldâve trusted me to make my own judgment call.â
Your fingers wring together in front of you. Is this it then? The point of no return. You canât seem to find the words to say to remedy the situation.
âI didnât want you to have to choose,â you murmur. âBetween me and your dream.â The unsaid words being I didnât want to watch you choose your dream over me.
Scott has always been larger than life. He is meant for greater things, to innovate and create. He has gone so far since you first met him. Heâs become an even bigger person than you couldâve imagined.
What right did you have to hold him back from all that?
âAgain, thatâs not for you to decide,â he sighs, âHave you ever considered theyâre one and the same?â Your gaze flies up to meet his weary one. âYouâre an idiot,â Scott mutters. âSo fuckinâ stupid.â
You press your lips together into a thin line. âThanks a lot, asshole.â
âDoes he know?â
With a shake of your head, you lean back. âNo, heâs been⌠pretty good at not asking too many questions about who his dad is. Itâs only a matter of time before that curiosity grows though, especially once he starts school and the other kids will undoubtedly ask him.â
âI can help you with all that, you know. I am his father after all.â
Wincing, you swallow thickly. âYou donât have to, Scott. It was my decision to go through with the pregnancy. You donât have to feel like you have to participate.â
âWhy do you keep saying it like that?â He lets out an exasperated sound. You frown in question. âLike I donât want to be here. For him. For you.â
âIâ I just donât want you to feel pressured toââ
âSweetheart,â he begins and your heart feels like itâs been dipped in syrup, âI donât do anything I donât want to do. Iâve been present, havenât I? And that was before I even knew he was mine. What makes you think Iâm going to change my mind?â
âItâs different! Being here to support me as a friend and being here asâ as his dad! As a parent.â
Scott looks up to the ceiling again, inhaling deep through his nostrils. âTell me how itâs different.â
âA fun uncle is not a co-parent.â
âSo I want to co-parent.â
âYou donât know what that means.â
âIt means being here for you, for him. It means having equal responsibility and stakes in raising him. It means youâre not doing this alone.â
A lump grows in your throat as you look at him. His determination is evident.
âSo Iâm going to need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that Iâm not going anywhere. Iâm going to piss you off, youâre going to piss me off, but weâll make it work.â
You laugh, tears pricking the corner of your eye. âMaybe if we donât kill each other first.â
His lips curve into a smirk. âYou canât kill me. Iâm your baby daddy after all. Fucked you so hard that your birth control didnât work.â
You almost choke on your own spit. âYouâre such a piece of shit.â
He laughs. âDonât forget the father of your child.â
Your fingers are itching to make contact with his cheek. He really can be such an asshole sometimes. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Repeating the fact that heâs Benâs father, reminding you again that he knows your big secret now. The worst part is you know that heâs doing it intentionally; the more irritated he gets you, the better the sex. He likes it when you fight back, when you push him.
He likes it when he can put you in your place.
âSome friend you are,â you grunt.
Scottâs rising to his feet, moving towards you. With every step he takes forward, he backs you up until your lower spine lands against the kitchen counter.
âLetâs get one thing clear,â Scott says low, coming up to press you against the solid surface. With both hands planted on either side of you, he leans towards you. Your breath catches. âWeâre not friends. We havenât been for a while.â
âThatâs⌠mean,â you whimper.
âThe things I want to do with you â to you â theyâre not things friends do.â
Thereâs a promise in his gaze that has your heart fluttering, your stomach curling with desire as heat builds between your legs.
Itâs hard to breathe when heâs this close. Hard to even think. Your palm flattens against his firm, broad chest, applying pressure in a feeble attempt to put some distance. Except now you canât help but feel the way his pecs feel underneath your fingers and you can picture yourself on top of him, sinking down on his cock while your hands are planted on his skin.
Heaven have mercy.
âThings are different now,â you gulp.
âYou think I still canât make you cum three times in a night?â
Your lips part. âThatâs notââ Heat climbs up your throat. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â
Scott chuckles. âI hope you know that this only makes me want you even more. Youâre stupid if you think Iâm ever letting you out of my sight again.â
âJust because you want to be here and be a father does not mean that it changes anything between us.â
His joy quickly morphs into irritation again. âWhy not?â
âBecause Ben will always come first and we canât⌠just keep fucking.â
âAgain, why not?â
Because Iâm in love with you. Because Iâm going to get my heart broken again.
âI want to maintain some boundaries. Itâll be better for us that way.â
Scott is quiet, thoughtful as he regards you, before he straightens. âOkay then. You do that. You maintain your boundaries.â
âThank you.â
âDoesnât mean Iâll be helpinâ you do that,â he laughs, bitter as he smiles at you. A threat laced into his expression. âBetter prepare yourself, sweetheart. Iâm not here to protect your walls. Iâm here to break them down.â
âWe should go out.â
Your gaze lifts from your laptop, eyes instinctively wandering down the hall to Benâs room where heâs safe and sound asleep, then back to Scott whoâs on his own laptop on the dining table. âLike to get groceries?â
âNo, for dinner.â
You look over your shoulder, to the take-out menus stuck to the fridge with a mismatched set of magnets. âThereâs a pizza place Ben likes down the street. We could go tomorrow.â
âFinally letting me in two days in a row?â Scott cocks an eyebrow.
A glare is all he gets in return.
âI meant us. Just the two of us.â
Your fingers stop, hovering over the keyboard. âWhy?â
âSo I can take you out.â
âWhy?â
âTo spend some time together. You know, outside of parenting.â
Parenting still sounds foreign on his tongue, at least to you. Scott seems to have settled in comfortably with the title, taking on the mantle even without the official acknowledgment. The two of you agreed to ease Ben into it; he seems to have taken a liking towards Scott so at least telling him may be easier than you initially anticipated.
However, considering the situation at hand, you can only ask, âWhy?â
âHow old are you?â Scott snaps.
âI donât think we need to do anything together outside of parenting.â
âWhy not?â
Itâs your turn to give him a look. âWe are two people who happen to be raising a child together. Somewhat.â
âBut weâre friends first.â
âI think co-parenting supersedes the friend label now, which means I canât be doing that with you. Not alone.âÂ
He knows youâre being obstinate for the sake of it, pissing him off just because you can. However, he doesnât take the bait.Â
âYou know what, youâre right, sweetheart. Let me rethink this.â
Scott was never one to give up easily. On the contrary, when presented with a challenge, he rises to the occasion. He goes above and beyond.
It starts off innocuous enough, subtle that you nearly think that all of it is accidental. When heâs trying to help around the kitchen and he reaches across you, arm brushing your breasts. Your nipples perk up on instinct, seeking the familiar warmth of his touch like youâve been trained. He doesnât say a thing so you brush it off as inconsequential. His hand on your hip when heâs excusing himself behind you. His eyes on you when he licks his thumb clean off the brownie batter youâre making.
It doesnât matter. It shouldnât matter. These tiny touches, interactions that shouldnât mean anything. You shouldnât be reacting this way. You tell yourself itâs because itâs been a while since you got laid last â unfortunately, by none other than the source of your frustrations.
But then the touches become firmer, intentional in a way that you canât miss. Heâs slipping an arm around your waist when he picks you up at the hospital, head ducking to press a kiss to the side of your head, all the while youâre mid-conversation with a coworker who then scurries away under Scottâs glare. In the car, heâs sliding a possessive hand over your thigh, squeezing when he asks you about your day. He has a hand pressed against your lower back at all times, practically manhandling you when you move around different spaces.
And god do you fucking love it. Maybe itâs because youâve been deprived of physical touch for so long, you havenât had anyone in your corner reminding you that theyâre there. But you also know yourself better than that and the only reason all of this works is because itâs Scott and you were in love with Scott.
You tell yourself itâs all in the past. This is the remnants of your feelings long forgotten from your more youthful self.
But then it all disappears. The touches. The fleeting glances. The flirty smiles. The difference is jarring and you canât help but notice the extra space he puts between the two of you when youâre walking with Ben, keeping him in between you two. Or how he moves away from the kitchen when you enter it, and again when you move into the living room. Or how his question actually sounds polite when he asks you how work went.
How he doesnât even blink twice when you tell him a colleague â that same one that he had scared away â had asked you out to dinner.
The frustration builds inside of you, like heâs crafting a wall with the distance brick by brick. You find yourself leaning towards him only for him to shift in his seat and away from you. The inches between you on the couch feel like they stretch for miles, his arm extended on the other side instead of behind your back.
You feel like an addict seeking a fix, constantly chasing after him â subtly, not enough for it to be obvious, but certainly enough for him to notice.
So, by the time he suggests it again, heâs Pavlovâd you to seek his attention. Fucker.
âDo you want to spend the day together?â
You grit your teeth. Somehow, Scott has conspired with your mother that she whisked Ben away early this morning for a trip to the zoo and you end up with this asshole at your front door with a smirk on his face, shoulders squared, chin tilted up like heâs done something good.
âYou did this on purpose.â
âWhat did I do?â
He knows exactly what he did. âAll of it.â
âCome on. Get dressed.â
âYou havenât even told me where weâre going,â you snap.
âNowhere you need anything fancy,â he says before steering you by the elbow out the door.
You allow yourself to be pushed into the car, he even straps your seatbelt in for you, before heâs driving. Destination still unknown. You try to ask and Scott tells you to just relax, tells you that youâre wrung up too tight.
Then he stops and you look quizzically out the window.
âI got you a massage appointment.â
You nearly break your neck at the speed you whip around to look at him. âWhat? Why?â
âThought it would be a nice thing to do. You used to gather knots like you were starting a collection and I had to press all of that out for you. Figured, with all the years of build up and I highly doubt youâve been smoothing those out, a professional could do a better job.â
At a loss, you find yourself only staring at him. He looks cocky, so damn proud that heâs done something right â that he knew exactly what you needed.
âNow get going, theyâre not gonna find another timeslot for you.â
With your mind in a blur, you exit the vehicle. The spa is nice, a mix of lavender and eucalyptus in the air that has you relaxing almost instantly. The experience is⌠divine to say the least. For once, you have not a single thought in your mind and you find yourself melting into the table during your two-hour long session.
By the time you step back outside, after the people inside tell you that itâs been paid for, Scott is waiting out front. In a daze, you slip back into the car.
âGood?â is all he asks.
You nod slowly.
âGood,â he smiles, ânow, letâs get you ready for dinner.â
Scott tells you that heâs taking you somewhere casual, but nice. Nice enough that you end up spending a bit of time washing your hair, doing your makeup, even fixing your hair a little bit. When you spritz on perfume, you tell yourself that itâs for your sake.
But you canât deny that when you see Scott drink you in â how his blue eyes go ten shades darker, how his lips part when he gets a whiff of the florals clinging onto your skin â that it mightâve been for him too.
You would think a man like Scott would take you somewhere nice, somewhere youâre going to be gawking at the prices all night, wondering if you should even be in a place like that. But when he pulls up to a quiet corner in Cambridge, an Italian restaurant that seems all too familiar, you find yourself caught off guard.
âWhat? You wouldâve preferred steak and fries at Del Friscoâs?â Heâs chuckling quietly to himself, knowing full well what your answer would be.
Before you can reach for your door, Scottâs rounding the car and pulling it open, even going as far as to offer a hand.
Heâs a perfect gentleman the entire night. When you hesitate on ordering because of the prices, Scott â the condescending prick that he is â orders for you, except he orders right. Youâve been eyeing that dish but you couldnât do the math fast enough to figure out your budget for the month. He orders a bottle of red, your favorite â itâs nothing fancy, but it had been a step up when you felt like splurging in college. The food is delicious, reminiscent of the old days when he would treat you to a meal to make you feel better, right after he fucked you seven ways to Sunday.
Youâre warm, body buzzing with your fill of food and wine. For the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter, like the world isnât weighing down on your shoulders. Scott drives you back home and he stops right in front of your apartment building.
You know whatâs coming. A proposition â as always. Youâre going to say yes â as always. Heâs always been a snake charmer, saying and doing all the right things to get one into bed with him. It worked on you for months. It used to work on all the ladies before he stopped using it on them.
It still works on you, considering youâre feeling that warmth between your legs. That anticipation humming in your veins. You can practically taste his mouth on you, the tartness from the wine mixed with the gelato you ordered for dessert. You take a breath in eager hopefulness.
However, when he walks you to the apartment entrance, he only kisses the back of your hand. âHave a good night, sweetheart.â Then heâs slowly making his way down the steps, leaving you completely gobsmacked.
You find yourself saying, âWait,â before you can even think twice.
Scott halts, turns, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.
You should have more self-restraint. But when heâs looking at you with those bright blue eyes and an expression that promises you a good time, youâre only human.
âWhat is it?â
You fidget with the handle of your purse. âWhere are you going?â
âHome,â he drawls, tilting his head like heâs waiting to see your next move.
âYouâre not gonna stay?â
Scottâs lips quirk up, shfiting into a look too cocky for your liking. âDo you want me to stay?â
âDonât be a dick.â
âDoesnât sound like you do,â he makes a face, raising his shoulders in a shrug as he pretends to slowly turn back around.
You should let him go. You hope he has fucking blue balls tonight. However, that also means youâll be left alone with your thoughts in an empty apartment and your vibrator on a Saturday night, and that sounds a heck of a lot less fun than getting your brains scrambled by the one man who knows exactly how to do that.
âDo you want to come up?â
Itâs comical how quickly he whirls around to say, âDonât mind if I do.â
The ride up the elevator is weighed down by tense silence. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears in time with the numbers that climb, a beep in rhythm to each floor. Scott stands next to you, hands planted on the railing casually, but you hear the impatient tapping of his shoe. When the elevator finally dings, he lets you leave first and you feel the burn of his gaze on your back, trailing the length of you down to the curve of your ass where the silk of your dress rests.
Your fingers are barely functional as you clumsily dig through your purse to open the door. Itâs one thing to have someone watching you, itâs another to have Scott staring at you. The hungry look in his eyes, the way you can practically feel the heat radiate off him.
You donât even get a chance to properly set aside your bag before Scott is pressing you up against the wall. He drinks in your surprised little gasp, your instinct to move away from him only has him backing you up against your kitchen counter. With you half-seated on it, Scottâs hands slide around your neck, cupping your cheeks so he can lick into your mouth. He takes the chance to slip his tongue in between your little gasps, tasting that sugar on your tongue.
âFuck, sweetheart, been waiting to do that all night,â he groans as his mouth travels towards your neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin until you feel the sting spark every nerve inside your body. He does it over again, like heâs zapping you with electricity every time he leaves a new mark on your body.
Youâre no better, your hands immediately crawling up his chest to find his buttons and fumble with them, slipping them out one at a time until you can shove his shirt off his shoulders. God, how is it possible that he seems even broader than before? Your palms explore his biceps, feeling the way they flex beneath your fingertips, muscles tensing into a firm surface for you to hold onto.
âYou got⌠bigger,â you note in a daze. Itâs ridiculous how drunk you feel right now and itâs certainly not from the wine. Itâs his scent â masculine and clean. Like rain on freshly mowed grass, earthy in a way that grounds you. You canât help but breathe him in, making a mental note that he still uses the same shampoo.
âA lot of time lugging around equipment out there,â he mutters. As if to prove a point, he lifts you up to the counter and wraps your legs around his waist. âAlways getting drenched in the storms.â
Fuck. Terrible visual. You imagine him in a white short-sleeve shirt, the fabric soaking up all that rain and clinging to every inch of his muscles and leaving nothing to the imagination. His dusky nipples poking through the fabric. Curly brunette hair with droplets, that one stray hair on his forehead whenever it gets too humid. You can practically see the light smattering of hair on his chest, a path leading down to his navel.
God forbid that the women in Oklahoma have seen him like that. Thatâs a visual youâd rather keep to yourself.
Scott distracts you again when he brings his face back to kiss you. He kisses like heâs inhaling you, stealing every hitched breath from your lungs. His mouth is ravenous as it moves against you, teeth grazing your bottom lip lightly in a tantalizing threat. He finally nips and you let out a little whine that he laughs lightly at as he kisses you harder. Firmer. Soft lips, only slightly chapped, as they relearn what it is exactly that makes you moan down his throat.
âLove kissing you,â he mutters, âmissed doing this. I want to do this everyday.â
Youâre about to tell him why that would be a bad idea but you sigh dreamily instead, tipping your head back when he begins trailing wet kisses along your jawline again.
His hands wander to your back, dragging the zipper down quietly until your dress pools on the floor. His thumb brushes over your nipples peaking through the lace. âMissed these pretty tits too. Couldnât get enough of them last time.â He ducks his head and tugs one free from your bra, lips closing in around your nipple in a wet heat. His groan reverberates straight through you, tongue laving around your pert nipple like heâs trying to coax it out.
As he does so, his other hand reaches for the clasp of your bra until you hear the little sound before it slides down your shoulders.
âHands on the counter.â
âBossy,â you murmur, but do so anyway.
Scott looks mildly surprised at your obedience and you canât even bring yourself to care. You lean back slightly and spread your legs wider to let him step in between them, his mouth warm and sweet on your tits. He mouths hungrily at your breasts, biting, squeezing, until youâre a moaning mess arching into his touch. One of his hand slides down to your lower spine to yank you closer to him, pressing your core against the thickness in his pants.
âIâve been hard all night lookinâ at you in that pretty dress,â Scott growls, âknew exactly what you looked like underneath it, couldnât wait to take it off you.â
You appear to have lost your entire vocabulary when he slips that hand from your back to the space between you, two fingers against the panties thatâs quickly gathering moisture. The whine that is pulled from your lips is instinctual. Pure primal need.
âImagining you stretched out on that massage bed, naked, slicked up in oil. Fuck, I had to drive around and keep myself busy for two hours so I didnât go back and do the job myself,â he huffs a laugh as he begins rubbing your clit over the material, arousal easing the slick of his fingers even with one layer between the two of you.
A gasp is wrenched from your throat as you stare at him, wide-eyed. âThatâsâ thatâs ridiculous.â
Scott hums, shaking his head, pressing harder, pulling out another needy sound. âStop beinâ so tense. Youâre undoing all of that womanâs hard work.â Your eyes light up briefly. âI wasnât going to let some other man touch you. Iâm not an idiot.â
âYouâre such a possessive asshole,â you let out a breathless laugh, âitâs just a massage.â
âDoesnât matter. Iâm going to be the only one that gets to touch these pretty tits. Not to mention, thisââ he slides his fingers under your panties, gathering up the arousal from you slick folds on his fingertips and listening to the lewd squelch as he dips his fingers in just a tad. âYouâre so goddamn wet.â
Instead of clamping your legs shut, embarrassed like you always have been, you canât help but let your thighs fall apart further, giving him room to give you the pleasure that you so badly needed.
âYouâre so much easier when youâre not stressed.â
That snaps you awake. âOh, fuck you.â
Scott pushes two fingers in, the slide is swift and wet. âJust like that,â he grins as he slowly drags his fingers out only to shove them back in. Heâs rough and heâs messy, you can hear how wet you are as he watches you come undone, thumb against your clit like he has something to prove. âShit, sweetheart, youâre dripping all over the counter. Youâre so messy, pretty girl.â
âS-Scott,â you moan, fingers wrapping around his wrist. âI c-canât, mmm, please.â
âI know, I know, still so tight, arenât you? I donât want to hurt you,â he says as he slowly sinks to his knees. You look down to find him with his starry eyes looking right up at you as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. You can see the moment his eyes flutter shut as he tastes you, tongue lecherously poking out to lick his fingers clean. âBetter than dessert.â
âYouâre so cornyââ your words split off into a choked gasp when Scott dives in between your legs. His tongue drags all the way up to your clit until youâre bucking against his mouth. He licks and devours, the roughness of his tongue sliding up your slick folds, lips closing in around your core, your clit, to suck until youâre shuddering against him. âFuck, Scott, wait, slow down.â
Scott leans away, giving you a brief moment of reprieve â except, when you look down at him, his bottom half is glistening in the moonlight that spills across your floors. His eyes return to your pussy, just beneath your stomach thatâs rising and falling with your labored breaths.
His index and middle fingers rest on each of your lips as he slowly pries them apart, your pussy pulses and thereâs no doubt that he catches that movement. The slight tensing, squeezing, inside of you. âLook at this pussy spreading so wet and easy for me. Sheâs droolinâ, sweetheart.â
As if he can sense another argument on your lips, Scott leans forward again to press kisses onto your inner thigh, blooming warmth with every spot he touches. He kisses up and up until heâs back with his face between your legs, your thighs closing in around his head until heâs practically suffocating in your cunt.
Itâs the way he likes it though. His hands on your ass to drag you forward so he can tongue-fuck you faster, knowing full well youâre enjoying it when youâre grinding against his face with tears leaking from your eyes and his name said in prayer.
That pleasure coils humiliatingly fast in your stomach. You can feel your climax, long abandoned, surfacing quickly. God, it feels so good, his mouth â itâs only gotten better. You hate to think if he fucked anyone else while he was away, because â of course he did, he was a hot young bachelor in bumfuck Oklahoma. He was probably the hottest shit down there.
Scott scowls up at you, âYouâre tensing up again, what are you thinking about?â
âNothing,â you blurt out, pressing your lips together.
He rises to his feet, fingers catching your chin. âTell me.â
âThereâs nothing to tell,â you snap irritably. Great, now youâre thinking about some cute girl in a cowboy hat heâs probably fucked the same way he did you.
âYou just stiffened up again. Either you tell me, or I wonât fuck you.â
You roll your eyes, âHolding sex hostage? Real mature.â Well, two can play that game. âIf you wonât fuck me, Iâm sure Iâve got a few people on my dating apps that have been begging to.â
Scottâs eyes flash, your heart palpitates a little too aggressively. âYeah? You wanna try that again with me?â Your mouth dries. âSweetheart, youâre cute if you think Iâm letting anyone else near this pretty pussy of yours. You think anyone can get you off?â
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.
âYouâre mine,â he breathes out, catching your lips again. You can taste yourself on him, his moan vibrating against your mouth.
But you canât deny his words. Instead, you let him pick you up and carry you all the way to the bedroom. He doesnât stop kissing you the entire way, stealing your breath every chance he gets. Your back lands on the mattress, Scott climbing over you and pressing your legs into your chest.
âLove fucking you just like this,â he murmurs, applying just a little more pressure. âMaybe I can put another baby in you.â
âScott!â You gasp.
âFuck, I wasnât even around when you were pregnant. Iâd do it right this time. Make sure youâre taken care of â however that may be. Heard the first trimesterâs roughest, probably needed a cock to fill you up, hm? Fill you up and get you so stupidly cockdrunk you wonât have the mouth to talk back to me.â
Another protest sits on your tongue but then Scottâs unzipping his pants and his cock, thick and throbbing, is in his hands, tip sitting at your entrance. You can feel your pussy dripping onto him, a trail of slick that slides down the length of him.
âI could fuck you, cum in you as much as I want â not like I didnât already,â he chuckles, âno more risk of getting you pregnant twice. God, I could do that to you, sweetheart. Want another kid with me?â
âYouâreâ fuck, youâre insane.â
Scott only grunts as he begins pushing into you. âSo fuckinâ tight. I need to teach your pussy how to take me again. You were so sweet and loose for me back then, we fucked so much, your cunt was shaped to my cock. Canât wait to do that again.â
The ache burns between your legs as Scott stretches you out, your pussy opening up painfully slowly for him. You hold your breath, tensing up as he whispers for you to relax, to just keep your legs open and let him take what he needs. Your eyes roll when he finally buries himself all the way, the head kissing the deepest parts of you.
âS-shit, fuck, that feels so good. You feel like heaven.â
âPlease, please just move,â you whine.
âI know, baby, but I canât fuck you too fast, gonna hurt you. My cock barely fits in this tight pussy of yours,â Scott coos, dragging back his hips and slowly coaxing you open with a push of his cock. âI gotta go easy on her. Sheâs not used to being filled up, is she?â
You call him an asshole in your head, because you donât trust your voice not to break in the haze of your pleasure.
âPretty girl hasnât had anyone taking care of her in a while.â
âI can take care of myself just fine,â you defend with a snap.
âYeah? What? Those vibrators I see you hiding? Doesnât feel the same, does it? You needed someone to fuck you properly.â Scott smirks, âMaybe I shouldâve given you a dildo shaped to my cock. That way you could fuck yourself on it whenever you missed me. Iâd make you call me when you do that, wanna hear you beg for my cock while you push it inside you. Better yet, I want to see you while you ride it and realize it ainât the same as the real thing.â
âYouâre so fucking gross,â you hiss and, sure enough, it melts into a moan when Scott drives into you again, and again, and again.
âWhat does it say about you when I can feel you chokinâ out my cock at the thought of it?â He laughs, taunting. âYouâre as fucked up as I am, sweetheart. How do you think we made a baby in the first place?â
Oh fuck, Scott feels you open up to him, mold around him. That pain dulls into a throb that only serves to weave desire between your legs. You clench around him, pussy pulsing with his every word, as he fucks deep inside of you. He pushes you back into this mating press, groaning when he feels himself reach deeper inside you.
âShit, baby, this pussy is fucking unbelievable. I canât believe I gave this up for years. Missed fucking this gorgeous cunt so bad,â he swallows. That vein on his neck goes taut as he tries to stop himself. âYou still on the pill?â
You nod weakly, fingers digging into his biceps as he pounds into you, his hips jerking faster and harder.
Then he laughs and it sounds mean and your stomach twists. âDidnât do us much good last time though, huh? Itâs alright, sweetheart. If you get knocked up again, Iâll be here. Iâll be here to fuck all that stress out of you, give you all the massages thatâll end with my head between your legs. Get you all your cravings so you can show your appreciation with your mouth on my cock.â
Itâs disgusting, The thought of returning favors when heâs the one who gets you pregnant, but something about it has you tightening, punched in the stomach with a level of arousal that you canât seem to contain.
âDonât need to use this pretty brain of yours, baby. Just gonna have you barefooted waddling around and you can let me take real good care of you,â he pants, sweat beading his forehead as he fucks into you faster, holding himself back harder. âMake sure you and our baby are good. Donât you worry.â
âF-fuck you,â you stutter as he drives back into you.
The bed creaks under the pressure of his thrusts, youâre getting fucked into the mattress that you can feel your body imprinting onto the bed. âThatâs right. Good girl. Gonna make you a mommy again, sweetheart. Gonna put another baby into you. Youâre already so cockdrunk, you wonât even know. Iâm not letting you out of here until it takes.â
That knocks all the oxygen from your chest. âShit, Scottâ hold on.â
âCanât do that,â he grunts, âpussy feels too good. Canât get enough of this hole. Iâm going to fill you up, baby. Youâre gonna be leakinâ my cum for days. Maybe Iâll send you to get another massage and theyâll see you dripping my cream.â
Scott pounds into you, each word filthier than the next. Heâs driving himself and you into a frenzy as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, squelching bouncing off your four walls.
âIâm gonna print my cock in your pussy so nobody else can touch you.â
âBreed this pussy so good, keep you plugged up with my cum for days.â
âThis pussy was meant to be fucked, sweetheart. You donât need princess treatment, just need to be fucked like you need another baby in you.â
Itâs filthy. Itâs demeaning. Itâs a fucking turn-on.
âYeah, you wanna cum, pretty girl? You wanna cum around my cock?â
You can only nod in your haze, desperate, eager.
âCum around me, sweetheart. I wanna feel that cream coating my cock. I wanna feel that stickiness, feel what itâs like to have my girl feel so good because of me.â
Scott pounds into you faster, deeper as he fucks you harder into the mattress. He presses you further in this position, tilting your hips up until youâre climbing and climbing and falling apart around him with a loud whine. Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm, legs quaking around him as he drags out your climax with every thrust until he himself is spilling warmth inside you. You can feel the mess in your insides, feel it slosh around, feel it leak from where you two are joined.
âFuck,â he groans, âcumming so much, sweetheart. Fillinâ her right up.â
Your heart slams against your chest as you feel exactly that.
Scottâs hips are still jerking with his cum spurting right into you. He refuses to budge, staying there until heâs sure everythingâs out. Even then, he nudges his hips a little deeper, like heâs making sure his cum stays in there.
He eases out of you slowly, but he doesnât let go of the pressure on your legs, keeping your hips up as he watches his cum ooze out of you. His brows pucker in annoyance as he uses two fingers to push it back into you.
You wince, pussy sensitive from the friction earlier. âGross.â
âYou like it.â
You do. Itâs stupid but you do. Something about him staking his claim, leaving a part of him inside you, itâs just the kind of thing that has you squeezing around his fingers again.
Scott smirks. âDo you want me to clean you up?â
Your stupid, traitorous, dysfunctional brain says no. For some reason, you really like feeling his cum inside you. But you know that the correct answer isâ âYes.â Itâs the only reason Scott asks â because he knows.
His eyes scan you for a moment, as if heâs trying to decide whether youâre telling the truth. Then he sighs and lets your legs down gently as he disappears, coming back only when he has a damp cloth in hand. Itâs so strange for him to be so familiar with your place to know where things are.
At the same time â so right.
He wipes you clean, murmuring to himself about how pretty you look with his cum inside you. You try not to let your lips stretch too wide with the heat rolling across your face.
When heâs done, Scott slides himself in next to you, pulling you close.
Thatâs when you freeze because â what is this? What are you? The panic sinks in fast and you feel fear claw at your chest. You have a son. You canât be doing â whatever the fuck this is â with his dad, who he doesnât even know is his dad.
âScottââ
âSleep.â
âGo home.â
âNo.â
âAre you shitting me?â You hiss, âYou canât be here when Ben comes home tomorrow morning.â
Scott exhales long and hard, like heâs had enough of your shit. âWhy not? I get full weekends, donât I? That includes mornings. Now sleep.â
âSleep in your own home! You can come back tomorrow.â
Before you know it, youâre back on your back and Scottâs on top of you, pinning you down with a glare. âSweetheart, it seems like I didnât fuck you hard enough. If I did, then you wouldnât be thinkinâ whatever the fuck is going through that big head of yours right now. So, Iâm going to fuck you again, and Iâm going to keep fucking you until you stop treatinâ me like Iâm some shameful one-night stand. Iâm the father of your child â our child. So take your pick â do you want me to fuck you again until your headâs too full of cock to argue, or do you want to sleep?â
You open your mouth. Sleep is on the tip of your tongue, but then you feel him and his gaze warm on you and your legs press together on instinct.
He chuckles, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss onto your lips. âGood answer.â
Sure enough, he keeps his promise and you only find yourself falling asleep when he gives you your third orgasm of the night.
There is no monumental shift. Scott acts the same way he always has â at least around Ben.
He tries to maintain some level of distance but you can tell that heâs getting a little antsy about his own son not knowing who he is. Every time he asks you, you have to shoot it down, mainly for Benâs sake.
But you also know that you raised a good, smart kid, which means itâs not surprising when Ben asks, âWhoâs Uncle Scott really?â
âHe isââ you pause, ââa friend.â
âBoyfriend?â
Fuck.
âNo, heâs just a friend â like the kind youâll meet in school.â
Ben looks at the television where thereâs an interview of Scott playing, the one from a local station talking about his startup. âYou love him?â
Your heart slams against your ribs. Warmth creeps up on you and Ben must notice it because heâs smiling softly, patting your hand.
âI like him,â Ben gives his nod of approval before turning back to the LEGOs in front of him.
A four-year-old just reassured you that he likes his dad. His dad that he still doesnât know about. You know it isnât fair and you will tell him at some point, youâre just not sure how to have that conversation yet â not when Scottâs time here is uncertain, despite what he says.
Still, while Scott keeps things steady with Ben, he switches tactics with you. His hand is always touching you â your hip, your back, your shoulders. Subtle touches like a reminder that heâs here. Itâs oddly comforting and you find yourself seeking his touch more than before.
Around your son, he still maintains some distance, even when you can tell heâs itching to get closer. The two of you are at the grocery store, youâre driving the cart while Ben runs ahead, giggling and pointing at everything he wants â which is really anything with at least twenty grams of added sugar.
Scott has an amused smile on his lips as he watches him.
âThink he could be a runner someday. Has the makings of an athlete. Maybe football,â he says, almost proudly with his chest puffed up.
You roll your eyes, âIâd rather avoid my son getting his head knocked around.â
âOr entrepreneur, he has a way with making you do things, you know. Smart. Manipulative.â
âWhere do you think he got that from?â
Scott only smirks.
Youâre scanning through your list when you realize, âShit, I forgot to grab butter and itâs up the aisle.â
âIâll grab it,â he says, squeezing your hip, âjust get what you need here.â
Ben insists on getting chocolate milk, mainly because heâs convinced the chocolate cow on the box is real. You tell him that you could get the smaller version and that youâll take him to a farm one day and realize that there are no cows that produce chocolate milk.
âWith Uncle Scott? In Okaâ Oklaââ He struggles, frowning when he canât remember.
Oh. âOklahoma,â you add, âmaybe. Iâm sure there are closer farms.â
His mouth opens in a bright grin.
When you finally cave and put both the chocolate milk and the regular milk in the cart, you look back down the aisle to see Scott standing there.
Talking to a woman.
A woman who was very much his type before he met you.
Your chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling. Itâs understandable that Scott has seen and is probably still seeing other women. The two of you donât have a label on things, nothing you can tape to his forehead that says off limits.
She looks young, sweet, dressed like she has a life. Sheâs smiling up at him, giggling at something heâs saying in a way where you know itâs not because heâs funny. She reaches up to touch his arm and he takes a step back, a polite smile in place, then heâs saying something and looking at you. And then sheâs looking at you too, face souring.
Alright then.
You turn away again, continuing to push the cart as Ben sets his mind on cereal next. Heâs been on a Lucky Charms kick and you desperately need to move him off it. Itâs all sugar and food coloring.
Scott appears next to you, a hand on your lower back as he puts the butter box in the cart. He peeks at your list. âCereal next?â
âUm, yeah,â you say, eyes going over your shoulder to catch another glimpse of that woman. âShe was cute.â
âYeah, she was.â
Your lips immediately curl and Scott catches it before you can school your expression. âDidnât get her number?â
âTold her Iâm with my wife and kid,â he smirks.
Wife and kidâ youâre not even sure how to respond to that, so you resort to clearing your throat with a deadpan look. âGlad to hear we can be used to avoid women you donât like.â
âWell, I was only half lying, wasnât I?â He huffs as the two of you turn the corner, finding Ben already with a box of Lucky Charms in hand. You sigh as Scott mutters under his breath, âNot too late to make it all completely true though.â
You try to convince Ben that cornflakes are much more fun, which is the least convincing argument you can make, until Scott steps in and says that cornflakes make him super strong like the rooster on the cover. So Ben swaps out his pick for a box of Froot Loops and declares that he wants to be strong like this bird instead.
It isnât until the two of you are unloading groceries into his car that it hits you, and the bag nearly slips from his fingers.
Make it all completely true. Wife and kid.
âTook you long enough,â Scott chuckles smugly. âGive it some thought. Maybe we can stop by the jewelers on the way back.â
Scott is relentless to say the least. He has increased the frequency of touching, has made it all the more obvious in front of everyone. Your coworkers all know him by name, chatting with him when you wrap up work late. Sometimes, heâs the one who picks Ben up from your momâs and brings him to meet you at the hospital.
Your mom, of course, is over the moon. She canât stop gushing over him, telling you how he helped her fix her leaky faucet, how heâs always on time to pick up Ben even when heâs still in the middle of work, and âDid you know he was featured in Forbes?â
He finally invites you and Ben over for dinner in his new apartment. Itâs much more spacious, a two-bedroom thatâs twice the size of yours â one of which he has set up for Ben. So Ben is also over the moon when he sees how massive his bedroom is. He asks if the two of you can stay and you only manage a tight-lipped smile before you redirect your glare towards Scott.
âYour place too,â Scott says casually, handing you an extra set of keys. âIn case you ever need some more space.â
Later, he also shows you that heâs left most of the closet empty in the master bedroom. âIn case you need to stay over.â
Itâs sweet. Itâs thoughtful.
Itâs too much.
You donât even know where you stand with him. He takes you out again and then another time; you tell yourself that this is just friends hanging out, but you know itâs different when you end up in his bed at the end of the evening. The first time you slept with him at his and tried to leave after, you realize that your shoes are nowhere to be found.
âWhere are my shoes?â
âI knew you were going to pull some stupid shit like this. So I hid them.â
âWhat the fuck? Are you four?â
âNo, but our son is. Now get your ass back into bed.â You cross your arms over your chest, planting your foot down in protest. Scott regards you coolly. âYou either come here on your own accord or Iâm throwing you over my shoulder.â
He doesnât make threats lightly, so you stomp all the way back to his bedroom where Scott proceeds to fuck you over again and makes sure that you have no energy left to move.
Things are⌠good.
For the first time in years, you feel almost at peace. Benâs a good kid, raised right, adored by all around him. Heâll start school next year with a stronger support system, what with Scott vowing to attend every parent-teacher conference and other events that require his presence. The two of you agree to tell Ben in a month â a month to prepare for the conversation.
You canât even imagine what itâs like â living four years of your life never seeing your father and then suddenly dropping one in his lap. Well, you suppose it isnât very sudden considering Scottâs been around more often than not. Part of you hopes that Ben is hopeful about Scott, itâll make the conversation easier.
That being said, your work schedule has been atrocious which means you havenât had the chance to really sit down with him and have a conversation on how to broach the topic with your son. The one time you finally manage to get off work early, you decide to swing by Scottâs; he works from home and you figured all three of you could do dinner together at that pizza place.
The key rests between your fingers, pinched tight as you stare at it.
You should just ring the doorbell. Right? It isnât your home. But Scott gave you a key and what if heâs still in the middle of something? What if he has someone else in there? No, you shouldnât use the key. Then again, he shouldnât have given you a key if he would be doing anything he wouldnât want you to see.
The internal debate persists until you decide fuck it and push the key into the lock. You open the door slowly, quietly, nothing like your own creaky one. Scottâs nowhere to be found in his giant living room with his giant television. You look at that giant screen with envy, thinking about how wonderful movie nights would be with that setup. Scott has already insisted on doing movie nights at his instead, stocking up on popcorn and sugar, and youâre tempted to agree.
Muffled voices carry down the hall. Heâs probably in the bedroom so you silently make your way over in case heâs on a call.
âYeah, Iâll be back next week, alright,â Scott says, sounding agitated. You get a peek through the bedroom door and find him pacing.
An open suitcase in front of him.
Your heart drops. The scene is all too familiar. Itâs like youâre twenty-two again, left behind in this town while he goes off to chase his dreams â only this time, he had promised you he would stay. Only this time, it wonât only be your heart heâll break.
âI know itâs takinâ me a while,â he grunts, scrounging his hand through his hair, âno, I still need to pick up my shit.â
You canât hear the person on the other end of the line but itâs clear that he doesnât seem very pleased. A sigh heaves from his chest as he looks out the window, a mournful expression painted onto his face.
âI have to tie up some loose ends.â
Loose ends? You swallow thickly. Thatâsâ is he talking about you? About Ben? Heâs supposed to be back in Oklahoma next week. No doubt whoever is on the other side is someone at work. But he had promised you he would stay â right? He had said that he would be sticking around. Why else would he get an apartment? Why would he set the bedroom up for Ben otherwise?
But your mind has spiraled beyond the point of reason. Your survival instincts kick in again; you never want to be the person left behind. Not again. Not after that first time. So you should leave first. Itâll make it easier for the both of you.
Scott wonât have to break the news and you â you can let that hope quietly slip away.
All you can do now is⌠leave.
So you do. You take one step back then another and another until youâre in his kitchen. You open one of the drawers and tuck the extra set of keys he gave you inside; after all, you wonât be needing those anymore. Then youâre out the door.
Youâre functioning numb as you get home. Ben greets you with a big smile and so does your mom. You force yourself to smile too and ask if the two of them want pizza for dinner. Your mom looks at you with a silent question asking where Scott is. You only shake your head.
When Scott calls you as youâre getting ready to leave for the restaurant, you donât pick up.
Not feeling so hot.
His face appears on your screen as your phone vibrates with the incoming call. You curse yourself for texting so quickly.
âHey,â you try to rasp.
âWhat is it? A cold? A fever? I can grab medicine and dinner on the way there. Maybe that wonton noodle soup fromââ
âNo, donât,â you blurt out, âI, uh, donât want to get you sick.â
âI donât give a shit about that.â You can practically imagine his annoyed scowl. Heâs probably shrugging on his jacket, you can hear the jingle of his keys as he heads to the door. âWhat do you want to eat? You like that wonton soup right? Itâs on the way to yours.â
âScott, please.â
âSweetheart,â he sighs.
âIâll be fine,â you insist, âjust give me a few days to recover and Iâll text you, okay.â
Silence on the other end means that heâs giving it actual thought. Then you hear the long exhale. âFine. Call or text me if you need anything. Seriously.â He clears his throat, âYou know, your mom could also take Ben for a few days. Iâll come take care of you.â
You bite your tongue, blinking away the tears as you stare up at the ceiling. You canât get used to this, canât get used to someone checking in on you, putting you first. This isnât the kind of thing that lasts.
âNo, I promise Iâll be okay.â
You call in sick for work, which shocks your entire team because youâre the type to drag yourself out of your deathbed to make sure you donât miss a day. Youâre not sure you like this reputation.
Jenna calls your bullshit out immediately. âWhatâs going on?â
âNothing,â you mutter, picking on the lint on your pajama pants. Youâre waiting for Ben to wake up so the two of you can spend the day together. Heâs a little confused why youâre at home for a few days, but he certainly isnât complaining.
âDoes it have something to do with hottie Scottie?â
You wince, âThatâs a gross nickname. Never say that again.â
âSo it does, what did he do?â
Itâs not what he did. Itâs what heâs about to do. âItâs not a big deal. I just needed a break. Gonna spend some time with Ben.â
âWell, Ben loves her cool Aunt Jenna so Iâll swing by after with fried chicken?â
Your lips twitch. She always knows the right things to say. âSounds good.â
On the other hand, you spend the rest of the week dodging Scottâs every attempt to come visit. You tell him that your cold has only gotten worse (youâre fresher than a spring chicken), that your mom is taking Ben for a few days (heâs sitting at the dining table), and that you are doing fine otherwise (your heart is splintering in your chest).
He sounds frustrated over the phone and, when he does visit, you pretend that youâre too sick to see him, refusing to let him through the door.
âThis is fucking ridiculous. You have a cold. Iâll be fine,â he snaps through the front door. âWill you just let me in?â
Once again, you emphasize that thatâs not good practice and colds are highly contagious. You can hear Scottâs feet shuffling outside, his annoyed grunts.
âCan you just let me in?â He breathes out deeply, âPlease. I havenât seen you in days and I really want to. I just want to make sure youâre good.â
Your forehead presses against the cool door. You tell yourself to stay strong. Donât give in so easily. So again, you deny him entry and he finally leaves.
On Sunday, he calls and you at least pick that up. âI have to fly out to Oklahoma for a few days,â he mutters, âIâll be back. Call me, text me, fucking email me if you need to â if you need anything at all, alright.â
âIâll be fine,â you whisper.
Youâre tying up those loose ends for him.
Scott goes radio silent for the first half of the week. You think this is finally it. Heâs finally cutting you loose and maybe heâs simply going to fade into a distant memory. Youâre back at work when he leaves Boston, your coworkers peppering you with questions about your absence. Jenna keeps the wolves at bay, telling all of them to give you some space.
âYou need to talk to me at some point,â she gives you a look.
You lick your lips, mouth trembling as you finally say the words youâve been too afraid to say. Because itâs one thing to think it, itâs another to admit it aloud. âScottâs gone.â
âWhat?â She jerks back, âWhat do you mean heâs gone?â
Pushing around your peas, you sigh. âHeâs in Oklahoma.â
âTemporarily right?â
You shrug. âFeel like it might be for good.â
âDid he tell you that?â
No, but you heard his conversation and itâs all about the words that are said behind your back that matter, right?
âHon, listen to me. Iâve never seen a man more obsessed in my life. That guyâs in love with you.â
To that, you laugh, heart a little lighter for some odd reason. âHeâs just being a good friend. He probably felt guilty after â you know â finding out that he knocked me up.â
She gives you a look. âIf you seriously believe that, Iâm going to have to take you up to neuro to get your head checked.â
On Thursday, youâre finally settling with the possibility that this really is it. Youâll be okay; you survived once without him, you can do it again. Instead, you focus strictly on work, drowning in the mountains of paperwork and unfinished studies. While youâre doing all that, your phone lights up with Scottâs name.
You donât pick up. The last thing you need while youâre stressed out of your mind is to hear him apologize, hear him tell you that heâs changed in his mind. You can have your heart ripped out of your chest later.
Blissful ignorance is better than blatant rejection, thatâs always been your motto.
Youâre ready for a night of full decompression, which means youâre going to cuddle up with your baby and maybe fall asleep on the couch after a filling dinner of grease. âIâm home,â you call out.
The sight before you has you freezing. Scottâs on the couch â your couch â with Ben on his lap. Theyâre reading one of Benâs favorite books and your son is giggling uncontrollably. Now, he is facing the front which means he canât see Scottâs expression.
And that is a look that has your entire body stiffening in the doorway. Youâre almost tempted to run again, but how could you abandon your son? So you try to ignore your buzzing nerves.
âMom!â
âHey, buddy,â you smile weakly, closing the door behind you. âWhereâs, uh, my mom?â
âShe left earlier, said I should spend some time with Ben and you,â he smiles. Itâs sweet. Itâs a sickeningly sweet smile, which means you know better than to trust it. âBen here was just telling me about all the fun you had last week. All week in fact. Said you werenât going to work so you two could spend all day together. Outside.â
Well.
âWe watched a baseball game and then got ice cream!â Ben announces cheerily. Then he begins to list down everything you did last week â everything â and he is completely unaware that heâs digging a deeper grave for his own mother.
âThat so?â Scott chuckles, patting his head. âYour momâs a real miracle worker, isnât she? Real healthy and spry to be doing all those things.â
The evening is tense, mostly for you. Your back is ramrod straight as Scott insists on cooking dinner and you have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesnât add anything to your food. There are smarter ways to take you out, none of them ideal for you. Ben seems to sense the thickness of the air, eyes darting between the two of you.
Of course, neither of you show a thing but the anger that rolls off Scott is nothing short of obvious. So Ben then proceeds to declare that he wants to sleep early.
He never sleeps early. Heâs just hit you with a second strike.
You busy yourself with getting him ready for bed, staying for as long as you can. Youâre glued at the hip while he brushes his teeth, while he picks out his pajamas at an alarmingly fast speed. He doesnât even want a bedtime story, telling you that heâs knackered from the long day.
And he goes straight to sleep. Traitor.
You were hoping Ben could buy you more time to come up with some sort of explanation for your behavior, or at least figure out a way to turn the conversation back to him because â whatâs he doing back here? Isnât he supposed to be in Oklahoma?
When you finally step out of Benâs room, Scott looks noticeably ticked off.
His jaw is squared tight, dimples that are usually so endearing appearing more menacing in this light. âYou wanna tell me why you lied about beinâ sick?â
You shift back on the heels of your feet. âI just needed some me time.â
âBullshit,â he spits out, âyou know I wouldâve given you that if thatâs what you wanted. Try again.â
While youâre usually better at thinking on your feet, the glare heâs pinned you with has your brain completely scrambled. Youâre coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing even remotely close to being sufficient for your lie.
âCanât think of anything, can you? Now that Iâve caught you.â
âScottâŚâ
âWhat was it?â He grunts, âWhat fucking spooked you?â
You press your lips together. âWhat are you talking about?â
âYouâve never been good at commitment, sweetheart. Been runninâ since the day I met you. So tell me, what fucking scared you?â
A protest sits on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall from your lips. Defensive. But Scottâs looking at you wearily, a five oâclock shadow thatâs rarely ever there dusted across his face.
âYou were going to leave,â you murmur.
He frowns at that. âWhen the hell did I say I was gonna do that?â
âYou didnât have to tell me,â you sigh, âI heard you on the phone.â
His eyebrows jump, surprise coloring his expression. If that isnât confirmation, you donât know what is. âWhatâre you talking about?â
Itâs your turn to look irritated. How is he going to play dumb when heâs been caught red-handed?
âI heard you â you were going to head back Oklahoma, that you needed to pack your stuff andââ the last part has your throat constricting, youâre blinking back tears as you look at him. ââthat you needed to tie up loose ends.â
Scott looks far from appeased from your explanation. âYeah, and?â
âAre you shitting me?â You hiss, âIf you were going to leave again, were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to disappear? Leave me here alone again.â
âThatâs not fucking fair,â he snaps right back, âI reached out to you. Multiple times. I called and texted and you disappeared. So donât turn this shit around on me like I intentionally left you.â
âHow was I ever supposed to tell you, Scott? Iâm pregnant, can you stay here with me instead?â
âYes! Exactly like that,â he snarls, âitâs as simple as that. But instead, you stopped responding to me. You left me.â That shuts you up, your breath catching in your throat. âSo donât be a hypocrite.â
âIt wouldâve been selfish of me â to tell you,â you gulp, chest tight, âyou wouldâve stayed because thatâs who you are. That stupid sense of responsibility despite you being irresponsible enough to go out there and chase goddamn tornadoes. I couldnât do that to you.â
âI know, because thatâs who you are,â he mutters, âyou think you gotta do everything on your own. You think I donât hear things? Your mom and Jenna told me plenty about how tough things were for you. How do you think that makes me feel? Iâm the asshole that left you.â
âYou didnât know,â you breathe in shakily.
âDoesnât change the circumstances, does it?â He snips. His face softens then, melting slightly as he sees you curling into yourself. âBut I really need you to get your head checked. Something ainât right up there if you think for a second I could really ever leave you again.â
You look up at him and heâs already taken a step towards you. His hand slides up your neck to cup your cheek, his warm blue eyes on you.
âI was wrapping things up in Oklahoma so I can move here for good. I needed to deal with some paperwork and all the transition for the fieldwork. Weâre not short-handed but, you know how it is with leadership.â He pauses, searching your face for any reaction. âI couldnât just leave my team hanging out to dry so I had to finalize everything before I officially moved here.â
Well. Your voice is quiet when you ask, âSo you werenât going back to Oklahoma for good?â
The aggravation returns to his face. âYouâre shittinâ me right? Have I not been telling you for weeks that Iâm here to stay?â
âI just thought you meant temporarily,â you sputter, âwho picks up their entire life on a fucking whim?â
âItâs not a whim! I was planning to move back here, focus more on raising funds with investors. That was, if I managed to find you!â That has you jolting back in surprise. âI came here to look for you. Properly this time. Fuck, and I told myself that, if I found you, I wasnât gonna get you walk away from me again.â
âYouâ really?â
He rolls his eyes, lips tugging up. âYeah, really. Let go the love of my life once, ainât doinâ that again.â
âLove of your life?â You squeak.
Scott looks up at the ceiling, praying to some almighty up there to lend him some patience. âThought that was fuckinâ obvious,â he mutters, âfor someone so fuckinâ smart, you can be real stupid.â
âThatâs so rude,â you frown.
âApparently, I have to be if I need you to get your head out of your ass.â
You lick your lips, face flushing with heat. âSo, uh, love of your life? Can I get some clarity on that?â
âHow can I be any clearer?â He snaps, âIf youâre gonna ask me since when, you really think Iâd keep fucking you back then if I wasnât in love with you?â Your jaw practically drops. âYouâre the idiot that didnât want anything real.â
âYou were fucking everything that moved!â
âUntil I met you!â He shakes his head. âJesus, you reallyâ I donât know how you got me wrapped around your finger all this time.â
You huff, âAre you gonna keep insulting me all night?â
âAre you not gonna tell me you love me?â
A laugh bubbles up your throat. âWhat makes you think I love you?â
âI donât think, I know, sweetheart,â Scott grins, arm stretching to pull you towards him. He tucks you in close, your breasts against his chest as your palms land on his shoulders, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet little moan. âCome on, say it. I know youâve been dyinâ to for years now.â
With a roll of your eyes, you puff out, âI love you.â
He grunts, leaning down to tease you. âDonât think I heard you.â
âI love you, Scott Miller. Now will you shut up and kiss me?â
âNever could say no to you, sweetheart.âÂ
+ sam: thank you so much if you've made it this far!!! you've finally seen the inner workings of my mind when i'm truly hyperfixating. please know that i appreciate every single piece of engagement but i especially love to hear what you think of the story, your fave parts, etc.!!! <3
warnings: angst, relationship distress, dynamic neglect, severe public panic, physical injury (head trauma, bleeding, concussion), and mild themes of endangerment/near death experience.
notes: i was gonna add more but it wouldve been wayyyyyy to long.. so pt3 when?! also slightly proofread!!
wc: 1.9k
đâ âš part 1
the elevator doors slid shut cutting off the desperate echoes of clarkâs voice.
the moment the steel walls enclosed you, your composure completely broke.
you collapsed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, sliding down until you hit the cold floor.
a breathless sob tore out of your throat, so loud it echoed.
you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your wet coat soaking through to your skin, but you didn't care.
your chest was heaving so violently you couldn't catch your breath.
Itâs just easier....
the words repeated in your head, a cruel mantra that pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat.
he had lied.. he had left you alone in the dark with cold food and lit candles so he could drink wine in his sweatpants on his ex girlfriend's couch.
by the time the elevator hit the lobby, you scrambled to your feet, wiping furiously at your face.
you didn't just walk out of the building, you broke into a run, rushing past the startled doorman and straight back into the storm, desperate to let the freezing rain wash away the humiliation burning on your skin.
when you finally threw open the door to your own apartment, the silence inside was suffocating.
the candles had burned down to stubs, leaving behind the faint smell of vanilla and melted wax.
the two plates of dinner still sat on the counter, perfectly arranged and cold.
"easier," you choked out, your voice shaking.
you walked over to the table and with a sweep of your arm, knocked both plates off the surface.
they shattered against the hardwood floor, ceramic exploding into a dozen pieces, pasta and sauce splattering across the room.
you didn't stop there.. you lunged toward the dining table, grabbing the vase of flowers youâd bought fresh that morning and hurled it against the wall.
the glass shattered, water and crushed petals raining down onto the floor.
you tore the cushions off the couch, threw the decorative pillows across the room, and grabbed a framed photo of you and Clark from the bookshelf, a photo taken at a park where he was looking at you with what you thought was love and threw it face down onto the floor, the glass cracking down the center.
you trashed the place until your lungs burned and your hands were shaking from the adrenaline.
you stood in the center of the room, panting, looking at the mess you had created.
it was the first time the apartment actually matched how you felt on the inside... completely broken.
you exhaled before moving, you dragged your large suitcase to the bedroom.
you didn't pack everything, just your clothes, your laptop, and the absolute essentials.
your phone buzzed on the counter.
lois: please answer me. i am so, so sorry. itâs not what it looks like, i swear to you. let me come over. let me explain. please don't hate him.
you stared at the screen but didn't reply.
it's not what it looks like... please don't hate him.
you scoffed and instead, you blocked her number and then, you blocked his.
wrapping your now dry coat tighter around yourself, you grabbed your suitcase, stepped over the broken glass, and let the door click shut behind you.
đâ âš
you'd rather be anywhere but here, you've avoided the office for as long as you could but today perry said he needed you here.
a week had passed since you've spoken to either of them.
the silence between you and clark shifted from uncomfortable to deafening.
you kept your eyes glued to your monitor, your fingers flying across the keyboard with a rhythmic click clack.
you could feel clark's eyes on you from across the room, but you didnât look at him.
not when he drops a file on your desk or when he clears his throat.
every time he builds up the courage to speak, you conveniently pick up your desk phone or rush off to the copy room.
you're making yourself unreachable, and it's driving him out of his mind.
you can hear clark's footsteps before he actually reaches your desk, so you keep your eyes locked onto your computer screen.
he stops right at the edge of your desk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously adjusting his glasses.
he looks entirely drained, the guilt weighing down his broad shoulder, the bags under his eyes are dark.
"hey," he starts, his voice quiet and hesitant. "you've been typing for three hours straight... you uh you need to take a break. let me get you something from the cafeteria? a snack, or... or some tea?"
you don't blink or pause, you just hit the backspace key a few times and keep typing.
clark lets out a small, ragged breath, leaning in slightly closer so his words don't carry across the busy bullpen.
"honey, i know you're furious with me and you have every right to be. what you saw at lois's apartment"
you snapped your head toward him, tilting it slightly as if analyzing a stranger. your eyes narrowed, drilling into his.
clark froze, the words dying in his throat as his eyes locked onto your face taking in every feature like it'd be the last he'd ever see them again before he spoke quietly.
he reached out, lightly brushing your hair from your face before caressing the side of your face. "... i know how it looked... and i know how much i hurt you by lying about where i was. i just want a chance to explain it properly."
he drops his hand, waiting, hanging on the hope that youâll at least respond but when you turn your head to stare back at the screen.
a look of quiet desperation crosses his face and he swallows hard.
"i'm not going to force you to talk to me here," he says softly. "but please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. let me take you to dinner tonight.. we can just sit down, and i will tell you everything. no secrets. i promise."
you remain still, your expression blank as you scroll down a spreadsheet.
realizing he isn't going to get a verbal answer, he reluctantly pulls a small pad of bright yellow sticky notes toward himself.
he grabs a pen from your desk organizer, his hand trembling just a fraction as he quickly scribbles down the name of a quiet restaurant downtown, along with a time.
he peels the sticky note and gently presses it onto the corner of your desk, right next to your keyboard where you can't possibly miss it.
"eight o'clock," clark whispers, his blue eyes searching your face one last time, practically begging for another glance. "i'll be waiting for you at our favorite table by the window. i really hope you come."
eight o'clock.
by the time 7:30 PM rolls around, the office has emptied out and you sit alone, staring at the note.
every logical instinct tells you to go back to your hotel room and let him sit there.
he lied to you, used his job.. the very thing that constantly tears him away from you as a shield to cover up the fact that he was with his ex girlfriend.
the humiliation in loisâs apartment hadn't faded.. if anything, sitting in the quiet of the office had only made it feel worse.
you feel like an afterthought and yet, your heart betrays your pride.
you want him to fix it, to give you a piece of truth so undeniable that the knot in your chest finally unspools.
so, you grab your coat, pull the sticky note from the desk, and leave.
8:05 PM
the sign of the restaurant shines through the rain streaked window of the cab.
you step out, the door of the restaurant chiming as you walk inside.
the inside is intimate, warm and lit by candles.
you scan the room, bracing yourself to see his broad shoulders slumped over the table, nervously checking his watch.
but the table by the window is completely empty.
a familiar knot forms in your stomach and you pull out your phone... 8:07 PM.
he's seven minutes late.
no, you tell yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit down at the empty table.
he said heâd be waiting and he wouldnât do this tonight.. not after everything.
you tell yourself he's just caught in traffic or that perry threw a last minute rewrite at him.
you make excuses for him, even now, because what could be the truth hurts too much to face.
9:00 PM
an hour crawls by.
the hostess brings you a glass of water, offering a polite smile that feels entirely pitying.
the bustling dinner crowd begins to thin out, the laughter of happy couples surrounding you sounds like a mockery.
every single time the front door chimes, your head snaps up, your heart doing a pathetic, hopeful leap only to sink lower when itâs a stranger stepping in from the cold.
9:30 PM
half an hour later.
you stare at your phone and there's nothing.. no texts or missed calls and you had unblocked him before you stepped through the door.
the anger thats been in you this past week starts to form into a sickening ache...
is he back at loisâs?
10:00 PM
the restaurant is dead and the staff are quietly sweeping the floors and stacking chairs in the back corner, their hushed voices a subtle hint that youâre overstaying your welcome.
a realization sinks into your chest..
he stood you up.
to explain away a lie, he gave you another promise, and then he broke that one too.
you pull your coat over your shoulders, your body tense with humiliation and exhaustion.
standing up from the table, you slide a generous stack of bills out of your purse, far more than enough to cover the untouched glass of water and the time you took up occupying their best table by the window.
as you walk toward the front entrance, you stop by the hostess stand where a tired looking server is wiping down menus.
"i'm so sorry for keeping you all late," you say, your voice tight as you force a small, apologetic smile. "thank you for letting me stay so long."
the server looks up, her eyes softening with a wave of pure sympathy that almost makes your composure crumble on the spot. "don't worry about it, sweetie. have a safe night, okay? it's really coming down out there."
you nod quickly, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and push open the heavy glass doors.
you walk blindly, your head ducked against the harsh wind as you begin to walk down the cracked sidewalk of the downtown district.
the towering office buildings shut out what little light the night sky has left
your mind is trapped in a loop of humiliation.
he promised, with his hand trembling, and swore there would be no more secrets.
and you, desperate to believe him, sat in an empty restaurant for two hours like a fool.
a sudden, earth shattering boom rips through the air, vibrating so violently that you stumble.
you freeze, it wasn't thunder and before you can even process it, there's a wave of police cars speeding down the street, one siren echoing after the other.
you shrug it off and keep walking but then the corner of the intersection half a block ahead erupts.
a wave of people come screaming around the brick building, bodies fleeing the main strip.
it starts with a handful of late night commuters, but within seconds, it grows into a desperate flood of dozens of people.
umbrellas are abandoned on the flooded ground, crushed by feet as everyone sprints for their lives.
"he's killing them! he's picking up the cars!" a man screams, his voice hoarse with terror as he sprints past you, his tie flying over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
a woman trips on the slick curb just a few feet away, her heels skidding out from under her.
she hits the wet concrete hard, crying out as the crowd blindly swerves around her, too consumed by panic to stop.
you instinctively step forward to help, but the momentum of the crowd hits you.
a rushing shoulder slams into yours, forcing you forward, your head slamming against the concrete with a sickening crack.
everything goes white, your head is ringing and the noise around you is deafening, slaps of wet shoes, the ragged, breathless screams of children being dragged by their arms, and the blare of police sirens in the distances.
a throbbing ache is at the base of your skull, and when you blink, hot rain washes over your face except itâs too thick and warm.
you reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing your forehead, and they come away stained a dark crimson.. you're bleeding.
you try to push yourself up onto your elbows, but your limbs feel like lead and the stampede of people don't care that you're down.
heavy boots and soaking sneakers splash violently into the puddles just inches from your head.
a heel catches the fabric of your coat, dragging you a few inches, while another foot just slightly misses stomping directly onto your hand.
you are completely invisible to them and if you stay flat on your stomach, youâre going to get trampled to death.
adrenaline forces your body to move despite the dizziness.
you push yourself up trembling hands and knees and the ground sways beneath you, while you gasp for breath, you begin to crawl, dragging your heavy, soaked coat through the water.
you lose your sense of direction entirely.
instead of reaching the shelter of the storefront doorway, you accidentally crawl off the lip of the curb and slide directly into the open, empty street.
the stampede remains confined to the relative safety of the sidewalk but you are completely exposed.
the massive, armored villain stands in the center of the intersection, his eyes fixed on the remaining police line.
with a guttural snarl, he digs his heavy fingers deep into a crumpled, overturned sedan.
he lifts the multi ton vehicle over his head with sickening ease and launches it forward.
but itâs not aimed at the cops, the trajectory is completely off.
it's hurling through the air directly toward you.
time seems to slow as you stare up from the wet street, paralyzed by the sheer horror of whatâs coming.
the massive underbelly of the car blocks out the flashing emergency lights, casting a large shadow over you as it tumbles end over end through the heavy rain.
your completely frozen, it feels impossible to move, impossible to run.
you can feel the rush of wind pressing down on you as the falling metal begins its final, crushing descent.
you close your eyes and brace for the impact but the crushing weight of the falling car never comes.
instead,the sound off concrete shattering rips through the air directly infront you, so powerful it blows the rain away in a wide, circular shockwave.
the deafening screech of tearing metal explodes right over your head as the shadow stills.
trembling, you force your eyes open through the blood and rain falling down your face.
standing over you, his feet planted firmly into the now dented concrete, is superman.
"are you okay ma'am?!" his voice clear and steady through the rain.
he's holding the entire crumpled sedan above his head with one hand, his jaw clenched as he effortlessly hurls the massive piece of steel away, sending it crashing into an empty, abandoned building down the block where it canât hurt anyone.
the savior of metropolis is standing right in front of you.
his red cape snaps in the rough winds, and the streetlights catch the bright 'S' across his chest.
he looks completely invincible.
but as he turns his head to look down at you, the confident aura of superman completely fractures.
he freezes.
through your dizzy, blurred vision, you can see his face perfectly.
superman is staring at you with a look of absolute horror. his chest heaves, his breath catching in his throat so sharply it looks like heâs the one who just took a physical blow.
his eyes track the dark crimson blood dripping down your forehead, your soaked, shivering clothes, and the way you are helplessly sprawled on the wet pavement.
he drops to his knees, sinking straight into the deep puddle without a care for the mud or the freezing water soaking into his suit.
before you can even gasp through the pain, his massive hands are framing your face.
his palms are calloused and warm, completely covering your cheeks, but they are shaking violently against your skin.
he cradles your head with tender care, his thumbs brushing frantically across your cheekbones to wipe away the rain and the dark blood that wonât stop leaking from your hairline.
"hey, hey....look at me, you're okay, hmm," he begs, his voice cracking.
"it's okay.." words tumble out of him in a breathless, frantic rush.
the resonant voice that superman uses when he addresses crowds or speaks on the news is completely gone.
in its place is a soft, broken whisper filled with terror.. a voice that hits your concussed, foggy brain with a wave of familiarity.
It's a voice you know intimately, stripped of all its usual calm.
he leans down so close his face is basically against yours, using his broad shoulders and the heavy fabric of his cape like a makeshift tent to block out the biting wind and the downpour.
his eyes are wide and wild with guilt as they track the injuries on your face again, the way you are shivering uncontrollably, and how close that car actually came to ending everything. a ragged, choked sob catches in his throat.
"i've got you, baby, i've got you. you're okay, i promise you're okay," he murmurs against your wet hair, entirely forgetting the rest of the city, the damage echoing down the avenue, and the fact that he is wearing a symbol meant for millions.
in the middle of the dark street, the hero has completely evaporated.
the mask has slipped without him even realizing it, leaving only a terrified man holding onto his entire world.
he presses his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips as he closes his eyes.
"i'm so sorry. oh God, my love, i'm so, so sorry. i shouldn't have been late. i'm right here."
you look past the bright 'S' on his chest, past the heavy red cape, and look straight into his wide, terrified eyes.
through the static of your concussion, the familiar slope of his jaw and the specific, frantic cadence of his breath finally cut through the illusion.
the impossibility of it settles into your chest, an unsure realization.
"clark...?" you breathe out.
itâs barely a whisper, more like a faint, breathless question easily swallowed by the howling wind, but his entire body goes completely rigid at the sound.
his chest stops heaving and his thumbs freeze against your wet cheeks, eyes widening in shock as it hits him that you've seen past the suit.
but you don't have the strength to wait for an answer.
the pulsing concussion has you passed out, your head lolls back against his arm, your eyelids fluttering shut as your body goes completely limp in his embrace.
"no, no, no.. hey! sweetheart, wake up! look at me!"
đâ âš
the first thing that returns to you is the smell.
that sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and heavy bleached linens.
then comes the sound, there's a rhythmic, electronic beep that echoes in the quiet room, a steady, comforting pulse that keeps time with the throbbing ache at the base of your skull.
you force your eyelids open, but the harsh light above makes you wince, a low groan escaping your dry throat.
the ceiling is made of those familiar, white acoustic tiles... a hospital.
"honey?!... hey, take it easy. don't try to sit up just yet."
the voice is soft but cautious, and instantly draws your eyes to the right side of the bed.
clark is sitting in a cramped hospital chair pushed right up against your mattress.
he looks completely exhausted, his flannel shirt is wrinkled, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the chair, his glasses sitting squarely on his nose, and his blue eyes are bloodshot.
the moment he sees you looking at him, his shoulders drop in a massive, visible wave of relief.
he reaches out, his large, warm hand carefully enveloping yours where it rests on the stiff hospital sheets.
his fingers are trembling slightly, his thumb gently tracing the back of your knuckles.
"the doctor said you have a concussion, and they had to put a few stitches on your forehead and the gash on your cheek," clark says softly, his voice raspy as he leans a bit closer.
he looks down at your hand. "but you're going to be okay. they're just keeping you for observation."
you look at his hand wrapped around yours, and a spike of hurt flares in your chest.
with a tight frown, you pull your hand completely away from his grasp, tucking your fingers beneath the stiff hospital blanket.
the sudden movement makes your head throb but you ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on him.
clarkâs thumb freezes, he looks down at his open palm for a fraction of a second, his expression fracturing with a look of hurt before he slowly lets his arm drop back to his lap.
"where were you?" you ask, your voice raspy, the exhaustion making the words sound heavier than you intended.
you stare at his wrinkled flannel shirt, "i waited for hours, clark. you didn't text. you didn't call. i was sitting there by myself like an idiot, and then the whole city went to hell while i was trying to get home."
clark looks completely devastated.
he flinches slightly at your words, his jaw tightening as he stares at the white blanket between you.
he opens his mouth to say something, to give the usual clumsy excuse about a deadline, a lost phone, or getting caught in transit but the words seem to catch in his throat.
he looks up at you through his thick glasses.
the silence stretches between you, you turn your face away from him, staring fixedly at the blank white wall opposite the bed.
the sight of his slumped shoulders and his guilty, exhausted face is just too much to handle on top of the throbbing ache in your skull.
"just go home, clark," you say quietly.
your voice is flat, stripped of all its anger, leaving only exhausted exhaustion.
beside the bed, Clark goes still. "darling, please... let me stay. just let me make sure you're okay..."
"i am okay," you interrupt, still refusing to look at him.
you pull the rough hospital blanket higher up around your shoulders, physically shielding yourself from him. "the doctors are watching me. i don't need you here. just... go home. go back to the daily planet, or wherever it was that was more important than meeting me."
out of the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to plead, to give you some kind of explanation, but he stops himself.
a ragged exhale escapes his lips.
slowly, the vinyl chair groans as he stands up. he towers over the bed, he goes to walk but stops.
he leans down into your space and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"I am so, so sorry," he whispers against your skin, his voice filled with regret.
"i'll... i'll go," he whispers, "but i'm leaving my phone on. if you need anything.. anything at all.. just call me. please."
you don't answer, you just close your eyes.
he pulls back slowly, as if pulling away from you physically pains him, before turning and making a quiet, reluctant exit from the room.
the soft click of the latch signaling that you are finally alone.
your eyes stay closes, your chest aching with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.
you expect to feel a sense of relief now that heâs gone, now that you don't have to look at his guilty face or listen to the excuses you were sure he was going to make.
but instead, the anger and hurt begins to drain away, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness.
you shift slightly on the stiff mattress, and a sudden vivid image flashes behind your closed eyes.
not the empty restaurant table or clark in his wrinkled flannel.
you see a cape blowing in the wind, a blue and red figure kneeling in a flooded street, unbothered by the storm.
you feel the ghost of massive, trembling hands framing your face with terror, and a voice deeper, stronger, but carrying that exact same, frantic cadence whispering sweetheart and my love into your wet hair.
your heart rate spikes, the monitor beside you accelerating slightly.
hands that could crush steel, yet held you as if you were made of glass.
the monitor beeps faster, its frantic rhythm filling the quiet room as your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
the voice, the breathless, cracked panic of the city's hero as he knelt in the mud, crying over you, calling you darling, calling you my love.
it wasn't the booming voice Superman used on the news, it was a voice you knew personally, a voice that felt like home.
âclark...?â
the breathless question you had whispered right before passing out echoes perfectly as you repeat it out loud.
summary: after several long days spent on the kent farm, you and clark are a littleâŚpent up.
tags & cw: 18+ MINORS PISS OFF, fem afab reader, established relationship (engaged), slight breeding kink, p in v sex (protected for once!!), exhibitionism (kind of?), f masturbation, the squeaky ass bed is the villain hereÂ
wc:Â 6.6k
a/n: this is kinda ass ngl. anyway unrelated but how are my fellow kingdon truthers feeling after todayâŚwhat a fucking rollercoaster. anyways hope yall enjoy!!
want some more clark content? Check out my clark masterlist!
Youâd been trying to suppress it all week. Truly, you had. It wasnât your fault that Clark looked stupidly attractive in flannel, with sweat beading at his hairline and slipping beneath the collar of his t-shirt. It wasnât your fault that his Ma and Pa had raised him right, that he helped with dinner and folded everyoneâs laundry when it was finished drying on the clothesline. You couldnât be held responsible for what happened between your thighs whenever you watched him complete miscellaneous tasks around the house, fixing whatever appliance or squeaky hinge that had been nagging Ma for the past several weeks like the perfect fucking son he was.Â
So, really, you werenât at fault for the way your kisses began lingering a bit longer than what was appropriate for his childhood home. The way your hand regularly found his thigh every night beneath the dinner table, daring to get progressively higher with each passing day.Â
It was inevitable. A means to an end. A festering desideratum that was growing increasingly difficult to ignore.Â
It was affecting Clark too, you could feel it. His hugs were longer. He hovered around you more than usual. Clarkâs touches were always meaningful, so when he began squeezing your hips or shoulders as he slipped by you in the kitchen or living room, you knew there was intent behind it.Â
It didnât help that this was your first time visiting the Kents as his fiance. The knowledge that you were about to be married certainly didnât help matters. Clark, along with his sweet, endearing, oh-so-oblivious parents had already been teasingly referring to you as âMrs. Kentâ, and it was more than enough to make you insane.Â
For his parentsâ sake, you sincerely hoped your joint desperation wasnât as glaringly obvious to them as it was to you. Though, if the sly smiles on Maâs face whenever she noticed the pathetically longing stares you two exchanged was any indication, you werenât being as subtle as you thought.
Growing up, Ma had very strict rules about Clarkâs girlfriends, as heâd informed you previously. She was the sweetest woman youâd ever met, if not a little old-fashioned by way of social standards (Clarkâs gentlemanly charm had to come from somewhere). Which of course meant that every partner of Clarkâs who spent the night at the Kent household was required to sleep in a separate bedroom.Â
âAs long as youâre stayinâ under my roof,â she had teased, waving a wooden spoon in mock threat. âThose are the rules. No bed sharinâ till youâre married.âÂ
When Clark was in high school and college, that usually meant he took the sofa while his girlfriend took his room. Back then, the spare bedroom in the Kent household had been used predominantly for extra storage, mostly for seasonal decorations and other delicate items Ma and Pa didnât want stored in the barn.Â
Recently, though, the Kents had cleaned out the space. Its ârestorationâ had become a bit of a passion project for Pa, who was always happiest when he had something to keep his hands busy.
Clark had inquired about it once when you were both in town visiting. Heâd spotted the cans of paint in the hallway, to which Ma replied with the coolness of a cucumber and the subtlety of an elephant.Â
âJust preparinâ for when we have kiddos in the house again.â
You choked on your sweet tea, and looked over at Clark to find that his blush had climbed all the way to his ears.Â
âMa,â he bemoaned. She only winked.Â
One of Maâs friends owned a ranch on the other side of town, and had introduced her to the wonders of Facebook Marketplace. Such began the spending spree that would result in brand spankinâ new (secondhand) furniture for the newly redone bedroom once Pa had finished spackling and painting.Â
Clark fretted endlessly over the fact that his parents were lugging around heavy furniture on their own, and would regularly speed back to Smallville to help them if he had the spare time. When you came to visit this time around, the guest bedroom was the first place Ma had dragged you both off to, eager to show off her finds.Â
âAinât it beautiful? Couldnâtve cost me more than a hundred-and-fifty some bucks. Johnâs good friends with Frank down at the hardware store in town, so we got a good deal on the paint, too. What was the shade, hon? Manchester tan, somethinâ or other? Anyway, I think it turned out pretty darn good.âÂ
âIt looks great, Ma,â Clark complimented with a genuine smile.Â
âDonât it? Figured it would be nice not havinâ to make your poor fiance sleep on that rickety olâ twin bed.â
There it wasâthe subtle confirmation that you were still expected to sleep in separate rooms. Which you would, because you respected your soon-to-be in-laws, and it wouldnât be for much longer anyways.Â
âIt really does look incredible,â you agreed, filling the silence. âThe wonders of Marketplace.âÂ
âTrouble now is gettinâ her to stop,â Pa called from the living room. âWe got a crap ton of new patio furniture and nowhere to put it all!âÂ
âOh, hush,â Ma scolded, and you both laughed.Â
It was on day five that things became borderline unbearable. The Kents had invited some old friends over for a cookout and a bonfire. Some of the older couplesâ kids had grown up alongside Clark, many of whom already had spouses and families of their own. Meaning, there were several young children in attendance, which thrilled Clark, who had been honest with you from the start about wanting a family of his own someday.Â
It made perfect senseâhe was incredible with kids of all ages, something youâd known for a while, having seen it secondhand on TV whenever he donned the cape to visit childrenâs hospitals or homeless shelters.Â
Experiencing it firsthand, though? Your fucking ovaries were about to explode.Â
Pa had bought some marshmallows for the kids to make sâmores, and Clark had somehow been designated the role of official stick-gatherer. You watched the kidsâranging from kindergarten to late elementary school ageâfollow him around like ducklings, giggling and laughing when Clark made a show of climbing all the way up an oak tree to fetch the âperfect stickâ for roasting marshmallows.Â
One of the children, an adorable brown-haired little boy, shyly offered his first marshmallowâwhich was burnt to a crispâto Clark, who accepted it with a broad smile.Â
âThanks, buddy. Is this for me?âÂ
His head bobbed. âSorry. It burnt a little.âÂ
âOh, thatâs alright. Itâs still gooey underneath. Here, watch.âÂ
You watched as Clark slid the charred, ashy part of the marshmallow off to reveal its perfectly melted, warm center. He sucked the mallow into his mouth, having to double down on his sticky digits as the residual bits clung to his fingers. You politely forced yourself to look away.Â
The rest of the night, Clark had been seated right next to you as the adults exchanged work stories and life updates while the kids ran around chasing fireflies. Inevitably, there were more than a few prying questions shot in Clarkâs direction about his interviews with Superman, which always made you grin, even if only himself and his parents knew the reason behind it.Â
At some point, Clarkâs arm draped around your shoulder as you rested your legs in his lap. With company around, heâd been forced to put on his hypnoglasses, but you certainly werenât complaining. The firelight danced across his face and in the lens of his glasses, which you took every opportunity to push up his nose with a soft smile, leaning forward to peck his lips every so often.Â
Mercifully, having both older couples and young children in attendance meant the night was called off relatively early, around 8pm. You both assisted with cleanup before settling in the living room to catch up on the news. Ma and Pa turned in shortly thereafter, pressing kisses to both of your foreheads before vanishing down the hallway.Â
Feeling particularly greedy, you stole the chance to break the âappropriate distanceâ the two of you had been sitting on the sofa and cuddled up to Clarkâs side with a long sigh.Â
âGood day?â you ask casually.Â
âMhm,â he answers, fingertips brushing up and down your shoulder. You idly watch the TV for a few more minutes, toying with Clarkâs fingers in your hand, already imagining the ring that would soon match yours.Â
The quiet sounds lulled you into a state of blissful exhaustion; his parents doing their nighttime routine, the crickets chirping through the open window, the low conversation from the television, playing a gameshow of some sort.Â
After a few moments of silence, you snuck a glance over the sofa, peeking to see if his parentsâ door had shut yet. Clark followed your gaze curiously, about to ask what you were looking at, when you pinched his chin between your fingers and brought your mouth to his.Â
A pleasant hum rumbled from the back of his throat as he immediately returned the kiss. His hand cradled the side of your neck, fingers brushing against your thumping pulse as you kissed, deep and slow.Â
You part for air, and Clarkâs mouth trails along your jaw, unhurried and without much finesse, seemingly content just to be touching you. Your eyes once again land on the closed door of his parentsâ bedroom, weighing the risk before making your decision and swinging a leg over his lap.Â
Clark, clearly a little surprised, laughs nervously as his hands find your hips. âHoney,â he warns. âWhat are youââÂ
âShh,â you hush him with a smirk and a finger to his lips, before kissing him again and carding your fingers through his soft curls.Â
He hums in bliss, grip tightening on your hips before his hands travel up and down your sides. âIt feels so good to kiss you,â he whispers into your mouth.Â
Your breathing hitches, desire roaring to life deep in your belly, demanding attention.Â
âYeah,â you agree softly.Â
You kiss for as long as you dare, tongues slipping into hot mouths and hands staying mostly PG; Clark wisely keeps you planted a safe distance away from his pelvis.Â
When you finally part, panting for air, you sit there for several long moments. The chorus of sounds has changed, slightly. Clarkâs heavy breathing intermingled with your own; the subtle-soft rustle of his palms against your blouse as he caresses you. The crickets still chirp, reminding you of the hour, and you reluctantly open your eyes.Â
âWe should probably go to bed,â you say, though you donât mistake the sadness in your voice for anything other than it isâa thorn in your side for not being able to do anything other than kiss. âMa said something about the Farmerâs Market tomorrow.âÂ
Clarkâs head tips back against the couch, his blue eyes drowning in a sea of black as he catalogues the look on your face. He licks his lips in consideration, and your traitorous core flips in arousal at the sight.Â
âYeah,â he eventuallyâreluctantlyâagrees.Â
You drag yourselves down the hallway, taking turns in the bathroom as you prepare to weather the storm of spending another dreadful night apart.Â
The Kent family home is small; a three bedroom, one bathroom ranch that had little room for much more than its Midwestern charm. It was an older house too, built by Paâs grandfather in the 1920s; it had been refurbished, just enough to keep up with the times, but the bones of the house were old. Creaky floorboards and chipped paint. An extremely temperamental HVAC system. And, of utmost concern to you and Clark, thin walls.
All the bedrooms lined one hallway near the back of the house; the bathroom and his parentsâ room on the left, the guest room on the right, and Clarkâs bedroom tucked at the end of the hall. Everyone was snug as a bug in a rug, as the saying went.
Lucky you.
The air between you tonight feels inexplicably more charged than usual, and you have a sinking suspicion the make-out session youâd initiated had something to do with it.Â
âGoodnight,â you say softly, turning to face Clark from the doorway to the guest bedroom.
Clark blinks at you in consideration, before leaning down to give you one final kiss. Itâs soft and almost unbearably slow. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. Your lips hover, brushing one another before either of you can bring yourselves to pull away. The pad of his thumb tugs gently at your lower lip.Â
âGoodnight,â he whispers.Â
And then heâs gone, floorboards creaking beneath his feet as he retreats into his bedroom at the end of the hallway. You take a deep breath, needing a moment to collect yourself before shutting your own door and pressing your forehead against it. Get a grip.Â
You try to distract yourself by doing some light reading before bed, just enough to make your eyes heavy. Of course, it doesnât work, and an hour after youâve put your book down and turned off all the lights, you canât sleep.Â
Your mind is consumed by the memory of Clark twisting open a jar of strawberry jam for Ma earlier today, and the how heâd sucked some of the jam off of his thumb. Then it flashes to the effortless way heâd carried several 400-pound hay bales over his head, across acres of farmland, all so his Pa could save some diesel on the tractor as you watched from the kitchen window. Then you remember how heâd immediately gulped down two full glasses of his Maâs homemade lemonade, watching the condensation wet his fingers and the way his throat muscles moved as he swallowed.Â
Itâs too much. Too much temptation packed into a 1,300 square foot ranch, in the shape of 240 pounds of farm-bred Kryptonian muscle. Five unbearable days with only fleeting touches and lingering kisses, until tonight, when you got a taste of something more. You two had gone far longer without sexâyou know this logicallyâbut being in such close proximity and watching him around his parents and interacting with children has done irreparable damage.Â
Your hand is slipping beneath your pajama shorts without you even making the conscious decision.Â
Fuck, the way heâd smelled tonight, like burning wood and smoke, his skin warm and almost glowing as a result of spending all day in the sun. Around the campfire, you couldnât help but caress his five oâclock shadow at any chance you got, imagining the scruff of his stubble chafing your inner thighs.Â
Clark loved to eat pussy.Â
Your fingers easily find your aching clit, but the touches are all wrong. Your fingers arenât rough enough, arenât large enough, canât get the right angle.Â
After tonight, it was impossible not to imagine him with your own children in a very near future. The thought of him cradling an infant in his massive arms; a toddler climbing all over his back, sitting on his equally massive shoulders. You werenât even sure it would be possible to conceive with him yet, but fuck were you content to imagine it.Â
Youâre dripping already; it was second nature. A Pavlovian response. Your fingers are a poor substitution for the real thing, but it would have to do. Heâs so close and so fucking far, and it makes your blood hot.Â
âClark,â you fail to bite back the weak moan, your hips shifting around on the bed as you curl your fingers. God, a part of you hopes heâs awake, knowing he could probably hear the way youâre touching yourself, moaning his name, nearly in tears from how much you need him.Â
Itâs when youâre finally on the precipice of a very underwhelming orgasm that you hear the same creaking floorboards and freeze. Your ears hone in on the sound, trying to brush it off as being Ma or Pa getting up to use the bathroom, which wasnât uncommon. But the gait is undeniably heavier, and far too careful to be either of his parents.Â
Then you hear the doorknob turn.Â
You twist in the sheets, hastily pulling your hand out of your pajama shorts. You blink blearily at the door, watching as it creaks open slowly to reveal none other than your 6â4â fiance.Â
âClark? E-everything okay?â you call out in a whisper as he carefully shuts the door, wincing at the way it squeaks. You hear a click, and your stomach swoops with the realization that itâs the lock.Â
He turns to you, a looming, impressive shadow in the darkness of the guest room. Heâs at the foot of the bed in two large steps, clambering onto the double-size mattress. The sudden shift of weight makes the mattress groan, a deafening sound in the stillness of night, and your eyes widen in surprise.Â
âBaby, what are you doing?âÂ
âI think I should be asking you that,â is all the explanation you get before Clarkâs lips are back over yours. The kiss is slow, but itâs filthy. Nothing like the ones you shared earlier on the sofa. All tongue and lips and teeth as he hovers over you. Your legs kick out of the sheets, instinctively locking around his lower back, and you barely bite back a moan as he settles some of his weight onto you.Â
âGosh, youâre unbelievable,â he breathes into you. âTouchinâ yourself like that when Iâm barely a wall away. Couldâve just asked me, baby.âÂ
You shudder, and the arousal is a burn that rips through your body. âOh god, Clark. We- we really shouldnât- your parentsââÂ
âI know, baby. I know, Iâm sorry. But I couldnât take it anymore. Youâve been drivinâ me insane all week, sweetheart.â He slid his hands up your chest, groping your tits over your pajama top. âIâŚI heard you. Jolted me right awake; thought I was dreaminâ at first. But then I heard your sweet little moan, the little wet sounds of your pussy. Your heartbeat, honey. Like a little jackrabbit.â
You tip your head back against the pillow, breathing hard. âC-Clark, god, you canât say things like thatââÂ
âI know how much you want it,â he breathes, hips bearing down between yours, and shit, heâs fully hard. You havenât felt him like this in over a week, and itâs overwhelming. âI want it too.âÂ
Dark and quiet as it is, everything feels amplified; despite the very real threat of his parents overhearing, itâs like the two of you are in a vacuum, cut off from the rest of the world. You feel Clark everywhere, and yet itâs not enough to satisfy the insatiable beast that is frothing from between the cage of your thighs, desperate for reprieve.Â
Of course, wanting what you realistically canâtâor shouldnâtâhave has only made matters worse.Â
âBaby,â Clark pants as you run your hands down his back, slipping beneath his soft t-shirt. âI can- oh gosh, I can s-smell how wet you are.âÂ
âFucking hell,â you curse, and kiss him again. âI want you so bad, Clark. But thisâŚthis fucking bed is probably older than both of us combined, and itâs so loud, IââÂ
âI know,â he responds between kisses. âI know, honey.âÂ
âI- maybe we could- you could just use your fingers? And I could do the same?â you suggest, though itâs weak, even to your own ears. You know Clark wonât object to anything you offer, but it was crystal clear what he really wanted. What you both wanted.
Clark lets out a whine, low in the back of his throat, concealing it in the crook of your neck. âMmm. If- I mean, thatâs- thatâs probably the smart thing to doâŚâ
âBut not what we really want,â you finish, brushing your nose against his cheek.Â
âNo,â he agrees, before licking into your mouth. The soft, wet sound of your mouths causes your head to spin, heavy with desire. You can feel the blood rush in your ears, down the length of your neck, flushing the surface of your skin.Â
âBaby,â you whisper when you part for breath, voice shaking with a mix of longing and crumbling restraint. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. Your fingers pull through his hair as your pelvises build a steady grind, slow enough so as not to cause the bed to squeak but enough to drive you insane as his stiff cock ruts against your clothed pussy. âI- I canât fucking take it anymore. I need you.âÂ
Clark shudders, mouthing beneath your jaw. âI need you too, honey.â His lips hover over yours, words an urgent, needy whisper. âWanna give you my cock so much, sweetheart. So, so much.âÂ
âOh god, Clark,â your voice shatters around his name. Your pussy flutters at the mere idea of having his cock inside you. You need him so bad you could cry. âSeeing you w-with those kids todayâŚâÂ
Clark groans instantly, understanding the implication. âYeah? Imagining they were ours?âÂ
âMmm. Yes.âÂ
âI know, I was too,â he admits, sucking a bruise into your skin that you will definitely regret in the morning. âYouâd like that, huh? Makinâ a family with me?âÂ
âFuck, I- you know I would, Clark.âÂ
âGosh, yes. Iâd give it to you in a heartbeat, my love.âÂ
âPlease,â you whine, and you truly canât remember a time where youâve been this desperate for sex. âIâll book the fucking appointment tomorrow. Get myâmm, fuckâget my IUD taken out.âÂ
The sound that escapes Clarkâs throat is a mixture of pity and pain. âOh gosh. honey, I- youâre not being fair.âÂ
âI know, Iâm sorry,â you whimper.Â
âWe- maybe we can just go slow?â he suggests. âSo slow, I promise. Wonât even put it all the way in. It wonât be loud that way, if we go slow. We can be quiet, if weâŚif weâre careful.âÂ
âI donât want it slow,â you breathe, and thatâs the entire problem, isnât it? Clark lets out another low-pitched whine, and says your name like a curse.Â
âYouâve been driving me crazy, too,â you continue, pausing to give him a slow, deep kiss. âI justâŚI just wanna fuck, Clark.â
Your hand snakes between your flush bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants and bypassing his boxers completely. Clark jerks, burying his face in your shoulder with a sharp exhale. The heat and weight of him makes the burgeoning desire in your gut increase tenfold; heâs hot and thick and fully hard. Your goddamn mouth starts salivating like itâs competing with your sopping pussy for his attention.Â
âW-weâŚwe have to be c-careful, honey,â Clark repeats as he pumps slowly into your hands. That simple movement alone makes the mattress groan with the sound of shifting fabric. âI canâŚfu- baby, gosh- I can listen to make sure they donât wake up, but Iâll have to focus. And this bedââÂ
âPlease,â you beg, heart pounding as you listen to his breathing increase the longer you stroke him. Your own restraint is falling apart at the seams; youâre about one Clark-moan away from throwing all caution to the wind. âForget what I said earlier, I donât care. I- please, Clark. I need you so bad.âÂ
âHoney, I- ohââ Heâs cut off when your fist focuses furiously on the weeping head of his cock.Â
âDo you want to come on my fist, or in my pussy?â you ask. You know youâre playing dirty, but you need him in you. Now.Â
âHoly- th-thatâs so mean,â he whines.Â
You mouth at his jaw. âClark Joseph Kent, if you donât put your cock in me right fucking nowââÂ
âGood gosh, I- okay, okay.â He plants desperate kisses on your lips, firmly yanking your wrist away from his cock, desperate for a break. âJust- are you-âÂ
âIâm fine, Clark. More than ready. Please justâŚjust fuck me,â you demand, nipping at his earlobe.Â
âOkay. I- okay, gosh, hold on-âÂ
Itâs a frantic tangle of limbs and swatting hands as you both try and wiggle free of as minimal clothing as necessary without jolting the bed too much. The comforter is thrown off the bed. You blindly yank Clarkâs sweats and boxers down enough to fully free his cock, while he fumbles for the waistband of your sleep shorts, cursing sweetly as he struggles with the tie. It probably doesnât help that youâve started jerking him off again, smearing the resulting bead of pre-cum over his sensitive tip.Â
âStupid freaking-âÂ
âOh, Jesus fucking Christ,â you mutter, growing impatient. âJust rip it off, Clark.âÂ
âBut you hate when I-âÂ
âRip it.âÂ
He doesnât need to be told a third time. The fabric snaps the second his fists close around the tiny strings, and even that small display of his strength makes your clit fucking throb.Â
His fingers are on you the instant your shorts and panties are gone, rubbing messily over your folds. Itâs likely for his own peace of mind, despite your insistence that you were adequately prepared for him. It feels good nonetheless, so you arenât about to complain.Â
âOh, gosh,â he marvels, thick fingers circling your clit as he glances between you. âYouâre soaked, honey. Even wetter than I thought.âÂ
âI told you,â you shudder. âNow fuck me.â Your hand, still on his cock, guides him to your waiting pussy, slipping the head through your labia and making you both moan softly.Â
âFuck,â Clark curses.Â
âClark Joseph,â you gasp, the profanity deliciously foreign coming from his tongue. âDid you justââ
âThis is a serious matter,â Clark insists as he thrusts his hips torturously slowly. The head of his cock catches on your clit and another moan slips out of you. âSee? That right there.â Your eyes widen when Clarkâs palm moves to cover your mouth. âGotta focus if we wanna be quiet.âÂ
His words only make you whimper, the sound mostly smothered against his hand.Â
âQuiet,â he scolds again, but then heâs pushing in. The initial stretch burns, as it normally does (you definitely couldâve benefited from some extra lubrication, but desperate times call for desperate measures). However, the flicker of pain is quickly doused with sheer relief, like your body is sighing at the solace of finally getting him inside you.Â
Clarkâs hand abandons your mouth in favor of supporting his weight as he half-collapses onto his forearm. The first thrust of his hips tests the waters; a little overzealous on Clarkâs side, succeeding in making the rickety old bed frame squeal once, loudly. You both hold stock-still, allowing you to acclimate to his size and him to listen intently for any signs of life in his parentsâ room.
Clark looks down at you in silence. Nothing.Â
You release your bated breath and drag him into a kiss. âMove,â you hiss, sounding like a total brat, but neither of you seem to care.Â
Clark obliges, pumping his hips slower this time, the motion more fluid as he disperses his weight across his whole body rather than planting his knees on the mattress.Â
It seems to be working, the sound of your joint heavy breathing being the loudest sound in the room. That is of course until you shift positions just slightly, and the fucking Marketplace-monstrosity of a bed frame groans loudly in protest.Â
A huff of agitation escapes you. âOh fuck thatâsâ itâs loud, Clark. Why is it so fucking loud?âÂ
âShit,â he curses desperately. âMaybe- here, pull the sheets upââÂ
âThatâs not going to do anything!âÂ
âWell, I donât know!â Clark exclaims in a whisper-yell. âIâm trying to help! I- oh gosh, honey, I canât pull out of you nowââÂ
You lock your legs around him in warning. âDonât you dare.âÂ
âIâm not, Iâm not.âÂ
Your head flops back against the pillows in frustration. âJustâŚtheyâre still asleep, right?âÂ
Clark pauses to listen. âFor now, yeah.âÂ
âSoâŚâ you canât believe youâre about to suggest this. Morning-you is going to be so fucking embarrassed. ââŚjustâŚjust keep going, and stop if you hear them wake up.âÂ
Clark lets out a pained groan. âThatâs easier said than done when Iâm balls deep inside you, honey. I canât focus on making you come and listening for the slightest rustle of awareness across the hallway.âÂ
You wiggle your hips, pulling another wounded sound from Clarkâs chest. âPlease,â you resort to begging, yet again. âClark, I- Iâm so sexually frustrated and I finally have your dick inside me and youâre just fucking- weâre not even- I canâtââÂ
Clark must take pity on you, because heâs soothing you with quick pecks across your face and neck. âHoney, I know, I know. Iâm sorry. Oh, my sweet girl. Iâm sorry.â He starts moving again, the same slow, fluid movements as before. The bed squeaks beneath you, but itâs not too loud, you think.Â
Clark continues, âI wish I could fuck you how you need, baby. But we gotta be quiet. Shhh, shhh. I know. Just try and take what Iâm giving you. Want me to rub your little clit? Will that help?âÂ
You nod, only slightly horrified as you feel tears well in your eyes from the sheer frustration of it all. Clark coos praises and apologies into your ear as his fingers gently circle your swollen clit, but itâs not enough.Â
Sure, it feels good, amazing even, but itâs not what youâd been craving. Not the itch you needed scratched.Â
âJusâ a little harder?â you beg, your voice a wet, sultry whisper against his ear as you bury your fingers in his hair. âPlease? Please Clark?âÂ
He buries his groan against your chest, mumbling a slew of frustrated, mostly incoherent words that sound something like âgonna be the death of meâ and âcanât handle when you beg me for itâ. But then, abruptly, the pace changes yet again. The movement ceases, just for a moment. He shifts his weight above you. His hips snapâonce, twice, thrice. Still slow, but firmer. Sharper. Deeper.
âOhââÂ
Anticipating your moan, his free hand flies back to your mouth, effectively cutting off the incriminating sound. He hushes you gently as his eyes bore down into yours.Â
The bed isâŚwell, itâs definitely making noise now. The box springs make their presence known, creaking with every forward motion. Unfortunately, youâre too cock-drunk to pay it much attention.Â
At the very least, itâs not like the headboard is obnoxiously slamming against the wall. JustâŚif someone happened to pass by the door, it would probably be fairly obvious what was happening on the other side. Which, horrifically, turns you on even more.Â
Of course, you know Clark would never let something like that actually happenânor would you want it toâbut the thought of it, the risk of it, makes your stomach twist around itself in arousal. The notion that heâs fucking you in his childhood home with his sleeping parents a stoneâs throw away has you hornier than you thought humanly possible.Â
The fingers on your throbbing clit speed up, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull.Â
âCâmon, baby,â he pants. âGotta come on this cock. Know you want to. Wanting me to make you a wife and a mommy in the same calender year, my greedy girl. All with my parents right down the hall, sound asleep. Gonna look them in the eyes tomorrow morning, honey? Knowinâ I snuck into your room just hours prior? That my cum was dripping down your thighs?âÂ
From behind his sweaty palm, a muted chorus of âyeah, yeah, yeahâ punches out of you on the crest of every sharp thrust.
Clark smothers you; with his body and his words and his kisses, his tongue just beneath your ear, his forearms caging you beneath his broad frame. Your nails dig into his back for dear life, thighs tense around his hips as every ounce of your focus narrows in on the pleasure.
âShhh, baby,â he whispers, breath hot and voice shaking. âI know it- I know it feels good, but you gotta be quiet. Canât let you come if you canât be quiet.âÂ
You need to come more than you need air to breathe, so you force your shaking body to obey, swallowing your own sounds and digging your nails further into his impenetrable skin.
âYes, baby,â he praises. âThere we go. Nice and quiet. Can I have my hand back, now?âÂ
You nod shakily, breathing fast and hard, as Clark leans in to kiss you. The fingers swirling over your clit make a âvâ as they slip down to stimulate your outer lips of your vulva. Your thighs twitch around his hips, signaling your rapidly-approaching release.Â
âF-fuck, Clark,â you whine into his open mouth. âI- I canât, IââÂ
âYes, baby. Right there. Let it happen. Come on my cock, baby. Itâs yours.âÂ
You shatter with a high-pitched whine, one that Clark suffocates against his still-clothed chest as he quickly presses your face into his breast bone. Your pussy constricts around him, spasming uncontrollably as he works to prolong your high.Â
âI know, baby. I know, I- oh, that- thatâŚI c-can feel you around me, so tightâŚitâs g-gonna make me come, honeyââÂ
The hand not cradling your head fists into the pillow beside you. His sharp, jagged thrustsâthe ones originally intended for your pleasureâchange a final time, turning frantic in a way that signals his own impending orgasm. Beneath your writhing bodies, the bed groans and shifts. Surely the headboard rams against the wall at least once, maybe twice. You donât keep track, solely focused on your hypersensitive cunt as it throbs and clenches around Clark, egging him on.Â
âC-come inside me, baby,â you plead into his ear, like thatâs even a question.
âDid you m-mean it?â he asks suddenly, catching you a bit off-guard. His voice shakes as his hips falter.Â
âMean what?â you barely get out.Â
âWhat you said aboutâŚabout starting a family?âÂ
The tenderness of the question hits you square in the chest, and suddenly the emotion in your eyes has an entirely different meaning.Â
âYes,â you breathe, kissing the side of his face. âI love you so much, Clark. I wanna make a baby with you, m-make a family together.â
He whimpers, shortly before biting down on your shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. His hips stutter and still, cock pressed as deeply inside your pussy as he can get at this angle. He comes hard, the deliciously bizarre sensation of his cum filling your pussy pulling a final, blissed moan from you. He finally stills above you, struggling to steady his breathing.Â
âGolly. Sweetheart,â he exhales, and you both let out disbelieving chuckles. He pulls back to look at you, still catching his breath as you feel his cock soften inside of you. âDid we really justâŚâÂ
âHave sex under your parentsâ roof with them sleeping just across the hall? Yes we did,â you say, trying not to let the post-orgasm regret pull you under.Â
Clark laughs again, kissing you on the nose before nuzzling into your neck. You love it when he tries to tuck his massive frame into your body; itâs adorable.Â
âMm. Worth it.âÂ
You canât help but agree.Â
You spend a few quiet minutes catching your breath and coming down from your highs. You run your fingers through Clarkâs hair, something you know he loves after sex.Â
âNeedâta pee,â you protest tiredly when you feel him start to go slack above you.Â
âMmm. Yeah. Yeah, mâkay,â Clark says slowly, like his brain is still catching up. He rolls off of you and you search blindly for your underwear, settling instead on Clarkâs boxers which are the first thing you stumble upon. You carefully slip to the bathroom, cringing a little at the feel of his cum sliding down your inner thighs. You clean yourself up and use the toilet, trying not to think too hard about his Ma and Pa, sleeping soundly in the room next door.Â
When you return to the guest room, Clark holds up a finger, then presses it swiftly to his lips, eyes closing in focus.Â
âWhat? Whatâs wrong?â you whisper, feeling more awake all of the sudden. You lock the doorâjust in caseâand tiptoe back to the bed.Â
âI think Ma woke up,â he whispers back as you climb into his waiting arms. âProbably heard you in the bathroom.âÂ
Despite yourself, you feel your cheeks heat. âWellâŚthey get up all the time, right? Itâs not uncommon to get up and pee in the middle of the night.âÂ
âNo, itâs not,â he agrees with a yawn. âJustâŚI should head back to my room soon. Donât wanna fall asleep and haveâta sneak out in the morning.âÂ
You giggle, âgod, itâs like weâre in high school or something.âÂ
Clark smiles back. âYeah.âÂ
You snuggle into his chest, pleased to find that heâd taken off his t-shirt, finally. You always appreciated the skin-to-skin contact when you slept. So does Clark, so youâre not surprised when his own hands reach for the hem of your pajama top and lift it over your head.Â
He makes a satisfied sound and presses a single kiss to your sternum before you settle back on his chest. Clark lifts the sheets back over you both, fingers gliding down your back in soft lines.Â
âLove you,â he whispers into your hair.Â
âLove you too,â you respond.Â
For now, youâre beyond content to lay in his arms, listening to his soft breathing and the strong thump-thump of his heart.Â
~
You wake to the sound of the Kentâs rooster, announcing the wee hours of the morning. As you groggily emerge from slumber, a few more things begin to cloud your senses. Chiefly among them, the smell of bacon, wafting in from the kitchen. Mm. Delicious. And the weight of Clarkâs arm, comfortably slung across yourâ
Wait.Â
You shoot up in bed, waking Clark up in the process, who startles with a sleepy-eyed huff.
âClark, oh my god,â you gasp.Â
âWha- what is it?â he asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes.Â
âYou fell asleep in bed!â you hiss, eyes wide with panic. And from the smell of it, his parents were already awake. Just perfect.Â
âOh my god, this is so embarrassing. Do you think they noticed?!â you ask urgently, rooting around for your clothes on the floor.Â
Clark relinquishes a deep sigh, leaning on his elbows as his head thunks back against the headboard in defeat. âKnowing my Ma, definitely.âÂ
âOh my god,â you repeat, standing now. âSheâs going to know that we- that youââÂ
âSweetheart, weâre engaged,â Clark reassures you. âAndâŚadults, before that. Sheâs not that ignorant. And she wonât hate you if thatâs what youâre worried about. Itâs justâŚa little, well. I guess it is a little, uh, mortifying.âÂ
Your head falls into your hands, and Clark has the audacity to chuckle. âMaybe she didnât notice,â you say. âMaybe she hasnât checked your room yet, and you can stillââ
As if by divine intervention, a swift knock sounds at the door.Â
âBreakfastâs ready, honey. Taters and eggs, and bacon fresh from the butcher.âÂ
âOh, alright! Be out in a few, Ma. Thank you!â you call out, hoping you sound less shaky then you feel. Even if she hadnât noticed yet, she definitely heard you talking to each other, and thereâs no way you could explain that.Â
Then, with an air of mischief lining her Midwestern twang, Ma adds, âtell Clark thereâs plenty for him, too!"
Summary: You and Clark are seemingly in a never ending honeymoon phase, and even though youâre subjected to relentless teasing from your friends because of it, youâre both too deeply in love to care about how whipped you are for each other.
Word Count: 4.6k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.
Warnings: swearing, fluff, smut, unprotected sex, mentions/descriptions of oral (f receiving), alcohol consumption, big beefy clark bc that is itâs own warning, two people just so in love itâs disgusting, in honor of davidâs b-day, clark has returned.
Youâd never been with someone quite like Clark before.Â
He was new and exciting and like a breath of fresh air, and that scared you a little because youâd never felt as safe and as comfortable in a relationship like you do in yours and his.Â
Clark had become your safe space. And while Superman is everyone elseâs safety, Clark is all yours.Â
Yeah, he told you his secret pretty early on in the relationship. You and he had only been together for about three weeks before he let it slip to you, and he paired it with saying that he can see a real future with you, and he didnât want to keep things from you. He wanted to be your partner, and he wanted to be honest and open with you.Â
He was all in.Â
And so were you. How could you not be? Clark was walking, talking perfection. Heâs sweet in every way, kind beyond words, and he loves with his whole heart. Heâs also incredibly attentive, sensitive, and unbelievably sexy, but only a handful of people in his life get to experience those first two, and only you get to experience that last one.Â
And Clark truly is unbelievably attractive. Heâs well over 6 feet tall, probably nearing 6â5 if heâs wearing the right shoes, and heâs just so⌠big. All over. His biceps are the size of your head, his torso covers your body entirely if heâs standing in front of you, and his shoulders are so wide, youâre surprised he doesnât need to turn sideways to fit through a doorway.Â
But, again, heâs also so sweet and kind and loving, you werenât sure how someone could be that perfect, but he was definitely the closest thing to it.Â
You and he have been dating for eight months now, and things couldnât be better. Clark walks you to and from work, which was a given since you and he both work at the Daily Planet, and you often spend the nights at either his apartment or yours, and every time you look over your shoulder at him, you always find him already looking at you, and every time his smile only grew whenever you locked eyes.Â
Your co-workers and mutual friends tease you both relentlessly, but you and Clark are at that point in your relationship and are totally comfortable that you donât even care. They could tease all they wanted, you and Clark were all in. The teasing was only light-hearted anyway, since anyone with eyes could see how truly happy you make each other, and there was no reason to try and make either of you feel any differently about that.Â
It was one of those rare days where Clark had been hauled into Perryâs office for most of the morning, surely being given another grueling assignment since he did so well on the last one.Â
That meant you didnât have something nice to look at as you worked on your own piece, Clarkâs empty desk a few feet away a growing distraction.Â
Luckily, Lois decided to do some distracting of her own.Â
She rolled her chair over to your desk, a pen in her mouth and a notebook open on her lap. âHey,â she said, slapping your arm lightly with the notebook as she took the pen out of her mouth. âYou have that look on your face again.â
You furrowed your brows, taking your eyes off your laptop and focusing them on her. âWhat look?â
âThat âwife from the 20s watching her husband go off to warâ look,â she clarified, and you were instantly heating up. âClarkâs been with Perry for, like, only an hour. Why do you keep looking over at his desk like youâre expecting him to just appear at any second?â
You tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, glancing over your shoulder towards the hallway that led to Perryâs office, knowing Clark was in there and likely too focused on his boss to try and listen out for you, so you felt like you could gossip with your friend about your boyfriend for a few minutes without him finding out.Â
Leaning over, you gestured for her to come closer as well. âIâm, like⌠so in love with him,â you whispered once she leaned in.Â
Her eyes widened dramatically, and you could already hear the tease that was about to come your way. âWhat? No way,â she gasped, placing her hand flat on your desk like you just made some big revelation and she simply couldnât believe it. She was a terrible actress. âI seriously had no idea.â
You rolled your eyes, sitting back in your chair as she started cracking up next to you. âRude,â
Lois laughed again, much lighter this time. âCome on. You two are all over each other, even when youâre across the room. Itâs actually kind of crazy how thick the tension gets whenever you and he arenât standing directly next to each other,â she said, and you pursed your lips.Â
âWell⌠we like being next to each other,â you said back, and she shook her head.Â
âI can tell,â she said, and there was a genuine smile on her lips. She tilted her head as she leaned back in her chair, her eyes flicking over to the hallway, and her smile only grew. âYou know, sometimes I feel like I can predict the future, and for some reason I can see an engagement happening sooner rather than later.â
Your stomach flipped at that, even though you knew it was just another light-hearted jab. The thought of getting engaged, getting married to Clark made you feel giddy and excited and it filled you with a warmth youâd never felt before in your life. âI can actually see it going there, Lois,â you said quietly, like saying it too loudly would ensure that it will never actually happen.Â
Lois shot you a much more gentle smile. âI know. I think we all can,â she said in return before going back to her own desk, and you allowed yourself to think about the possibility of marrying Clark for a few more moments. You also allowed yourself to steal one last glance at his empty desk chair before turning your focus back to your article.Â
-
The idea of going out to a bar after a long week of work wasnât something you normally liked to think about, but when Lois brought it up and even got Jimmy and Cat to agree, you found it hard to deny the invitation when you and Clark were both asked if you wanted to tag along.Â
If you were being honest, you kind of wanted to spend the whole weekend with your boyfriend, but you also kind of wanted to see Clark out at a bar since itâs not a place heâd typically be. Youâd only gone to a handful of bars with him during the time youâve been together, but they were all bars that were attached to restaurants. The place Lois found was strictly a bar.Â
So, you know, fuck it.Â
Clark and Jimmy were already there when you, Lois and Cat arrived since they insisted on you getting ready together since you all take significantly longer to pick out your outfits and freshen up your makeup.Â
When you walked through the door with Lois on your left and Cat on your right, you looked towards the pool table and almost immediately spotted Clark and Jimmy. You lifted your hand to your mouth, a soft laugh leaving your lips as you took in how out of place he looked next to a very obviously tipsy Jimmy. Though as soon as you laughed, Clarkâs head turned in your direction and he spotted you as well, and almost instantly you could see the way his shoulders relaxed a bit.Â
Just as you took a step in his direction, Lois pulled on your arm and shook her head. âNope. You can go see your boyfriend after you get a drink with us. You saw him all day at work, you can wait another five minutes or so before going over to him,â she said, pulling you with her towards the bar.Â
You pouted and Cat let out a laugh. âOh, sweetie, youâre down bad, arenât you?âÂ
âThatâs an understatement,â Lois answered for you, and you narrowed your eyes at her.Â
âHey-â
âWell, sheâs not the only one,â Cat cut you off, and you turned to look at her, finding her looking over at Clark and Jimmy. âClark canât seem to keep his eyes off her either.â
You looked past her and found Clark already looking at you, and a heat pooled in your lower body. He looked good, like always. He was still wearing his slacks, but heâd ditched his suit jacket and button up, only a thin, white t-shirt covering his upper half.Â
God, you could moan at how good he looks. His hair was slightly messy from working all day, and his glasses reflected the dim lights of the bar. One hand was in his pocket, the other wrapped around almost the entire bottle of beer Jimmy mustâve forced him to drink, unaware of the fact that Clark canât actually get drunk.Â
And then there was the small, barely curved twist of his lips, a subtle smirk reserved for you that looked like a lopsided grin to others, but you knew exactly what it meant. And it made that heat only grow hotter.Â
âOh, please,â Lois scoffed, turning to face you and Cat once sheâd ordered you all a drink. âThis is getting kind of ridiculous.â
Cat placed her hand on your arm, a big smile on her face. âI think itâs sweet. You guys are young and in love. Itâs adorable,â
You were young, yes, and very much in love, also yes, but that look on his face was anything but sweet and adorable. It had you pressing your thighs together and praying for the bartender to hurry up so you could get your drink and go over to Clark.Â
Luck was on your side since only a few moments later, three pink colored drinks were placed on the surface of the bar, and you quickly took one when Lois handed it to you, then you were making a beeline towards Clark. His smirk only grew when he saw you coming, and he took his hand out of his pocket, lifting his arm so you could press your side against his own.Â
You wrapped your own arm around his middle as his draped over your bare shoulders, his bicep covering the entire length of them, and you had to take a few sips of your drink to cool the blush that was taking over your whole body.Â
âHey, there you guys are,â Jimmy said, his voice already slurred a bit as Cat and Lois made their way over to the three of you. âTook you long enough. Clark and I have been here for over half an hour already.â
Cat shrugged her shoulders, sipping on her drink. âSorry. It takes time to look this good,â she said, looking over at you and Lois with a wink.Â
Clark dipped his head down and kissed your cheek before brushing his lips against your ear. âYou always look good,â he murmured for just you to hear. You had to suppress another moan as you pressed yourself closer to him, suddenly feeling way too hot in the decent sized bar despite you wearing a thin, strapless shirt and a skirt that fell to your mid-thighs.
Jimmy said your name, and you quickly looked over at him, grateful for the distraction. You werenât sure how much longer you could stand next to Clark with him looking that good and not throw yourself at him. âItâs a good thing you got here when you did. Those girls over there looked like they were a few minutes away from offering to take Clark back home. All three of them,âÂ
You furrowed your brows and looked towards where he nodded, seeing a group of three girls sitting at a booth, all wearing extremely short dresses that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.Â
Instead of getting jealous like most people probably would, you just smiled, because just one look at the girls told you they didnât stand a chance. They were so far from Clarkâs type, and heâd never even entertain them had he been here by himself, let alone while heâs here with you.Â
He only proved you right. âYeah, like that would ever happen, Jimmy,â Clark scoffed, and your smile grew as you took another sip of your drink before pulling away from Clarkâs side and reaching for his hand instead.Â
The way he instantly turned to look at you made you feel unbelievably special as you tugged on his hand. âCome dance with me?â you asked, knowing it never took much for him to agree to anything you ask.Â
Clark quickly set his nearly untouched beer down onto the edge of the pool table before following after you.Â
âDude, youâre so whipped,â Jimmy called out after him, but Clark just gave him a knowing grin over his shoulder, because tell him something he doesnât know already.Â
You led him past the booth with the three women that apparently looked like they were trying to bed your boyfriend all at the same time, ignoring the obvious looks of jealousy they shot you as you passed by, and towards the far end of the bar where multiple couples were dancing as well.Â
Clark pulled you close once youâd found a comfortable place in between the other couples, his big hands placed on your lower back. He leaned in and nuzzled his nose along your temple as he whispered in your ear, âYou look so beautiful,â
You pressed your lips together as you draped one arm around his shoulders, carefully holding onto your drink so you donât spill it. âDo I?âÂ
Clark nodded, pulling you even closer as he dropped his lips to your jaw. âYou always do,â he said, and it was clear that he was feeling more comfortable and confident since it was so dark in here, no one was really paying any attention to anyone other than the people they came with.Â
You hummed, unable to stop the smile that took over your face at his words. âWell, I think you look really, really fucking hot,â you said back, and Clark lifted his head, meeting your gaze instantly.Â
âYeah?â he mumbled, sliding an experimental hand further down your body, but he was still so modest about it, it was almost funny.Â
You nodded slowly, sliding your own hand into his hair, your fingers tangling in his curls. âYeah,â you confirmed, and then you were given the delicious treat of him kissing you, uncaring that you and he were in a room full of people as he kissed you like you and he were completely alone.Â
-
You adore your friends, you really do.Â
When Lois invited you over to her place for a girlâs night with Cat, you were excited for it. You needed a break from your routine of going to work, sleeping, waking up and then doing it all over again.Â
It was a Saturday night, and you were more than ready to unwind and relax with your close friends, maybe drink a little too much wine and gossip about things you canât talk about at work, and forget about life for a little bit.Â
That was the plan, anyway.Â
But Clark had texted you as soon as you got there, and even though it was a simple and sweet text, it still took hold of you like everything else does when it comes to him.Â
He only wished you to have a good night, to have fun, and told you that he loves you, and that was all it took for him to be at the front of your mind, and to have all your attention shift to him.Â
Itâd been a few hours since you arrived at her apartment and youâd already had three slices of pizza and watched a really shitty rom-com, and you were two glasses of wine deep when Lois decided that a picture was needed so you could remember this night forever.
You and Cat huddled close on the couch as Lois lifted her phone, taking a photo of the three of you smiling with your glasses lifted, and you couldnât deny that it was a pretty nice photo.Â
A nice photo Clark would most definitely like to see.Â
âHey, send me that,â you said to Lois, and she waved you off.
âAlready did,â she responded, putting her phone down and grabbing the wine bottle, already starting to pour more into all three glasses.Â
You grabbed your phone and opened your text thread with Lois, seeing the photo there waiting for you, and you quickly saved it to your gallery before clicking on Clarkâs contact and sending it to him with nothing else attached.Â
Your phone had only been set down for maybe thirty seconds before it went off, and you discreetly grabbed it again as Lois and Cat bickered over what movie to watch next.Â
Seeing it was a text from Clark, you clicked the notification with a small grin on your lips.Â
Clark đŤśđŤśđŤś: Pretty. Especially the one on the right.Â
You blushed, because of course you were the one on the right, but before you could reply, another text appeared.Â
Clark đŤśđŤśđŤś: Are you having fun?
And then another one.Â
Clark đŤśđŤśđŤś: I miss you.Â
You were full on blushing now as you pressed the cool glass of wine against your heated cheek, but you were interrupted as soon as you started to type.Â
âAre you serious?â Lois asked, a hint of humor and disbelief in her voice. You looked up and saw both her and Cat looking over at you, with Lois shaking her head and Cat hiding her smirk behind the rim of her glass. âYouâre seriously texting Clark right now? You just saw him this morning.â
âNo, actually, I didnât get to see him this morning. He was working on something last night and couldnât sleep over at my place,â you said quickly, skillfully avoiding spilling his secret. You obviously couldnât tell them that heâd been out saving the world last night as Superman. âI havenât seen him since yesterday at work.â
âOh, boohoo,â Lois scoffed, âThat was barely twenty four hours ago. Youâre so dick whipped.â
You gasped at that, your face heating up even more, but you couldnât deny her accusation. It was completely true.Â
When you looked away quickly, Cat perked up. âOh, you so are,â she laughed, shifting on the couch as they both forgot about picking out another movie. âYou checked your phone every five minutes during the last movie, and youâre all flustered over there, and I know itâs not from the wine. You are so dick whipped.â
Lois shook her head again. âIt canât really be that good,â she said, giving you a skeptical look. âCan it?â
You avoided their eyes as you curled in on yourself. If you were to start thinking about sex with Clark right now, you were sure you wouldnât be able to last another hour here with Lois and Cat, and you really wanted to prove that you could spend more than twenty four hours away from him.Â
But at the same time, sex with him is really that good. Itâs better than good.
âIt is,â you couldnât help but say, then quickly add, âBut itâs not just about that. Heâs a really good guy, and heâs sweet and funny and-â
âAnd heâs got skills in the bedroom,â Lois cut you off with an eyeroll. âItâs fine to admit. But Iâd rather not talk about yours and Clarkâs sex life-â
âItâs so good-â
âOkay,â she cut you off again, shaking her head as she grabbed her glass. âIâm not drunk enough for this.â
Cat cracked up beside you, and you shot her a grin as you grabbed your phone. âYouâre right, youâre right,â you said. âIâll be present from here on out. Just let me send this one last text to him, then we can watch The Notebook.â
âYes!â Cat cheered, that one having been her option over Loisâ How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days.Â
The two of them started bickering as you quickly typed out a message to Clark, then decided to send a few pictures with it as well. You took them last night when you were alone in your bed, missing him while he was off doing Superman stuff, but you never actually sent them to him.Â
One was of you blowing a kiss to the camera, the other one was of your lower body with your hand hidden beneath your panties, because Lois is right, youâre dick whipped for him and all you wanted last night was to be fucked by Clark, but he was too busy saving the world.Â
So, so selfish.Â
I miss you too. And Iâm having a blast. Took these last night because I missed you then too. Hold onto them for me, please. Love you.Â
You sent the text with a quiet laugh, and almost immediately your phone started to go off, but you were determined to keep your word, so instead of checking to see what the now four new text messages from him said, you focused on your friends, knowing damn well heâd get you back for that little stunt later.Â
You were counting on it.Â
-
Youâd lost count of how many times Clark has made you all apart with his lips, mouth and fingers.Â
If you had to guess, youâd been on your back on his bed for the last forty five minutes, and his head had been between your thighs for every single one of those minutes, but as for how many times heâs gotten you off? You had no fucking clue.Â
His fingers that werenât inside of you held onto your hip, effortlessly keeping you still as he worked you through yet another high, your thighs trembling at either side of his head.Â
When Clark finally pulled back, his lips were puffy and swollen and glistening with your wetness, as were his fingers when he finally pulled them out of you. A sated, pleased smile was on his wet lips as he brought his hand up to his mouth and sucked his fingers clean, as if he didnât just spend almost an hour tasting you straight from the source.Â
âDid you⌠finally get your fill?â you asked, breathless beyond words as your chest heaved unevenly.Â
Clark shook his head, crawling and kissing his way up your body. He pressed soft kisses to your thighs, your stomach, your ribs, your breasts and your neck before finally stopping when his face was level with yours.Â
âNo,â he answered, shifting his hips when you reached down and pushed his boxers down his thighs and legs, the only thing he was wearing before you both were completely naked. âYou know I couldâve stayed down there for the rest of the night. But I know you wouldnât have been able to handle much more of it.â
You hummed, letting his big hands guide your legs to wrap around his waist as he settled his hips between your thighs. âHow sweet,â you mumbled, kissing him back embarrassingly quickly when he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.Â
A needy, long moan left your mouth and entered his when he reached down and guided himself into you, and the stretch that always came with taking him was something you were sure youâd never get used to.Â
He was just so big.Â
Your back arched off the bed, your bare chest pressing right up against his as he filled you entirely, your core beyond ready to take him after he thoroughly prepared you.Â
âOh, my God,â you breathed against his lips, tensing up as your hands grabbed onto his biceps.Â
Clark broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to your temple as he stilled, bending one leg just slightly to ensure that every inch of him was buried inside of you. âAre you okay?â he asked quietly, one hand splayed along your lower back while the other one tangled in your hair, cradling your head.Â
You nodded, even more breathless now than you were before. Your heels dug into his back as you lifted your hips, your way of telling him to continue. âIâm okay,â you whispered, knowing he always like to hear verbal responses even when your body is practically begging for him to fuck you.Â
Clark let out a soft hum at that, his hips beginning to rock against yours, working you open even more around him. He dropped his head to your shoulder, peppering kisses along your skin as he set a slow pace at first. He reached deep inside you with every thrust, and every time you felt impossibly full and like he couldnât physically reach that far, only for him to prove you wrong by the next one.Â
Your legs hiked higher around his waist, the increasing pace making them loosen a bit as he let out deep and raspy sounds against the skin of your neck, and each one only further fueled your need for him.Â
âYou feel so good,â you whimpered, sliding one hand into his hair and tugging on it, your other one grabbing onto his shoulder tightly.Â
Clark lifted his head, his nose bumping against yours. âSo do you, baby,â he said back, then an achingly pretty smile formed on his face as he pressed his forehead against yours. âI love you.âÂ
A matching smile took over your own face, and your hand moved from his shoulder to his cheek. âI love you,â you said back, and his smile only grew before he was leaning in and kissing you again.Â
Then he did everything he did before, getting you there over and over again, but this time on his cock instead of his fingers, and by the time he came inside of you and filled you up, you were shaking out of your control, and your hands were holding onto him with a death grip.Â
Clark slowly eased out of you, and when he tried to pull away, you instantly held on even tighter, pulling him close once again. âStay,â you mumbled, and he let out a soft laugh.Â
âI was just going to-â
âI donât care,â you cut him off, burying your face against his shoulder. âJust stay here. Donât move. You might be the only thing keeping me together right now.â
He laughed again, and despite your words, he moved onto his back, ditching whatever he was planning on doing as he pulled you against his side. Your legs immediately tangled with his, your head coming to rest on his chest as you tried to catch your breath.Â
âAre you okay?â he asked once again, his hand sliding up and down your back as you nodded, unable to answer him with words. His chest vibrated under you with a silent laugh, and when you lifted your head and looked at him, he shrugged. âThatâs what you get for sending me those pictures last night then ignoring me for hours after.â
You scoffed, âYouâre cruel,â
He scoffed right back, âYouâre cruel,â
But despite your words, both of you were wearing sleepy, sated grins on your faces, and you let the feeling of his hands running up and down your body lull you to sleep at the same time he let the sound of your heartbeat soothe him enough for his eyes to shut as well.
-
Happy Birthday to the best Superman, David. I wrote this in one sitting which is really rare for me, so I hope you enjoyed this fic about these two lovebirds.
⧠Summary: You leave Clark alone after a shared nap, and he's quick to let you know how he feels about it. â§Â
⧠Word Count: 842
⧠Warnings: Adorably dramatic Clark, slice of life, humor, fluff, naps are a serious activity â§Â
⧠Gender Neutral! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns â§Â
⧠Additional Tags: HEAVILY inspired by an IG Reel [linked below], Reader is referred to as Honey, Clark is referred to as My Love and Baby, lightly edited
⧠Superhero Masterlist ⧠General Masterlist
You giggled to yourself as your thumb double-tapped your phone screen, the short video replaying for extra measure as if it were your own personal encore while you stuffed another salsa covered chip into your mouth.
It was late into the afternoon â a slow Saturday where it seemed like Metropolis decided to become a normal, boring city for once â and you had only two things on your mind; scroll through Tiktok like it was your duty to society, and gorge yourself on tortilla chips with salsa and queso dip.
"Honey�"
Scratch that, you had three things on your mind.
Clark's groggy voice carried down the hall, soon to be followed by the heavy shuffles of slipper covered feet.
It wasn't hard for him to find where you were, not even needing to use his heightened sense of hearing as the sounds of yet another video and muffled giggles led him straight into the small dining room, your figure leaning against the kitchen table without a care in the world.
Sensing his presence, you turned your head with a small smile already forming on your lips, "Welcome back to the land of the living, sleepy head."
He crossed his arms with a belated huff before his lips pursed into a small pout, disheveled curly hair and slightly askew black frames only elevating his kicked puppy look.
"So⌠We're doing sleep alones now?"
Your eyebrows furrowed, thoughts firing off a mile a minute until realization dawned on you:
Your afternoon nap with your cuddly â and entirely too warm for blankets â boyfriend.
A baffled laugh burst past your lips before you could even think about holding it back, which only seemed to deepen Clark's adorably dissatisfied pout tenfold.
"I-I'm sorry, baby," reigning in your bubbling laughter, you turned to face him fully, "but it definitely wasn't a sleep alone, you were asleep!"
"And you left me alone!"
"Because I woke up first, so I decided to get up and let you sleep some more!"
Clark gasped in mock shock, and despite how well he'd kept up his act, it wasn't hard to see the silly little smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah? W-Well, I think you should have⌠put yourself back to sleep!"
Hiding another laugh within a feigned attempt of clearing your throat, you nodded slowly, "So, you want me to put myself back to sleep, so we can continue sleeping together?"
"Yep, that's exactly what I want, it's basic napping 101." He spoke with a concernedly casual amount of discernment, his early years of debate club truly paying off in this moment. "Oh, and just so you know, we're in a fight right now."
A fight, with your 6'4", 200-odd pound golden retriever boyfriend dressed in plaid pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt, over napping etiquette â oh, how the world could be so cruel.
Sky blue eyes dropped from your face to the table behind you, his previous pout now shifting to one of unadulterated betrayal and despair.
"And you're eating without me?!"
"Wha- It's my snack, Clark!"
His head lolled back dramatically, hands raising to the heavens as if begging to be spared from this torment. "Good grief â It's like I don't exist anymore, you're moving on from me!"
You gripped the table to keep yourself from doubling over in laughter, tears springing to your eyes as you tried your best to keep your composure, eager to see how far he was willing to take this.
"D-Did you have a good nap, at least? You looked so peaceful when I saw you."
"It was a good nap when I was cuddling you and listening to your heartbeat, but now I think it was the worst." His pout was back, but the glee in his eyes was undeniable, "I think my whole life is ruined, actually."
"Aw, my love," You cooed, crossing the short distance and reaching up to cup his cheeks â something you definitely accomplished with ease, and not from him slightly leaning down on instinct. "Do you want me to order takeout and cuddle you on the couch?"
"I'll order the takeout," he corrected softly, his signature Clark Kent grin finding its home on his lips, "and then you can cuddle me on the couch."
"Deal." Leaning up on your toes, you pressed your lips to his in a small kiss, smiling as you felt his arms wind around your waist. "Fight done?"
Clark hummed, amusement dancing in the tone, "Yeah, fight's done â thanks for entertaining me, honey."
"Of course, baby â but if you're gonna be this dramatic, I might just have to start leaving you alone in bed more often." Your teasing lilt and Cheshire grin was met with a gentle pinch to your side, working a bubble of laughter out of you.
"Careful." He chided before planting a kiss to your forehead, "I might just pull out the tears, next."
Scoffing lightheartedly, you stole another kiss from him and slipped out of his grasp to gather your stash of takeout menus, ready to continue your lazy Saturday properly.
â§. â EDIT: Here's the aformentioned IG reel! Currently shitting bricks at the thought of accidentally revealing my personal account but hey, we can't know everything in the world :') xoxo currently tipsy Kacii
or... how do you tell the girl you like that you're superman?
pairing: clark kent x f!reader
summary: you give clark kent a chance despite your better judgement
words: 7.2k
warnings: MDNI, fluff, smut (fingering, dry humping), light angst! more smut (fingering, piv, creampie, one pussy pronoun... big dick clark), happy ending
notes: i haven't written fanfiction in about 5 years so i would really appreciate feedback. i've never written clark but i was moved... i have some more ideas so lmk if u like this :P
Clark Kent is a pushover. Okay, no, well â maybe. Clark Kent is definitely a pushover. It isnât always so glaringly obvious to other people. Late to a work meeting? He was coming with a couple trays of coffee to make up for it. And yes, it was everyoneâs exact order. I mean, did he have a notes app entry of everyone's order? It seems the exact sort of thing Clark Kent would do. Along with it, your name was always squiggled on in his annoying, pushover handwriting with a smiley face to boot. You had to suppress the eye roll every time.Â
Was it just you thinking this? Or did it feel like he simply turned it on when you were around? Always holding the door open, offering to read over your articles, oh and the feedback was always so well thought out. Itâs like he could pick up on the places you were subconsciously unsure of and simply offer up a solution out of nowhere. A solution you had no idea you even needed. He was a pushover. Or an opportunistic freak. I mean, a man always had an ulterior motive and the small-town Kansas gentleman thing was purely an act, it had to be âÂ
âY/N?â His voice cuts through the chatter of the room, heard by you over the clicking of keys and conversations. It is so easy for him to pull you out of your thoughts.Â
You have to wipe the look off your face. I mean, whose voice sounds like that? All kind and dripping with sweetness. You donât trust Clark Kent as far as you could throw him and God knows you werenât moving that well-toned body of his, how much did he work out and that bone structure, I meanâ âWhat, Clark?â You know you sound snippy because he looks like a kicked puppy. Well, actually, he always looks like that around you.Â
Clarkâs glasses sit on the edge of his nose, he pushes them up as he speaks, âOh, um, sorry to bother you.â His desk chair scoots over from his desk over to yours. A common occurrence. Jimmy and Lois would share a glance over it, youâre sure. âI was just wondering if youâd read over my latest piece. The new one about Superman.â Heâs got that look on his face. Is he trying to impress you or shove it in your face? Everyone would kill for an interview with Superman, but of course, Clark Kent is the only one to secure them.Â
You roll your eyes. You canât help it. âClark, Iâm sure itâs great. Iâm sure itâll be on the front page like the last four articles you wrote about him.â You turn your attention back to your computer, not wanting to continue the conversation.Â
âOh, really? You think so?â It typically takes a few more sassy replies from you to get him to retreat back to his desk, but not this time. This was Clark Kent who only ever takes your words at face value. Clark Kent who canât seem to pick up on the fact youâre annoyed with him, always. Clark Kent who wonât stop till every person at the Daily Planet at least tolerates him.Â
âYou bet, Clarkie.â Your voice is laced with faux sweetness, but Clark turns away with a smile on his face, his posture straighter than before, desk chair wheels sliding back the way he came from.
Clark would annoy you more if it wasnât for the little way your heart flipped when he came through the door every morning. But that part of you was never your brain talking, hell, it probably wasnât even your heart. You swore off the men of Metropolis a long time ago. Relationships were always too complicated and men more so. You have been hurt too many times. They all started off strong. Kind, gentlemen-like, and a little too good to be true. More likely than not, Clark Kent was the same. He wanted one thing and once he got it? No more doors opened before you had a chance to look up. No more take-out containers appearing during the nights when you had to make a deadline. Not to mention you worked together. You couldnât handle ruining the one place you actually loved. And for what? Clark Kent? Even if it was real, he is too sweet. He probably helps old ladies cross the street and the only thing you ever knew was tumultuous relationships.Â
You would throw your hands against the desk if you didnât want to draw so much attention to yourself. He always had a way of worming himself into your brain. He didnât even have to try very hard. His smile lit up rooms. He was so tall and broad yet he tried to shrink so as not to take up so much space. You could kill him, you think.Â
It was clear to Lois and Jimmy that Clark has a crush on you. It was the most obvious thing on the planet. Clark was nice. The whole act you assumed was for the purpose of getting things out of others was simply how he was. He was a gentleman from Kansas, always taught to do the right thing from Ma and Pa. But it was different with you. He was even more nervous than usual. Clark went out of his way to make sure you were comfortable, that you were seen. If you rubbed at your temples too much, an Advil would appear on your desk. If you yawn a little more than usual, a cup of coffee prepared just the way you like. He never needed the credit for it either. Just did it because he knew it was the right thing to do for someone you admired.
You picked up on it. You werenât blind. âI mean, he does that for everyone, doesnât he?â You had asked Lois last week.Â
Her eyebrows raised. âI mean, no. If I ask, sure, Clark is happy to get me a cup of coffee from the break room. For you? Heâll go to that place down the street.â She had a knowing look on her face. More often than not, you had been going back to Clark as a topic of conversation. In the past, you brushed him off.Â
You sighed, picking at the skin around your fingers. âWell, if anything, he just wants to get in my pants.â You had seen it before. Hell, the last intern the Daily Planet hired had tried it too, but once he realized you werenât interested, the pleasantries had stopped. That hasnât happened with Clark, not yet anyway. âRight?â You looked at Lois again.Â
âSure and settle down with you in Kansas somewhere and give you a handful of kids and wait on your hand and foot or whatever floats your boat.â She shrugged. She wasnât going to waste more of her breath trying to convince you that Clark was one of the good ones. You had to figure that out on your own and your mind was surely set on staying away. And she sure as hell wasnât gonna go out of her way to vet him for you, at least not for a little while longer. I mean, she had her $50 bucks put on the fact it would take longer than six months for you guys to go on a date. Jimmy on the other hand was convinced it would take less than six months. She was right on the cusp of winning, you just had to hold out a little while longer. Lois can't let Jimmy Olsen win a bet. âBut, really, youâre probably right. I mean no man is that perfect.â She emphasized, glancing over at Clark.Â
That was a week ago. Now, your restraint seems to be thinning more and more every day that you catch a glimpse of him in that white button down, his glasses hanging close to the tip of his nose. You had managed to finish the day off still mildly annoyed at him, though. I mean, push up your glasses for God's sake.
Clark, on the other hand is making eye contact with Jimmy, shaking his head vehemently as Jimmy gestures over to you, mouthing, âCome on, man. Ask her out!â Clark is nervous. He didnât want to ruin anything between you, but it was getting harder for him to ignore the ache in his chest. He glances over at your desk, noticing that you're packing your bag for the night. Oh gosh, is he about to do this?Â
Jimmy throws a fist up in the air signaling triumph as Clark scrambles out of his chair, stuttering over his words, âOh, hey, wait, let me grab that for you.â He reaches your desk, scooping your bag over his shoulder as he smiles. âYou know, we, uh, walk the same way.âÂ
You shrug. âOkay.â It was a long day. He was strong and capable. He could carry your bag a few blocks. Heâs quick to grab the door before you can, push the elevator button, and follow you to the street.Â
âHow was your day?â He asks, genuinely curious. Heâs only stalling a little on asking you on a date. I mean, would you say yes? Were you set on being friends? Friendly co-workers? He knew he wanted more than that and Ma always said it was better to just take a chance.Â
âHonestly? It kind of sucked. Perry was on my ass, sending me email after email when I sent in my draft for Sunday. I justâ I worry Iâm not always picking up the slack. Like, that Iâm not good enough to be here.â You sigh, glancing up at Clark as you walk. Where the hell did that come from? But you knew. Clark was always easy to talk to. He had a way about him that sort of eased the ache in your chest.Â
The frown on his face is genuine. âOh, come on, you know thatâs not true.â His brows are furrowed, his grip tightening on your bag. âYouâre one of the best writers I know.â He clears his throat, his admiration as clear as day. âPlus, Perry was just in one of his moods. It had nothing to do with you. In fact, it mightâve been my fault.â Heâs sheepish when he says it.Â
Your mouth drops open. âWhat? Clark Kent, golden boy? Perry upset with you?â You bump into his side as you walk, teasing him. Conversation flows easy between Clark and you. As much as you hated to admit it at times.Â
Your building looms in the distance. Maybe it wouldnât be so bad to get a taste of Clark Kent. It had been awhile since you had any romantic prospects. Maybe it didnât have to be so life or death for you. Maybe it could just be fun. It could even be nice after the day you had.Â
Your footsteps slow down as you reach the front door of your building, your body turning to face Clark. His eyes stare down into your own. He swallows. Does he know what youâre about to ask?
âDo you want to come up?âÂ
âCan I take you out on a date?â
You both stutter over your next sentences. âOhâ Well.âÂ
âYes.â You say at the same time, a matching grin on both of your faces.Â
â-Â
What were you doing? Maybe you didnât quite think this through, you think as your front door clicks shut.Â
âOh, you can just, uh,â You grab your bag from Clarkâs shoulder, dumping it off on your coffee table as you take in the state of your apartment. It wasnât that bad. After taking a quick inventory, you turn back to Clark, finding him with a goofy smile on his face. As much as you wish it wasnât, it was contagious. âStop smiling like that.â You canât help the way a smile tugs at your own lips looking at him.Â
His fingers push the bridge of his glasses up his nose, a chuckle falling from his lips. Heâs got a blush dusting his cheeks, has he always been this cute? âI just canât believe you said yes to a date. I mean, and now Iâm in your apartment and itâs justââÂ
You close the space you made, stopping his rambling as you stare up at his face. I mean you invited him up for a reason, right? You might as well take the chance while you have him here. You could do this despite your heart wanting to jump out of your chest and into his. You stand on your tip-toes, leaning into him. âCome on, Clark, kiss me.â Here you were, taking the chance. God, that stupid button up and your stupid feelings.Â
He really doesnât have to be told twice. Clarkâs hand comes up to cup the side of your face, leaning in and connecting your lips together. Oh, fuck. Your lips move in sync, your eyes closing as you melt into his touch. He is so big, so tall, and all consuming as he deepens the kiss. His nose nudges against your own as he tries to get as close as possible to you. A small groan escapes his lips as he pushes your bodies together, a hand on the small of your back. âI, uh, âmsorry.â He mumbles against your lips before pulling back and resting his forehead against yours. Clark, ever the gentleman, worrying heâs taken it too far. âIâve wanted to do that forever, didnât know if youâd ever ask.âÂ
A small laugh escapes your lips, already feeling drunk from the feeling of his lips against yours. âNot sure I was ever going to ask.â You peck his lips, sliding your hands across his chest. âBut maybe I finally lost my senses.âÂ
âOh, yeah?â He canât wipe the smile off his face as his hands glide over your shoulders to slide down to hold at your waist. âCan I kiss you again?â His hands give your hips a gentle squeeze before he sees your nod and dives back in and this time, it feels even more consuming than the last. Your hands canât stop exploring the expanse of his chest, his back, the hardness of him, his biceps and the softness too, the way his biceps flex when his arms move to pull you closer. Your hand finds his as you continue to kiss. You pull away from his lips as you begin to tug him towards the couch.Â
Clark is quick to sit down and pull you onto him. He isnât sure how he waited this long to kiss you, to touch you. The world before seems foreign to him now. Have you always been this soft? This beautiful? His hands are moving over your body, squeezing your plush hips in his hands as his lips work down your neck. âI still want to take you out, okay?â He reassures you. His fingers tease at the edge of your shirt, pushing it up an inch just to get a taste of your skin. His fingertips tickle at the bare skin of your tummy; it makes you shiver. You can barely think. âI, uh, Iâve wanted to ask you out for so long.â Every word is punctuated with a kiss as he moves all over your neck, your throat, back to your face: your lips, your cheeks, nuzzling you now that heâs allowed to. âIs this okay?â His fingers are skating at the edge of your shirt, the heat they leave in their wake is enough to make you shiver. You nod.Â
Clark shakes his head, fingers desperately gripping at your waist again. âNo, I need to hear you say it.â His forehead is pressed against yours, wondering how the hell he ended up here. Maybe heâs dreaming. âPlease.âÂ
You nod again, âYes, please. Touch me.â Your thighs are straddling his lap as your hips subconsciously grind down against him as you give him your answer. Heâs hard underneath you. You swallow. Sure, you knew what you invited him up here for, but you didnât expect the way heat pooled in your stomach, the way his lips felt against yours. It was electric. You didnât think you had wanted someone so bad from a kiss before. Didnât think youâd ever want Clark Kent like this. Clark Kent with his curls disheveled from your hands, his pupils blown out underneath his glasses, the few buttons of his shirt undone, the expanse of his chest peeking out from underneath. You could come from that sight alone.
Clarkâs hands tease underneath your shirt, squeezing and touching over all the skin he can reach before heâs pushing a hand underneath your bra and taking your mouth with his again. He canât help the groan that escapes as he grinds up against you, the feeling of your bare skin making him come undone. âAhâ I,â Clarkâs head falls back against the couch as you press down against him, creating a pace against the hard-on in his pants. âI, I donât do this, usually.â He wants to elaborate, wants to tell you he really does prefer a first date because he wants to earn this, earn you, but he canât get much else out as he watches you on top of him.Â
âUh-huh.â You're lost in the feeling of dry humping with him, throat tight. Your pussy aches every time his clothed cock rubs just right. You can only imagine how big, how girthy he is if he feels this way through his pants. Your hands are gripping at his shoulders as you rut against him, his hands still kneading your breasts.Â
His hands are pulling your top over your head, undoing your bra so he can get at more of your skin with his hands and his mouth. He takes extra care to make sure no piece of your skin goes untouched.
âCome on, Clarkie, please.â You beg, the usual teasing nickname slipping out without a thought, wanting to feel his hands where you really need them. It seems to work as his large hand slips underneath your pants, fingers swiping down to feel your heat through your underwear. He can feel the wetness seeping through your panties. His fingers tease, paying attention to your clit, giving it an experimental rub through the cloth to see your reaction. Your hips buck, losing whatever rhythm they might have had as you cry out. Itâs been awhile and youâre so sensitive, you go to explain just as his fingers shove the cloth aside and touch with no barrier. âAh, oh, fuck.â Your hips stutter again, his fingers slipping toward your entrance.Â
âOh, wow, honey.â He breathes out, mouth kissing at your chest as his fingers tease at your slick entrance. His fingers swipe through your folds before sinking in a single finger. He barely has to push in before you sink down onto it fully without a second thought. Youâre so wet, a second finger slides in as easily as the first, he can feel the way your pussy throbs at the intrusion. âFeel good?â He cuts through your foggy mind, his fingers sloppily moving in and out as his mouth returns to claim yours. You give a slight nod, lost in the feeling. âYou still gonna let me take you out?â His thumb joins in, lightly rubbing at your clit.Â
âYes, you can take me out on a stupid date.â You push your lips harder against his, moving your hips against his hand, the sound of his fingers fucking into your slick heat fills the room. The feeling in your stomach tightens, close to release. Of course youâll go out with him especially if his fingers feel this good. Oh gosh, if his fingers feel like this, what will his cock feel like?Â
Clarkâs fingers keep nudging at your clit, his fingers inside of you feeling over that spongy part, petting, coaxing. He is keeping a steady rhythm as he tunes into the sound of your breathing, the steady thump of your heart. Every time he senses a slight stutter, he keeps the steady rhythm going. His eyes rake over your body, his other hand holding your hips in place the more they want to rut against him. He canât focus like that. His cock is throbbing in his pants, but he thinks he could cum just watching you like this. With his senses so in tune with yours. âYou gonna come, baby?â A kiss presses to your neck, âYou gonna come on my fingers?â You choke on your words, your pussy tightening with the feeling in your stomach. Itâs about to snap every time he speaks. âLet me see it,â He begs, somehow his voice sounds nearly as wrecked as you feel, âPlease.â Clarkâs voice cracks, holding you to his chest just as the band in your stomach snaps. You fall forward, gripping at his clothed chest.Â
âAh, ah, ah, fuck, Clark.â You gasp, his fingers slowing down their assault, but working you through your orgasm till your body twitches and your hand shoves at his wrist, âHa, Clark, quit.â You breathe, hiding your face in his neck. His fingers slowly leave your panties, not too fast. He can tell how sensitive youâre feeling. He wants to laugh, but only from the sense of happiness building in his chest.Â
âGood?â His voice is hoarse, deeper than usual. One hand slides to your back, rubbing small circles.Â
You nod sleepily. âGod. Great, Clark.â Your voice is breathless. Even after your orgasm, you arenât unaware of his cock still pressing into your clothed core. You arenât unaware of how big it feels. You arenât unaware of the ache still in your pussy, needing him to really fill it. Youâre still sensitive, but your body is still curious as your core makes another swipe over his lap, testing, teasing.
His hands are quick to grab at your waist, holding you still. âAh, ah, Iâ.â He laughs, head dropping back to the couch as he stares up at your face, glasses crooked. A small, knowing grin adorns your face. God, did you get prettier? âI, uhââ He glances at the clock on your wall. He had plans. Superman duties. And he really does want to take you out first. His cock twitches. You can see the inner battle on his face. Was this Kansas boy serious? He really did want to take you out? âI have to go and I really do want to take you out first.â Heâs sheepish as he says it, a light blush dusting his cheeks. As if itâs something to be embarrassed about. As if he didnât make your heart squeeze and give you the best orgasm youâve had in months.Â
âYou mean it?â You tease, your lips press a small kiss to the side of his mouth.Â
Clark nods, those matching grins adorning your faces again. âI mean it.âÂ
âÂ
6:00 PM. Saturday.Â
The click of shoes against hard wood. Again. Again. Pacing. A glance at the clock. A glance at the calendar.Â
6:30 PM. Saturday.Â
A sigh, shoes dropping to the hard wood. You slump on the couch, glancing at the last texts you exchanged with Clark this morning.Â
pick you up at 6 pm on the dot :)Â
Clark was rarely late and when he was, he made up for it. You try to remember that.Â
7:00PM. Saturday.Â
You fight the urge to text him. Is he okay? Surely he wouldnât stand you up. That would be silly.
7:30PM. Saturday.
Would it?Â
9:20PM. Saturday.
No, not silly. No text and a no show. You want to text Lois, ask if she wants to go out to the bar. I mean, you got ready and for what? But your heart actually breaks a little. A little told you so to yourself. I mean, he couldnât even close the deal so what did he really get out of it? You grumble, sinking into the couch. Stupid feelings and stupid chances. How are you supposed to face him on Monday? Maybe thatâs on him. Maybe he can deal with the death glares you stare into the back of his head now. Did he do this on purpose? Did he know you really did not want to fall for his stupid little act and somehow got you to anyway?Â
âUgh.â You throw your phone onto the cushion beside you, heading falling back just as a knock startles you in the silence. âYouâve got to be kidding me.âÂ
Youâre quick to rise from your spot on the couch, even quicker to rip the door open. You canât even speak before Clark is apologizing. âI am so, so, so, sorry.â His eyes meet yours as soon as you open the door, the kicked puppy look is on full blast. âPlease, donât shut the door.â He begs, one hand extending to you, the other holding a bouquet of flowers.Â
âAre you serious, Clark?â You want to scream, but your voice is low. Lethal.Â
His eyes plead with you. âI got caught up in, in, â I mean, have you seen the news? I was on the other side of the city and there was an attack, I mean it was just like the one from a few months ago, you remember the one, right?â Heâs rambling, he knows it. He means it. He wouldnât have missed your date unless he had good reason. Itâs not like he has to tell you his secret, not after one missed date. âThere was this huge explosion and all the transit had to stop, and, you donât know what Iâm talking about, do you?â He saves himself the embarrassment and stops talking as you pull out your phone and see the news.Â
Okay, so you spent 3 hours sulking around the house without checking the news. Is that on you or him? And God, Clark probably stuck around to help cats out of trees and old ladies under rubble. Youâre almost sure of it. âOh.â You say dumbly, looking back up at him before your eyes narrow. âNo text? Not even one?â
He shrugs, that sheepish look on his face as he holds up his phone, the screen black. âNo battery.âÂ
You roll your eyes, tugging him into your apartment. âOkay, fine. Youâre forgiven.â You point a finger at him, poking at his chest. âFor now.âÂ
âÂ
So you reschedule for next weekend. This time, thereâs even less pressure on it. You had planned a dinner and movie at your place. There were too many deadlines lately at work this week and you hadnât wanted to go out. Clark agrees with the promise that heâll take you out somewhere really nice once work isnât as stressful. Not even a first date down and heâs already planning the other ones. Quite sure of himself, you think, as you finish getting ready.Â
You had already ordered the pizza and he was due to be at your apartment in about 15 minutes.Â
Itâs starting to feel like a repeat of your first plans when 30 minutes go by and the pizza begins to grow cold on the table. You played it safe this time too and let the news play while you waited. Just in case.
You want to cry when another hour goes by. How did you let yourself get your hopes again? You sit on the couch and let it happen. Thereâs no use pretending that your heart wasnât feeling the way it was. You liked Clark. Like really liked him. You liked the stupid way he wrote your name on the coffee cups with the stupid smiley faces and you liked the way his eyes searched for you in the morning at work, you liked the way he texted you his stupid thoughts and dumb fun facts. He was genuine and goofy. Like stupidly so. But he was also opinionated and never afraid to stand up for what was right. You liked the way his hands would linger on your back when he held the door open for you, you liked the way he started sneaking kisses on the elevator at work.Â
You hope he shows up at the door still. You hate yourself for it, too. There was a reason you didnât want to get your hopes up about Clark Kent because you would be stupidly in love if you did.Â
You fall asleep on the couch crying yourself to sleep. No fist knocking against wood wakes you up.Â
The sun rises another day.Â
âÂ
Can we talk?
You want to throw your phone across the room. Can we talk? Really? He wants to stand you up and thinks you canât take the hint? Now he wants to break it off in person? I mean, what was there to even break off? Youâve only been seeing each other for a week, if you can even call it that. There was no date. Just secret kisses, secret touches in the elevator and the copy room and the stairwell andâ you groan, unsure of what to even say. Did you owe it to yourself to see him again? To tell him off?Â
ok. u can come over in an hourÂ
âÂ
Maybe youâve shot yourself in the foot. As Clark sits across from you on the couch, you lose all the fight you once had. Youâre just sad. Because Clark Kent is perfect in nearly every way except he canât show up to a date on time to save his life.Â
Heâs nervous. You have no idea why heâs nervous considering he already did the hard part and stood you up twice. No better way to tell a girl that youâre not really interested. âI, umââ He clears his throat, avoiding eye contact.Â
How do you tell the girl you like that you're Superman? Clark wishes he could bring out his phone, bring up the notes app he had jotted ideas down on. The words came easier to him in writing. There was no easy way to get this out. Clark Kent had no excuse for missing his dates with you. Superman did. How does he separate the two? How did he ever believe he could? How selfish could he be? There was a reason he didnât date. But it was different when it came to you. He felt like he could be himself, as much as himself as he could be without really telling you about Superman. Did this have to be so convoluted? He trusted you. He knew you had integrity. He knew this wouldnât change a thing, but bring more understanding between the two of you. He knew if he told you, this could really happen. Everything might fall into place.Â
The real selfish thing was not allowing Clark Kent to love. He owed it to himself to let love in. What else was there? The most human thing of all.Â
âThis isnât easy for me.â He clears his throat finally looking up at you. He wants to reach across the couch, take your hand in his, pour his heart out. But he doesnât deserve that. Not yet. âI, uh, donât deserve your forgiveness.â
You roll your eyes. âJust spit it out, Clark.â Thereâs a venom in your voice that breaks his heart, âI expected this. I mean, really? I shouldâve known it was all an act.â
Clark frowns. âThatâs really what you think of me?â His emotions seem to be getting the best of him. He knows you donât mean it. Youâre hurt. Heâs hurt you.
âI mean, really? How else do you explain this?â You move your hands around the air between the two of you. âYou wanted a little secret, office romance or whatever. I donât know!â Youâre exasperated. âYou donât want the, like, real thing.â You frown. âItâs fine. Just stop dragging it out.â You can feel the tears sting at your eyes.Â
âThatâs not at all what this means to me.â He looks at his hands, wrings them together. âYou- I, ââ He runs a hand over his face. âYou remember when I missed the first date we had?â Clark makes eye contact with you again, watches you nod, watches the first tear drop. âI wasnât just caught in the middle of all of that, I mean, I was. But not in the way you think.â He swallows, brings his hands up to his face. âI wasâ I amââ He rips the glasses off his face, watching recognition dawn on your face.Â
âClark.â You are at a loss for words. âI mean, what?â Your hands reach forward to grip his face in yours, thumbs sliding across his cheeks. Heâs your Clark, but heâs Superman. The man from work who had driven you up the wall from how perfect he had this act down. The man who was respectful to a fault. The man whose values were worn on his chest and his heart on his sleeve. The man you knew as Clark Kent makes so much sense now like two pieces of a puzzle finally creating the full picture.Â
Clark laughs, unsure of himself. Unsure of how to be these two things to you at once. âIâm sorry. I swear, Iâm usually on time. Just two really ill timed alien monsters attacking and you know, itâs kindaââ You cut him off with a kiss.Â
âThank you for telling me.â You shake your head still unsure of if youâre seeing things right. âI canât imagine.â You're still holding his face in your hands, in awe, watching in real time as these two personalities come to meet in the middle, meet in the man before you. How do you blame a guy for missing a couple dates when heâs saving the world? Especially when he makes it up to you in so many other ways. âI canât imagine what you have to carry on your own.â You frown, hands sliding from his face to his chest. You imagine the suit as your fingers run over his chest, the beacon of hope that those colors carry, the hope he has to carry for the world.Â
Clark canât keep his hands from you anymore as he moves one to cup your cheek. âYouâre not mad?â He smiles, âYou can still be mad.â He reassures, pushing your hair to tuck behind your ear. âThere is nothing in the world that can truly keep me from you, not anymore.â His lips are close to connecting with yours and those words alone have you closing the distance.Â
There is so much between you. The sadness you were feeling washes away into something entirely different. Deeper, stronger. Admiration, longing, a trust that settles in your bones. âDonât make me wait again, Clark.â You tease, âSuperman.â Your words are laced with the emotions youâre feeling, dripping with something you canât quite name.
Clark eases you down onto the couch, his lips still capturing your own as his fingers explore your body. They run along your thighs, your legs, reveling in the fact that youâre still here, that you know him. That you still want him. âI mean it. Iâm gonna do my best with you. I promise. As long as youâll let me.â And his words have a different meaning. You share him with the world, but know him more intimately than the world ever could.Â
Your body arches into his touch, his fingers dancing along your skin. He tugs off your shirt, his own following as he gets to know your body, slowly, surely. âIâm not going anywhere, Clark.â Your voice is breathless as his fingers slip in between your bodies, under your pants, a familiar ache in your bones as his fingers gather up your slick and make circles around your clit. You can feel him pressing against your inner thigh. Your own hands explore down his chest till theyâre running over the outline of his cock through his pants, your breath hitches as you feel how big he is. At the same time, heâs pushing two fingers into you, slowly easing them in and out, searching for that soft spot deep inside you, the spongy spot that has you cooing.Â
Heâs quick to draw an orgasm from you once he gets your pants off, peppering kisses over your face, your torso as he works you through it. âI got you, come on, let me have it.â Heâs kissing over your neck as you come down, âSo pretty.â He praises, his other hand running up and down your side.Â
âClark.â His head is tucked into your neck. âClark.â You're laughing, his fingers tickling the skin of your thighs. Heâs still hard, you can feel him pressing against your naked core, but he makes no effort to address it. âAre you gonna fuck me, Clark?â You whine, pushing back up into him.Â
His lips return to yours briefly before heâs looking down at you. âYouâre sure?âÂ
âI think thereâs nothing that I want more right now.â You give him a push of your hips to make a point.Â
Clark groans into your mouth, nodding. âOkay, okay.â He sits up, slowly unbuckling his pants and pushing them down with his boxers. His cock springs free.Â
Oh.Â
Oh.
Heâs bigger than you couldâve imagined. Longer than you felt. Thicker than you felt. You canât seem to tear your eyes away from his cock. Itâs almost embarrassing. Clarkâs hand is rubbing the back of his head, looking at the way youâre ogling him. âI, uhââ You swallow, âIs that even gonna fit?â Your eyes flit up to his own before looking back down. Your pussy clenches at the thought of him working his way into you. âI mean, Clarkââ Your laugh is breathless.Â
Clark is leaning back over you, his fingers finding your wetness again, pooling even more than before from your orgasm and the sight of his cock. âSheâs wet enough to take it.â He mumbles, fingers gathering your wetness before heâs smearing it onto his cock and spreading the pre-cum that has gathered from his leaking, red tip. He pumps his cock a couple times in his fist, his other hand squeezing at your waist. âYou trust me, donât you?â Clark purrs with a few lingering kisses against your neck. You nod, at a loss for words as the tip of his cock pushes through your folds, nudging at your clit. The feeling makes you jolt. Clarkâs eyes are locked on the sight of his cock glistening with your juices, rubbing along the length of your slit, teasing, testing, eyes glancing up at your face to gauge your reaction.Â
You whine, hips stuttering against his own, needing him to fill the ache between your legs with the length of him. âI told you not to make me wait again.â You hiccup, bottom lip jutting out.Â
Clark hisses as his tip nudges at your entrance, your hips seeking where you want him most. His tip catches at the soft ring of flesh, sinking in as your hips continue to tease him. Itâs easier than you thought, a soft squelch filling the living room as he gives you the first inch. Your slick lets him in easily as your pussy begins clenching around him. âHowâs that feel, sweetheart?â His cock stills in you, not pushing in until you adjust to the thickness of him. Youâre nodding, unable to speak from how good it feels. âUse your words.â He urges, voice steady despite how wrecked he feels, his hand sliding down your body, thumb finding your clit.Â
âYeah, yes, Clark.â You choke out.
âGood.â He answers, pushing in the rest of the way as your pussy gives way. Itâs snug and your pussy clenches around his cock. He can feel your walls stretch, accommodating his size. When he reaches the hilt, he groans out, âI knew you had it in you.â His thumb is still toying with your clit as he begins to move in and out. Heâs slow with it at first, letting you adjust to the feeling of his cock fully sheathed inside you. âYouâre taking me so well.â Itâs constant praise as heâs shoving his cock in and out, the lewd sounds filling the space; his balls hitting your ass he picks up the pace.
âClark, Iâ Oh, fuck.â Youâre drunk from the fullness of him. You live and breathe Clark Kent. If you thought his kisses were all consuming, thereâs nothing compared to the feeling of his dick splitting you in half, his lips capturing yours in a kiss as his pace picks up. His thumb rubbing small circles at just the right pace, the right pressure. Itâs better than you couldâve imagined. Your throat is tight, your entire body clenching from the pleasure of it, just waiting to snap.Â
âCome on, baby.â Heâs urging you, cock pushing as far as he can, his body snug against your own as he ruts into your pussy, grinding his length deep within you. Heâs losing his resolve. Heâs not sure how much longer he can hold onto his semblance of sanity here. How long he can keep his strength in check as his fingers squeeze onto your waist. It stings, but only adds to the pleasure.
The only thing you can feel is Clark. His fingers on your waist, squeezing, his thumb toying with your clit, his cock shoving in, his mouth kissing along your throat. âCome with me.â Heâs begging, voice cracking, but you canât tell. Too lost in the feeling of him, your fingers clawing at his back, legs wrapped around his waist, clutching him as close as he can humanely get. You have no idea how badly he needs this, lives for this.
It snaps. âOh, Clark.â Your thighs tighten around him, the tightness in your body evaporating as you come, body shivering as he works you through it. Heâs following behind you, his cock coating the inside of your pussy with his spend. His hips grind into yours, working his cum deeper and deeper into you as you both cling onto each other, his cock kissing your cervix as he comes down. Both breathless, both completely spent. There was no way you were getting Clark Kent out of your bones, out of your head. Youâre thinking itâll only be easier to forgive him if every apology is like this.Â
His arms are on either side of your face as he peppers kisses across your skin. âOkay?â Clark is softening inside of you, the rest of him visibly melting at the sight of you, heâs not sure if he can handle seeing you like this, so pliant in his hands, so in love. âIâm gonna move, sweetheart.â A soft sound fills the room as his cock slides from inside you. His body is moving from a top of yours and your hands grip at his biceps, a pleading look in your eyes.Â
âDonât go, Clarkie.â Your voice is small, almost sad. Youâre not sure you can ever give him up.
Clark shakes his head, gathering up your body against his. Itâs effortless on his part. âDonât plan on it.â He promises. The rest of the day is for you. The rest of the night is for making up for the mistakes heâs already made. And oh, Clark Kent always makes up for his mistakes. He would make sure he earned every single piece of you, every day. That is the only way he knew how to do it. He only knew how to live by being all in and completely dedicated.Â
ok bye lmk if u like it... i hate writing an ending
Summary: Clark's world is turned upside down when his father passes away unexpectedly. As he navigates the overwhelming grief of losing him, you remain by his side.
Request: Yourâe so incredible at writing angst and I was wondering if youâd ever write about Clarkâs father dying and reader navigating how shes gonna be Clarkâs support system throughout his grieving process. In all the comics he dies and Iâve never seen it written in x reader fan fiction and Iâd loveee to see your interpretation of how Clark and reader deal with such a tremendous loss
A/N:
Hey nonnie, thank you so much for your request!!! Hope youâll like it!!!âĽď¸
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Clark was late.
Under any other circumstance, that sentence wouldn't have meant much. Life in Metropolis rarely moved according to schedule, especially when the man you loved happened to spend half his days stopping disasters before anyone else even knew they existed. You had long since learned that dinner could go cold because an apartment building caught fire or because someone decided to rob a bank at exactly the wrong moment. Sometimes he'd call from halfway across the city, apologizing between hurried breaths, promising he'd be home as soon as he could. Other times your phone would buzz with a simple text.
Running five behind. Love you.
There was always something.
Tonight there was nothing.
The pasta had long since stopped steaming. The television droned quietly in the background, though you couldn't have said what was playing. Every few minutes your eyes drifted back toward the digital clock on the oven before reaching automatically for your phone. No missed calls. No messages. You typed out three different texts asking where he was before deleting each one. Clark hated making people worry. If he hadn't reached out, there had to be a reason.
The sound of a key finally scraping against the apartment door pulled you to your feet before you even realized you'd moved.
Relief came first.
Then it disappeared just as quickly.
"Hey," you started, a smile already forming.
It faded the moment Clark stepped inside.
He was still dressed for work. Blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie hanging loose around his neck, messenger bag slipping carelessly from one shoulder. His hair looked windswept, though not in the usual way it did after flying. It looked as though he'd been running his hands through it for hours.
But none of that was what stopped you.
It was his face.
Every bit of warmth had drained from it. His skin looked almost gray beneath the apartment lights, his jaw tense enough to ache, his eyes unfocused as they wandered across the room without really seeing any of it. He looked like someone who had walked home in a dream and wasn't entirely certain where he'd ended up.
"Clark?"
He looked at you then.
Slowly.
As though he'd forgotten you were supposed to be here.
His expression didn't change. No tired smile. No quiet "Hi, honey." No teasing apology about being late.
He simply stared.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
He closed the apartment door with unusual care, one hand lingering on the handle long after it clicked shut. His fingers loosened around his keys. They slipped from his hand, clattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp metallic echo that filled the silence between you.
Clark didn't even look down.
You crossed the room in seconds.
"Hey." Your voice softened instinctively. "Talk to me."
He blinked as if your words had reached him from somewhere far away. Only then did you notice how bloodshot his eyes were. They weren't red from exhaustion or lack of sleep. They weren't irritated from smoke or dust after some rescue.
He had been crying.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.
"Baby, what happened?"
For several long seconds he said nothing.
His mouth opened.
Closed again.
His throat worked around words that refused to come, and you watched his chest rise in one uneven breath after another. Clark Kent, who always seemed to know exactly what to say, suddenly looked like language itself had abandoned him.
Then, barely above a whisper, he managed one word.
"...Pa."
Your mind refused to process it.
"What?"
He swallowed so hard you saw it.
"My dad."
His voice cracked around the second word, splintering into something so raw it hardly sounded like him anymore.
"He..."
Another breath.
Another failed attempt.
"He died."
The apartment became impossibly quiet.
Jonathan Kent?
No.
That couldn't be right.
Not Jonathan.
The man who greeted everyone with a smile that reached his eyes. The man who insisted on sending you home with leftovers every time you visited the farm. The man who hugged you like family before you and Clark had even said the word love to each other.
He couldn't be...
Clark gave a tiny shake of his head before you'd spoken a single word, almost as though he knew exactly where your thoughts had gone.
"It was his heart."
His voice sounded hollow.
"They said it happened fast."
He stopped.
His lips trembled.
"They..."
The sentence never finished.
His hand came up to cover his eyes as if hiding from the words would somehow make them less real. His shoulders, broad enough to carry collapsing buildings and crashing airplanes, suddenly folded inward.
It happened so quickly you barely caught him.
One second he was standing.
The next his knees gave way.
You wrapped both arms around him before he reached the floor, feeling the full weight of him sink against you. Clark clung to you with both hands, his forehead pressing into your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, as though you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly come apart.
"I'm sorry."
The words were barely audible, carried into the fabric of your sweater more than spoken aloud. His forehead remained pressed against your shoulder, his hands clutching the back of your shirt with surprising desperation. You had never felt Clark hold onto anything like this. Usually, whenever life knocked him down, he was careful not to let too much of his weight settle on anyone else. Even exhausted, even bruised, there was always something restrained about the way he leaned on people.
Not now.
Now he seemed to be holding onto you because he wasn't entirely convinced he could stay standing without you.
You slid one hand slowly into his hair, your fingers combing through the dark curls at the nape of his neck. "Clark?"
"I'm sorry."
Your brow furrowed.
The apology sounded genuine. Not polite. Not automatic. It was the kind of apology that came from somewhere deep enough to make your own chest ache.
"What are you apologizing for?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his grip tightened almost painfully around your sweater. You felt him inhale, but the breath caught halfway into his lungs, breaking apart before it ever became steady.
"I should've known."
His voice was hoarse, scraped raw.
"I should've..." He swallowed hard. "I don't know."
The confession seemed to frustrate him as much as the grief itself. He let out a humorless laugh that lasted less than a second before it dissolved into another shaky breath.
"I just..." His fingers flexed against your back. "Something should've felt different."
You stayed quiet.
You'd learned a long time ago that Clark didn't need someone to finish his sentences. He needed someone willing to wait for them.
"I always know they're there."
His words came slowly now, as though he was trying to explain something he'd never had to put into language before.
"Even when I'm here."
He lifted his head just enough to look somewhere over your shoulder instead of at you.
"If I wanted to..." His voice cracked. "I could focus and hear Ma humming while she's making coffee. I know the sound of the porch swing when Pa sits outside after dinner. I know which floorboard creaks in the hallway because he never remembers to step over it."
His lips trembled.
"I never listened because I was checking on them." A sad smile flickered across his face before disappearing again. "I listened because..." He stopped, struggling to find words large enough for the feeling. "Because they were there."
Silence settled between you.
"I always knew they were there."
The last sentence came out almost childlike.
Small. Lost.
His eyes finally found yours, red-rimmed and impossibly tired, and something inside them seemed to give way. "And now..." His breathing faltered. "I keep reaching for him." Almost unconsciously, his hand lifted toward his own chest, as though some instinct still expected to find his father there, before falling uselessly back into his lap. "I keep... trying to listen."
He stopped, swallowing around words that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry.
"And there's nothing."
The word barely rose above a whisper, but it seemed to hollow him out from the inside. You watched the realization settle across his face all over again, not simply that Jonathan was dead, but that the silence wasn't temporary. It wasn't the kind that ended when someone came back from the store or walked in through the front door after finishing chores. There would never again be a heartbeat to find if he reached for it. Never another laugh drifting across the Kansas fields while Clark worked beside him. Never the absent-minded whistle Jonathan always seemed to do while repairing the tractor, or the familiar creak of the porch steps beneath his boots at the end of the day.
That was the grief written across Clark's face.
Not one terrible moment.
A lifetime of ordinary moments that had ended all at once.
"I know that sounds ridiculous," he whispered.
"It doesn't."
"I flew there."
His eyes drifted toward the apartment window as if he could still see the farm from here.
"They'd already..." His jaw tightened so hard you thought it might hurt. "The paramedics were packing up."
His voice grew quieter.
"The house was so loud."
You frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"People."
His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the apartment walls, seeing a place hundreds of miles away instead.
"The sheriff," he said quietly. "The neighbors. Someone crying outside. The radio in the ambulance." His throat worked painfully. "So many heartbeats."
He swallowed, and for a moment you thought he was finished.
"But not his."
The words settled heavily between you, too final to push away. He closed his eyes as another tear escaped down his cheek. "I've never..." His voice faltered. "I've never heard the farm without him in it."
Your own vision blurred. Slowly, you reached up and cupped his face, brushing away the tears with your thumbs. His skin felt cold despite the warmth of the apartment, his breathing uneven beneath your hands. When he finally looked at you, there was nothing left of the man who stood in front of cameras or walked into danger without hesitation. There was no certainty in his expression, no quiet confidence that everything would somehow work itself out. There was only a son who had just discovered the world could become unrecognizable in a single afternoon.
"I keep thinking..." His voice was so quiet you had to lean closer to hear it. "If I'd left work earlier... if I'd called him this morning instead of thinking I'd do it tonight... if I'd gone home this weekend instead of next..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I know it wouldn't change anything." His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the admission. "I know that." Another tear slipped free. "But my mind won't stop making bargains anyway."
Your heart ached because you understood exactly what he meant. Grief was cruel like that. It didn't care about reason or facts. It took every memory, every decision, every ordinary moment and turned it over in desperate search of one tiny change that might somehow rewrite the ending. It convinced you that if you looked hard enough, there had to be a version of the day where the phone never rang.
You rested your forehead gently against his, your hands never leaving his face. "You know what I think?"
He barely moved, only the smallest shake of his head.
"I think the little boy who used to race through cornfields looking for his dad still believes he can find him if he searches hard enough."
Clark's breath caught sharply.
"You're not trying to solve this because you're Superman," you whispered, your thumb slowly tracing beneath his eye. "You're doing it because you're his son. Sons aren't supposed to know how to lose their fathers. They look for reasons because the alternative is accepting that there wasn't anything they could have done."
The words seemed to stop something inside him. His face crumpled all over again, but this time it wasn't panic. It was recognition. As though you'd finally named the ache he'd been carrying since the phone rang.
"I just..." His voice broke into something heartbreakingly small. "I wasn't ready."
It was the truest thing he'd said all evening.
Not ready for the call from Martha. Not ready to walk into a house that had always felt impossibly alive and realize something essential had been taken from it. Not ready to discover that, for all his strength, all his speed, all the impossible things he could do, there were still moments that reduced him to exactly what Jonathan had always insisted he was before anything else.
Just his boy.
You pulled him back into your arms before he had the chance to retreat into himself again, and this time he came without hesitation. He folded against you completely, burying his face in the curve of your neck, his hands clutching the back of your sweater with the quiet desperation of someone trying to anchor himself to the only thing that still felt steady. His shoulders shook as another sob finally escaped him, softer now, exhausted rather than frantic, the kind that came after fighting against grief for far too long.
You didn't tell him it would get easier. You didn't promise that time healed everything or that Jonathan would always be with him. Those were truths for another day, when the wound wasn't still fresh enough to bleed with every breath.
Tonight, your only job was to carry what little weight you could.
So you held him.
The drive to Smallville passed in almost complete silence.
Clark had insisted on driving.
You hadn't questioned it, even though the trip that normally took hours could have lasted less than a minute if he'd wanted it to. Flying would have been easy. Effortless.
This wasn't about getting there.
It was about postponing the moment he had to arrive.
His hands never left the steering wheel. They stayed locked in the same position for mile after mile, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the leather that the skin across his knuckles had gone pale. Every so often you watched his grip loosen for the briefest second before tightening all over again, as though his body remembered how to relax only to immediately decide it couldn't afford to.
Neither of you reached for the radio.
The only sounds inside the truck were the steady hum of the tires against the road and the occasional click of the turn signal whenever the highway gave way to familiar country roads.
Outside, Kansas stretched endlessly beneath a fading evening sky.
Fields of corn swayed in the breeze exactly as they always had. Weathered fences divided acres of farmland. Windmills turned lazily in the distance. A farmer climbed onto his tractor as though this were any other day.
Everything was exactly the same.
That was the cruelest part.
The world hadn't changed to acknowledge that Jonathan Kent was gone.
The fields he'd worked were still standing.
The roads he had driven every morning were still there.
Life had simply... continued.
Clark's eyes never left the road, but you watched his jaw tighten as familiar landmarks appeared one after another. The old grain elevator. The church where the annual harvest festival was held every autumn. The diner where Jonathan insisted they made the best pie in Kansas despite Clark teasing him every single time.
You wondered if he was seeing what was in front of him.
Or remembering everything that had happened there instead.
When the farmhouse finally appeared over the hill, your chest tightened.
It looked exactly as it always had.
White paint.
Red barn.
The porch swing Jonathan had repaired himself after one particularly bad storm.
A light glowed warmly from the kitchen window, spilling across the front porch.
For one impossible second your mind expected the front door to open and Jonathan to step outside, wiping his hands on an old dish towel with that familiar smile already spreading across his face.
"There they are!"
You could almost hear him.
Instead, the front door opened slowly.
Martha stepped outside.
She had always seemed so steady.
The kind of woman who somehow made every room feel safe simply by standing inside it.
Tonight she looked smaller.
Not physically.
Grief had a way of folding people inward, softening the edges of them beneath a weight no one else could see.
She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself against an evening that wasn't particularly cold, her eyes searching the truck before it had even come to a complete stop.
Clark shut off the engine.
Neither of you moved.
His hands remained on the steering wheel long after the truck had fallen silent.
He stared at the farmhouse.
At the porch.
At the empty rocking chair beside the front door.
You reached across the center console and rested your hand gently over his.
Only then did he blink.
As though remembering where he was.
He climbed out of the truck.
For a single heartbeat, he and Martha simply looked at one another across the yard.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them smiled.
They didn't have to.
Whatever strength Clark had managed to hold together during the drive disappeared the instant he saw her standing there alone.
"My boy."
Her voice was soft.
Tired.
Full of a love that had survived one impossible day already.
Clark crossed the yard in two long strides.
He reached her almost before you'd registered he'd started moving, and the second Martha opened her arms, he folded into them without hesitation. He bent instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder like he had done a hundred times as a child, and for the first time since the phone call, he let himself be somebody's son instead of someone everyone else depended on.
"Ma..."
The word broke apart before he could finish it.
"I'm sorry."
Martha's own eyes filled immediately, but she only held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head exactly the way she must have when scraped knees and childhood nightmares had still been the worst things she'd ever had to comfort him through.
"Oh, Clark."
His shoulders shook beneath her hands.
"I'm so sorry."
"No."
"I should've been here."
"No."
"I should've come home sooner."
She pulled back just enough to cup his face between both hands, making him look at her despite the tears running unchecked down both their faces.
"This is not yours to carry."
"It should've been."
"It isn't."
Her expression softened in a way that somehow made your own throat tighten.
"If I'd known..." he whispered.
"I know."
"No, Ma, if I'd just..." His voice cracked. "If I'd come last weekend instead. If I hadn't kept saying next week..."
She shook her head before he could finish.
"Clark."
The way she said his name was gentle, but it carried the same certainty that had guided him since he was a little boy.
"Listen to me."
He did.
"Your Pa spent every single day of his life making sure you understood one thing."
She brushed away a tear with the pad of her thumb.
"He loved you because you were his son."
Not because he could fly.
Not because he could lift tractors or outrun storms or hear heartbeats from miles away.
Just because he was Clark.
"He never looked at you and saw someone responsible for fixing everything."
Her own voice wavered now.
"He saw the little boy who tracked mud through my kitchen, who stayed up too late reading with a flashlight under the covers, who still called every Sunday just to ask if we needed anything from Metropolis."
A watery smile touched her lips for only a moment.
"He never expected miracles from you."
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
"He just..." Martha's voice finally broke. "He just wanted his son to come through that front door."
She rested her forehead against his.
"And you did."
For a long moment neither of them spoke.
Mother and son simply stood in the middle of the yard, holding onto each other. both grieving the same man in different ways, each trying to be strong enough for the other while quietly falling apart themselves.
You stayed where you were beside the truck.
It didn't feel like your place to step into that moment.
Jonathan had welcomed you into this family without hesitation, had always greeted you with a hug before you'd even crossed the threshold, had somehow managed to make the farmhouse feel like home every time you visited. Even so, this grief belonged to them first. You folded your hands together, giving them the privacy they deserved, your own heart aching as you watched Clark's shoulders shake beneath his mother's embrace.
Martha who noticed you immediately.
She slowly lifted her head from Clark's shoulder, her eyes finding yours across the yard. Even through the exhaustion written into every line of her face, something softened.
"Oh, sweetheart."
Her voice was quiet, but it carried across the evening air.
"What are you doing all the way over there?"
You hesitated, suddenly feeling unsure of where to put your hands, your feet, yourself.
"I just..." You offered a small, uncertain smile that disappeared almost immediately. "I wanted to give you both a moment."
Martha's eyes filled again.
"You never have to stand over there."
The invitation wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
It was the same warmth she'd shown you from the first day Clark had nervously brought you home, insisting you call before making the drive because she'd "have something in the oven by then."
You crossed the yard slowly, almost reluctantly, stopping a respectful distance away. Suddenly, you weren't sure what to do with yourself. Jonathan had always been the one to close that distance first, waving you over before you'd even reached the porch, pulling you into one of his warm hugs while insisting you come inside because dinner was nearly ready. Standing there now, with only the wind moving through the fields, the absence of that familiar welcome felt almost tangible.
"I'm so sorry, Martha."
The words felt painfully small the moment they left your mouth.
"So, so sorry."
Martha reached for your hand before you could say anything else, holding it gently between both of hers. Her hands were cooler than you remembered, but the gesture was exactly the same as it had always been, warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
"I know," she said softly, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart."
You blinked back the sting behind your eyes.
"I wouldn't have been anywhere else."
Something fragile passed over Martha's face, the corners of her mouth lifting into the faintest, saddest smile.
"Jonathan would've been happy you were here. He couldnât stop talking about you, and how proud he was of Clark that he chose you as his life partner."
Your throat tightened. Without thinking, your eyes drifted toward the porch, almost expecting the front door to swing open and Jonathan to appear with that familiar grin, asking why everyone was still standing outside when there was coffee getting cold on the kitchen table. Instead, the porch swing rocked gently in the evening breeze, empty except for the memories attached to it.
"I keep expecting him to come out that door," you admitted quietly.
Martha followed your gaze. For a long moment she simply looked at the farmhouse, at the windows glowing warmly against the coming dusk, at the home she'd shared with Jonathan for decades.
"So do I."
She didn't try to hide behind comforting words or quiet strength. She didn't pretend she was coping better than she was.
It was simply the truth.
Clarkâs hand searched for yours with quiet instinct, fingers finding yours almost immediately before weaving themselves between them. The gesture was so natural, so unconscious, that it made your chest ache. He didn't look at you. He didn't have to. The small squeeze of his hand said everything he couldn't put into words.
You squeezed back just as gently.
Sometimes love wasn't knowing the right thing to say.
Sometimes it was simply refusing to let someone grieve alone.
For a long while, the three of you remained exactly where you were, standing together beneath the porch light without moving toward the house or away from it. Eventually Martha drew in a slow, unsteady breath and looked toward the front door.
"We should go inside," she murmured, her voice catching almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't feel much like home right now."
Clark finally lifted his eyes to the farmhouse. They lingered on the porch, the empty swing, the kitchen window where the light still burned, before he gently squeezed both your hand and his mother's.
"It still is," he said quietly. "It just... needs us in it."
Martha smiled. It was small and exhausted, but unmistakably real.
"Your Pa would've said exactly the same thing."
Clark lowered his head with a broken smile of his own.
"I know."
The funeral took place three days later beneath a sky so painfully blue it almost felt cruel.
Smallville seemed to empty itself into the little white church on the edge of town. Every pew filled long before the service began, and people continued standing quietly along the back walls and outside beneath the open doors. Farmers arrived in polished boots that still carried traces of dirt from the fields. Elderly couples walked in hand in hand. Teachers who had retired years ago. Mechanics. Cashiers from the grocery store. Children Jonathan had once coached in little league who now had children of their own. Men spoke in hushed voices about the time he'd helped rebuild a barn after a tornado. Women remembered casseroles that had appeared on their porch after difficult winters without anyone ever asking for them. Someone quietly laughed through tears about the old tractor Jonathan had somehow managed to keep running decades longer than it should have.
You realized, listening to the conversations around you, that half the people in this room weren't here because Jonathan had done one extraordinary thing for them.
They were here because he'd spent an entire lifetime doing ordinary things with extraordinary kindness.
One fence repaired.
One meal delivered.
One conversation on a front porch that lasted longer than it needed to because someone looked like they needed company.
One life at a time.
Clark accepted every hug offered to him. He thanked every person who stepped into the receiving line, shook every hand, listened to every story about his father with quiet patience, even when you could tell he barely heard the words. His smile never quite reached his eyes, but he gave it anyway because that's what Jonathan would have done. Watching him was like watching someone move through water. Every gesture looked slightly delayed, as though grief had slowed the world around him by just enough to make everything feel unreal.
When the pastor quietly announced that Jonathan's son would like to say a few words, Clark froze.
You felt his hand tighten around yours.
He hadn't wanted to speak.
The night before, he'd sat awake at the kitchen table long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at a notebook that remained mostly blank.
"I can't do it," he'd whispered.
"Yes, you can," Martha had answered gently as she rested a hand over his. "You don't have to say everything. Just tell them about your father."
Now, standing in front of the church, Clark unfolded the piece of paper he'd carried in his jacket pocket all morning.
He looked down at it for several long seconds.
Then he smiled to himself.
Small.
Sad.
He folded it back up.
"I wrote something," he admitted, his voice carrying softly through the sanctuary. "I even practiced it." A few quiet smiles appeared around the room. Clark glanced toward the casket, his eyes lingering there. "But..." His smile trembled. "...Pa would've spent the entire service making fun of me if I stood up here reading from a script."
A gentle wave of laughter rippled through the church.
Not because the joke was particularly funny, but because everyone could picture Jonathan doing exactly that.
Clark let the sound settle before speaking again.
"My dad believed every problem had a solution."
He rubbed one thumb nervously against the folded paper still in his hand.
"If your fence broke, you fixed it. If the crops failed, you planted again next season. If your neighbor needed help, you showed up before they had the chance to ask." He smiled faintly. "And if something couldn't be fixed..." His eyes drifted downward. "...he still believed nobody should have to carry it alone."
Silence settled over the room.
"When I was little," Clark continued, "I honestly thought my dad knew everything."
Another soft laugh drifted through the pews.
"He always had an answer." His smile grew just enough to soften his face. "And when he didn't..." He looked toward Martha. "...he had a way of making you think we'd figure it out together."
His voice became quieter.
"I got older."
A slow breath.
"I realized he didn't have every answer," Clark said with a faint, bittersweet smile. "He just never stopped trying to become the kind of man who could help."
He lowered his eyes for a moment, gathering himself before continuing.
"When I found out I was adopted..." His voice tightened almost immediately. "I spent a long time wondering who I was. I wondered if I belonged here. I wondered whether being different meant I'd always be different."
The church became impossibly still.
Clark looked toward Martha, whose eyes never left him.
"My father never wondered."
The words came out rough, his voice catching around them.
"Not once."
A tear slipped free before he continued.
"He found me abandoned in a field, brought me home, and..." He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "That was it."
He looked down at the folded paper in his hands, turning it over between trembling fingers.
"He didn't ask where I came from. He didn't spend his life waiting for me to become somebody else. He never looked at me and saw a burden or a problem that needed solving." His throat tightened. "He looked at me once..." He paused, swallowing hard enough that the microphone picked it up. "...and decided I was his son."
His hand closed around the paper until it crumpled beneath his fingers.
"That was enough for him."
No one moved.
The room had become so quiet that somewhere near the back of the church you could hear someone trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears.
Clark stood in that silence for a moment before drawing a slow, uneven breath.
"I've been called a lot of things."
A small smile touched his face, fragile enough that it looked like it might disappear at any second.
"Reporter."
A few knowing smiles spread through the congregation.
"Boyfriend."
His eyes found yours.
The look that passed between you lasted only a heartbeat, but it said everything Jonathan never needed to say aloud. The way he'd always pulled out an extra chair for you at Sunday dinner. The way he'd hugged you goodbye every single visit. The way he'd quietly welcomed you into the family long before anyone made it official.
Clark looked away before his composure disappeared completely.
"I've been called other things too."
His voice softened.
"But none of those titles ever mattered as much to me as one."
He stopped.
The sentence refused to come.
His mouth opened once.
Then closed again.
He pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his lips, fighting for a breath that wouldn't shake, and the entire church waited with him. No one looked away. No one hurried him. They all seemed to understand that this wasn't a speech anymore.
It was a son trying to imagine introducing himself to the world without his father in it.
When Clark finally managed to speak, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"The title I've always been proudest of..."
His eyes filled completely.
"...was being Jonathan Kent's son."
The words hung in the sanctuary long after he'd finished speaking.
Clark lowered his head, unable to say another word.
He didn't have to.
There wasn't a single dry eye left in the church.
Long after the last car disappeared down the gravel road and the quiet murmur of voices faded into the distance, Clark remained where he was.
The cemetery had emptied hours ago. Fresh flowers rested against polished headstones, their colors softened beneath the golden light of late afternoon. Somewhere beyond the rows of graves, the wind carried the rustle of cornfields and the distant cry of birds settling for the evening. It was peaceful in the way cemeteries often were. Too peaceful.
Jonathan's headstone looked impossibly small.
You stood several steps behind Clark, close enough that he would know you were there if he reached for you, far enough that this moment could still belong to him. He hadn't spoken since everyone left the church. He hadn't cried either. He simply stood staring at the stone carved with his father's name, as though his mind still hadn't accepted that a lifetime could somehow be reduced to a few dates separated by a dash.
Eventually, he lowered himself onto one knee.
His fingertips brushed carefully across the engraved letters, tracing each one with the same quiet concentration someone might use to memorize a face they were terrified of forgetting. His hand lingered there for a long time before he finally spoke.
"I keep listening."
His voice was barely louder than the wind.
"I keep thinking..." He stopped, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. "I keep thinking if I focus hard enough, I'll hear him."
Silence answered him.
Not dramatic silence.
Just the ordinary sounds of Kansas continuing exactly as they always had.
The grass swayed.
Branches shifted overhead.
A pickup truck rumbled somewhere in the distance.
Clark let out a quiet laugh that broke apart almost as soon as it escaped him.
"You know what's stupid?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"I can still hear Ma back at the house."
His gaze never left the headstone.
"She's making coffee because she doesn't know what else to do with herself." His lips twitched faintly before the expression disappeared. "I can hear the porch swing moving every time the wind catches it." He drew in another slow breath. "There's a freight train about twelve miles east." Another pause. "Lois is probably arguing with Perry about a headline right now."
His voice grew softer with every sentence.
"The whole world is still..." He searched for the word. "There."
Another long silence settled over the cemetery.
"But not him."
The words seemed to leave something hollow behind.
"I spent my whole life knowing that if I wanted to..." He pressed his fingertips more firmly against the cool stone. "I could find him."
His eyes closed.
"I never needed to."
A tear slipped quietly down his cheek.
"I just knew I could."
His shoulders sagged beneath a weight that no amount of strength could lift.
"And now I keep reaching for something that isn't there anymore."
That was the sentence that finally made you move.
You crossed the few steps separating you without saying a word and lowered yourself into the grass beside him. The earth was still warm from the afternoon sun. You sat close enough that your shoulders almost touched, but you didn't reach for him immediately. Grief had a rhythm of its own, and you'd learned over the last few days not to interrupt it.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable.
It was simply shared.
Eventually, almost absentmindedly, Clark leaned sideways until the weight of his shoulder rested against yours.
It was such a small movement that anyone else might have missed it.
You didn't.
"So..." he whispered after a while. "This is what people mean."
You turned your head slightly.
"When they say someone's gone."
You nodded.
He stared out across the cemetery, his expression distant.
"I always thought..." He exhaled slowly. "I don't know."
"You can say it."
"I thought there'd still be..." His brow furrowed in frustration. "Something."
He laughed softly at himself.
"That doesn't even make sense."
"It does."
He looked at you for the first time since sitting down.
"There is something left."
He frowned.
"What?"
You reached over, gently taking his hand where it rested against the grass. His fingers were cool despite the warmth of the evening.
"The way you laugh."
He blinked.
"The way you stop to help people even when you're exhausted."
Your thumb brushed slowly across the back of his hand.
"The way you make pancakes every Sunday because that's what he always did."
A tiny, surprised breath escaped him.
"The way you hold doors open. The way you always ask if everyone got home safely. The way you call your mom every week because you know she'll pretend she doesn't worry if you don't."
Another tear rolled down his face.
"You think those things came from nowhere?"
You gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
"Clark... your father isn't only buried here."
You nodded toward his chest.
"He's walking around inside you."
Clark's eyes drifted back to the headstone.
"I don't know how to do this."
There was no shame in the admission anymore.
Only exhaustion.
You leaned your head carefully against his shoulder.
"You don't."
He frowned.
"What?"
"You don't know how."
You looked out across the endless Kansas fields stretching beyond the cemetery.
"Nobody does."
"I feel like..." He searched for the words for a long time. "...like somebody picked up the whole world and put it back down crooked."
"It probably feels that way because they did."
He let out a shaky breath.
"I can't fix this."
You nodded once.
"No."
"I hate that."
"I know."
He was quiet for a long time before speaking again.
"So..." His voice had become very small. "What am I supposed to do now?"
You thought about Jonathan.
About the way he'd always laughed with his whole chest. The way he'd insisted everyone stay for another slice of pie. The way he'd looked at Clark with uncomplicated pride every single time he walked through the farmhouse door.
Then you answered as honestly as you could.
"You miss him."
Clark closed his eyes.
"You let yourself cry when it hurts."
Another silence.
"You tell stories about him until they stop feeling like stories and start feeling like memories you get to keep."
Your fingers remained intertwined with his.
"And you let the people who love you carry you for a while."
He didn't answer.
So you continued.
"One day, somebody will say something that sounds exactly like him, and you'll laugh."
A faint smile appeared despite the tears.
"And then you'll remember why it sounds like him."
His throat tightened.
"And you'll cry."
You smiled gently.
"For a while, yes."
He looked at you.
"And then?"
You looked back toward the stone.
"And then one day you'll laugh first."
Clark considered that for a long time.
"Do you really believe that?"
"I do."
His thumb slowly brushed across your knuckles.
"My dad used to say..." His voice was steadier now, though still fragile. "'Grief is just love that doesn't have anywhere to go.'"
You smiled through your tears.
"That sounds exactly like Jonathan Kent."
A real smile found Clark's face then.
Not a happy one.
Not even an unbroken one.
But unmistakably real.
"It does."
His gaze lifted toward the endless Kansas sky, where the first hints of evening had begun to soften the horizon.
"You know..." he said quietly, "I spent my whole life believing I was sent here to save the world."
His eyes returned to the earth beneath which his father rested.
"But Pa..."
His voice caught for only a moment.
"He spent his whole life showing me why it deserved saving."
The sun slipped lower, washing the cemetery in amber light.
Clark reached for your hand before you reached for his. His fingers threaded through yours with quiet certainty, holding on not because the grief had become any lighter, but because, at last, he had stopped trying to carry it as though it were his alone.
summary: it takes ten weeks for clark kent and a shy, touch starved, you to fall in love. (or, 4 times clark touches you and 1 time you touch him.)
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Week one
The Daily Planet only seems to employ lovely, outgoing people. You're convinced of it.Â
You don't know how or why they hired you after meeting some of the people here. Maybe your interview self had somehow managed to make you seem like youâd fit right for that thirty minutes.
Whatever happened, they hired you anyway.Â
For the past week youâve tried so hard to settle in. To put yourself out there a bit more. It hasnât helped much.
There's some faulty wiring in your brain, you're sure, that makes you awful and awkward and idiotic around people you don't know. And right now, you don't know anyone. At work or in metropolis as a whole.Â
Cat Grant has tried no less than five times to strike up a conversation with you. Which is nice of her and horrible for you. Every attempt leaves you fumbling through responses and replaying every part of it in your head for hours afterward.
To avoid inflicting your shyness on anyone else, you've got into the routine of taking lunch late. By the time you head to the breakroom. Most people have already finished theirs up.
With your head shoved so far into the refrigerator you might as well be looking for the opening of another reality in the back of it, you squint at the shelves. Where the hell is your cherry soda? You know you set it right next to your lunch box so it canât have gone far. Unless someone took it. But putting it next to your lunch box kind of impliesâ
âHey!â
You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head.Â
âOh, Iâm so sorry. Iâm so sorry.â
The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.
âHere,â he says, âSit down.â
You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think youâd do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.
You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.
Once youâve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. Heâs staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots.Â
There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? Heâs tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man youâve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.
âSâokay,â you find your voice, staring at the floor. âIâm okay, I'm fine.âÂ
You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.
âOkay, that's good.â He rubs the back of his neck. âI thought youâd hear me come in, butââ
He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.
âGosh. Sorry. Iâm being rude. Iâm Clark.â
You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply.Â
Clark can't believe it when you tell him, heâs heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now heâs done this. He might've ruined everyoneâs chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent.Â
âNice to meet you,â he gestures toward the refrigerator, âwhat were you looking for?â
His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before.Â
âI, uh, just my soda,â you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. âIt's fine though, it doesn't matter.â
Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!
âWas it cherry?â
âUh, yeah?âÂ
âTheres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,â he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. âStay there a sec, okay?â
You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.
When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.
Itâs simple to Clark, heâs just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.
Still you reach out. What youâre sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Week three
Your easy routine â get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone â has been slightly tweaked.
Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.
At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you canât figure out what else it could be.
Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.
Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind heâs been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.
 As if youâve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clarkâs impossible to miss.
Heâs a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you wonât lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.
 âWhereâre you heading?â he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.
Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.
âHome?â you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.
He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if youâre so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.
âCan I walk you home?â
What is going on?
âUhh⌠sure.â you agree, taking a step in the right direction. âIf you want to.â
You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.
For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.
The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.
It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.
And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but heâs spending his time with you. You're⌠just you.
What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasnât figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.
âWhat, uhâŚâ He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk heâs drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. âWhatâre you doing this weekend?â
âOhâŚâ your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. âNothing, I guess.â
âReally?â
âWell,â you shrug, âI need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.âÂ
Clark hums, nodding absently, âYouâre not hanging out with your friends?âÂ
He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like heâs missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed.Â
â...I donât really have any.â you whisper, timid.
Clark's brain seems to misfire and he canât formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.
âI havenât had time to make any, okay?â You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.
Itâs maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.
âIâm sorry,â He blurts, shaking his head, âI didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.â He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. âIâm such an idiot.â
You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.
You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.
âItâs not true anyway. You have at least one friend.â
You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building.Â
You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, itâs just so nice.
âReally?â you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest.Â
âYeah, Iâm your friend.â he nods âif youâll have me.âÂ
When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.
This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Week five
The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..
Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that youâve rushed here because you left the apartment too late?Â
Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasnât made a mistake.
You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. Heâs already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward.Â
âOh gosh,â your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. âAm I late?â
âNope,â he says easily, already getting to his feet. âIâm early. I wanted to get everything set up.â
As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.
It's the first time youâve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair.Â
âYou look really nice, honey.âÂ
That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.
âSo do you, Clark.â you murmur.
Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.
âI wasnât sure what you liked,â he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. âSo⌠I got a little of everything.â
âThis is too much, you shouldn't have,â you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. âYouâre too nice to me.â
As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not.Â
Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question.
âTheres no part of me that could be mean to you,â He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. âItâs easy to be nice to you.â
There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.
It's hard to believe how lucky youâve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man youâve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.
âIâve never been very good with people,â you start. âAnd I moved here just for the job, I didnât really think about⌠about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friendsâŚâÂ
You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.
âWhat Iâm trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.â
Clarkâs expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset youâd ever think gratitude was necessary.
âYou don't have to thank me,â he says, quietly. âItâs my pleasure, really, honey.â
You try your best to internalise those words as soon as heâs said them, the corners of your lips lifting.
âAndâŚâ He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure youâre listening. âI get it, yâknow.â
The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. Itâs so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all.Â
âYeah, right.â
âNo really,â he turns until heâs fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. âI grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.â
Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning.Â
By the time the sun begins to set, youâve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.
Itâs so sweet the effort heâs taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.
âNext time, Iâll bring the food.â
Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You donât notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice.
âYes!â he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, âWhatever you wanna do.âÂ
The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.
The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.
âThank you.â you say quietly.
Clark shakes his head almost immediately.
âNo, thank you.â His smile softens. âI had a really great time.â
Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.
This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Week seven
When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?
The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things heâs done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.
 It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy.Â
With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer andâ
There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now.Â
You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.
The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.
â...For me?â
The corners of Clarkâs mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.
âOf course they are,â he says. âMy ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.â
âYou totally couldâve,â you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. âI invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.â
Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.
âThey made me think of you when I saw them.â
Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.
Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. Itâs cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, itâs tight but nice.
You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase.Â
When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again.Â
âWhat can I help with?â he asks, âPut me to work.â
You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.
âNothing,â you point toward the tiny table. âyou can sit and relax.â
Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. Heâs always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt.Â
âYouâre so strange, Clark.â you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time youâve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, youâd guess he likes it. âYou canât sit still, can you?â
âI can sit still.â he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie.Â
When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.
âI donât think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,â you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone⌠helping me.â
His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours theyâre softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.
âThat is relaxing to me.â
âYeah?â you snort, âHelping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.âÂ
âIt was,â he replies, tone genuine. âBesides those printers are super fiddly, honey.â you roll your eyes, jovially. âI like looking out for the people I care about.â
Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.
âPeople you care aboutâŚâ you start, âIncluding me.âÂ
âIncluding you.â
All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. Itâs the nicest thing to hear.
The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you.Â
âOh no.â
You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand.Â
The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.
âOh, no no no.â you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. âI forgot the timer,â You press a hand to your forehead. âI'm such an idiot, sorry.â
Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldnât get right.Â
âWhoa,â he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. âItâs fine, it's fine, sweetheart.âÂ
âNo Itâs not,â your voice comes out smaller than intended. âI wanted to do something nice for you.â
âYou have!â he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. âItâs just a little⌠over done.â you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. âWe could order takeout and pretend you made it.âÂ
It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.
âOkay.â
âOkay?â he asks.
âYeah,â you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.
His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.
âJeez,â you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.
The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides.Â
One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.
It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Week ten
Clarkâs apartment is nice, itâs maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that youâd happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.
Heâs very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.
Youâve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.
âHere you go, pretty.â he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. Heâs closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain.Â
Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. Itâs weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically.Â
You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and youâve grown to crave them. Despite this, you canât figure out why he hasnât tried to kiss you yet.
Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.
âWhats wrong?â he asks.
It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if youâve got this wrong heâll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.
âWhy havenât you kissed me?â there's no hesitation in your voice.
His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.
âIâŚâ He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. âI wasnât sure you'd want me to.â His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. âIâve wanted to.â
That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.
Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.
Thereâs no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.
There are many things Scott has given you in a short period of time: migraines, high blood pressure, and a son you would do anything for. A son he doesnât know exists. Cutting him off was hard enough â welcoming him home might be worse.
⸠PAIRING: Ex-FWB!Scott Miller x F!Reader
⸠WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, former situationship to baby daddy to lovers (all at the same time tbh), pull-out method, fingering, degradation, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, bickering is their foreplay, breeding kink, mean in bed!scott, grumpy scott in general, hurt/comfort, miscommunication (my favorite, of course)
â¸Â WORD COUNT: 13.6K
⸠A/N: if i had a nickel for every time i wrote reader hiding getting knocked up by the baby's dad until he's back in town, i'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. this became the longest fic i've ever written which is insane to say about this man who had 3 minutes of screen time??? but anyways i love him and his dumb ass! if you enjoyed this, please leave comments and reblog on top of liking it!! i'd love to hear your thoughts <3 second and final part coming in two weeks!!!! special thanks to @kryptidfiles for helping me with reader's job heh
⤠main masterlist | part two âŚ
You meet Scott Miller at the tail-end of summer â that not-so-sweet spot between your junior and final year when you find yourself bankrupt and barely breathing. Between completing the mandatory hours at Mass General for your program and the countless hours sticking your nose in multiple textbooks, the last thing you want to deal with is an arrogant asshole.
Specifically, an arrogant asshole at your favorite cafĂŠ, with your favorite brown sugar oatmilk shaken double espresso after a long night at the library and a few more hours needed to finish your final paper for this summer course. All you want is peace and quiet with your barely functional eyes.
Unfortunately, you are instead met with the sight of this manâs massive back as he berates the barista out in the open.
Your favorite barista at that. With your patience hanging by a frayed thread and the little spark of energy you have left inside of you, you exert all of that to defend this poor girl â and the sanctity of this place.
âAre you always this much of a dick or only to people you think are beneath you?â
The man â tall, brunette, blue eyes, a classic all-American clad in an MIT t-shirt, looking like he bathes in daddyâs money â has the audacity to look taken aback. âExcuse me?â
âIâm asking if you take pleasure in bitching at people who get paid minimum wage to serve douchebags like you overpriced coffee every day.â
Blue Eyes gapes at you. Itâs a shame, really. He wouldâve been just your type if he werenât such a dick. Thatâs the regrettable thing about men â they have mouths.
âIâm notââ he begins, having the decency to get somewhat flustered. His eyes fly around the room to find pairs of curious, judgmental eyes on him. His lips twist in irritation but he manages to grit out, âI just want my actual coffee order.â
âThen ask for it,â you snap, âyou donât need to pull a Shakespearean soliloquy to get a fucking frappuccino.â
âBlack coffee,â he corrects.
âOf course it is,â you roll your eyes. âNow, can you ask politely or do I need to start my own monologue about the detrimental effects of men in society?â
He gives you a satisfying wince. âNo, you donât need to do that.â He turns to Evelyn, the barista. âCan I get my correct order?â He only glances at you because youâre searing him with a look, which ends up with him adding, âPlease.â
Now, when the two of you tell your separate group of friends that this is the story of how you met, no one would believe you â not with the way the two of you are joined at the hip. You bicker, you argue, you get into hours-long debates at house parties about the ethics of Greek life.
But afterwards, you can also say without a doubt that Scott is a friend.
A friend who you then proceed to drunkenly fuck one night at his frathouse.
A friend who you swear you would never fuck again afterwards.
A friend who you, that same night, decide to fuck. Again. Thrice.
You hate to give credence to his reputation on the MIT campus, especially as an outsider who doesnât go here, but you understand why there are constantly women throwing themselves at him.
You tell yourself that this is all in good fun; your last couple of youthful years before selling yourself to the American healthcare system for the greater good should be spent doing the worst humanly possible things to yourself.
If that means fucking Scott every chance you get, having him stretch you out over every possible surface, his hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, a packed house be damned, then so be it.
Truth be told, you donât expect things to go anywhere with Scott. The two of you come from vastly different worlds with vastly different dreams. Itâs not a tragedy. You two are simply star-crossed, never meant to be lovers.
Scott complains to you about how his parents are constantly trying to set him up with debutantes â the crème de la crème of society â for him to marry; all the while youâre still tucked to his side, naked limbs tangled between each other.
You donât acknowledge the ache that pulses in the left side of your chest. It shouldnât matter at the end of the day because friends donât stay friends forever, let alone lovers.
And you and Scott are not lovers.
However, you do have to reckon with the consequences of your decisions and the implication of your feelings when you find yourself with your head in the toilet, breakfast swirling down the drain for the third time that week. You have to really reckon with Lady Luck punishing you when you realize that youâre weeks late on your cycle, too caught up with school and Scott to notice.
When the two pink lines appear, your fear has reduced your inevitable shock into ashes.
Your first thought is that you have to tell Scott. There isnât a doubt who the father is since you havenât been with anyone else since him. This feels like a decision the two of you have to make together; youâre both adults and you should be able to have a professional, rational conversation.
Thatâs what you tell yourself all the way to his place, body moving on autopilot tracing back the path to his lush apartment near his campus. You barely acknowledge Jimmy, Scottâs very kind doorman, when you take the elevator to his floor.
Not once in the entirety of your⌠acquaintanceship have you ever been nervous to see Scott. But now your hands are trembling and you suppose itâs from the fact that you have a fucking unplanned pregnancy.
You donât have time to fully process what that means when Scott swings open the door, and the first thing you see is the suitcase popped open on the floor with clothes haphazardly thrown into it.
Swallowing the bundle of nerves in your throat, you raise an eyebrow in question. âGoing somewhere?â
âHead to my uncleâs in Oklahoma for the long weekend.â
âOklahoma?â You close the door behind you as he begin to fusses with his clothes again.
âYeah, heâs a real estate developer buying up a shit ton of land down there. Thinking about connecting it with storm chasing. Heâs expanding quickly so figured Iâd see what itâs like. â
Your stomach sinks, dread tightening your chest. âThe job or Oklahoma?â
He shrugs, completely unaware of your spiraling mind. âBoth.â
âYouâd really give up your cushy doorman apartment for tornadoes and motels?â
His lips curl into a smirk and your stupid heart is quick to hammer in your ear. Curse him and those deep dimples. âSweetheart, you know I was born and raised in the south.â
Oh, you know. Thereâs a reason why that tinge of an accent goes straight between your legs every time heâs upset. âI donât think a metropolitan like Dallas is the same thing.â
While Scott busies himself with packing again, you splay out on his bed, eyes on the bare ceiling as you try to calm your thundering pulse. You really shouldnât be this stressed. There are ways out of this â options that two of you can take regardless of what you decide.
Hey, Scott, Iâm pregnant. Yes, your child. Am I sure? Yes, you shithead, I havenât fucked anyone else in months.
Oh, by the way, Iâm also probably in love with you, but thatâs a secondary problem to the human growing inside me. Thoughts?
âDid you need something?â His voice rips you out of your head.
Your heart rate hasnât eased, but you have to do it now. So you turn on your side, propping your head up as your belly twists with apprehension. You open your mouth but then you notice the look in his eyes. You know that look all too well; itâs the trigger to all of your bad decisions, including but not limited to being bent over the bathroom sink with all of your friends on the other side of the door and risking arrest for public indecency on a public beach on spring break last week.
His eyes trail over the exposed sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, his hands abruptly dropping a shirt to reach over and drag his calloused palm over your hip. He slides it to your back, onto that little dip on your spine. He doesnât say it out loud, but he likes the way you automatically arch towards him when he does it â like right now.
He hums and squeezes your waist to prompt you.
âNothing,â you blurt out, flipping over so youâre facing his window instead. The city looks beautiful this time of day, sunset casting a golden glow across the architecture, painting it in the shades of the sun.
You hear him shuffle behind you before the mattress sinks with his weight. He smooths a hand over the curve of your waist again, fingers spreading out across your stomach. âYouâre thinkinâ about something.â
With a deep breath, you test the waters. âJust the future, the usual.â
âWhat about the future?â His fingers brush your hair to the side as his lips cling to your neck.
âWork, family, friends,â you pause, chest squeezing, âkids.â
âKids?â He snorts softly, âWhere is this coming from? Never heard you talking about them before.â
Stay calm. You roll over to playfully glare at him. âIâm not getting any younger, so I have to think about these things today.â
âOr in a few years once you get your license and settle into the hospital,â Scott cocks an eyebrow. Your lips thin and he relents. âAlright, so kids, what about them?â
This is it. âHave you thought about them? Whether you, um, want them?â
Scott tilts his head deeper into his pillow. âI donât think so. Not anytime soon at least. Kids are a hassle and Iâm too young for that. Still have to go out there, make money, chase dreams and what not. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human being.â
His chuckle is drowned out by the sudden persistent ringing echoing in your ear. He must sense it, feels your body going taut next to him.
âWhat about you?â He murmurs.
If he had asked you a few months ago, you wouldâve scoffed and called him crazy. You too have your own dreams to pursue, the world to change and all that. But now, when you know that thereâs something else growing inside you, you find that you donât have the answer to that.
Youâre not part of the crowd that thinks aborting this baby would mean murder, but you also never thought that you would be carrying something so special so early. While Scottâs answer isnât surprising, your reaction to it is â your rationale had been simple: if Scott says no, then you wouldnât go forward with the pregnancy. If he said yes, then you would have to consider it more seriously.
Scottâs answer is loud and clear, yet you donât feel so settled with your own.
âHey, you alright? Whatâs going on with you?â Concern stitched to the furrow of his brows.
You laugh, your throat feeling a little tight. âProbably just pre-period thoughts.â
He relaxes at that, rolling his eyes. âWomenââ you pinch him and he yelps, chuckling. âIâm kidding. I can pack later. Letâs go pick up a pint of that strawberry cheesecake ice cream you like.â
The corners of your lips tip up as he pushes himself off the bed and offers you a hand. âSince when are you so nice to me?â
âIâm nice when I want to get laid.â
You donât bite back the urge to roll your eyes.
So youâre a coward, sue you. While Scott finishes packing for his flight, you fall asleep in his silk sheets. Slipping in between the edges of consciousness, you feel Scott tuck in behind you, a kiss pressed to the back of your head as you finally give in to slumber.
Afterwards, you tell yourself that you have two months to make a decision. Two months until graduation, thatâs your deadline.
A big part of you wants to tell him so you can stop lying about how you wonât be drinking tonight because youâre still hungover from some other party that you never went to. Youâre exhausted from biting your tongue when he invites you for sushi, your favorite meal.
âIâm paying,â he insists for the third time.
You yawn, feeling the twinges of nausea rearing its head at the thought of it.
âYou never turn down sushi.â
However, you also realize that telling him would be selfish. Despite his reputation, the man has a strong sense of responsibility to finish what he starts. In this case, it would be you. You canât fathom him feeling like he has to stay here, that he has to be with you, that he has to give up his dreams. For you. He would hate you â if not now, then in the future.
Even worse when you imagine him telling you that he would never, ever do this with you â specifically you. After all, he has many bachelorettes lining up at his doorstep who are likely more than happy to wait a few years to start a family with him.
Youâre not sure youâre prepared for that.
With every day that passes, the truth is shoved further down your throat, fear overtaking it.
Before you know it, youâre standing at the airport with him. He wrangles you into a Scott-like hug: one-armed, stiff, a click of his tongue like itâs inconvenient for him to show affection.
âYouâre gonna be good, right?â
You scowl, âIâm not a dog.â
His mouth curves up, teeth peeking in his smirk. âNot even gonna turn around thrice and bark for me for my last day?â
âAre you trying to get on your flight in a body bag?â
Heâs silent then for a moment, looking at you. Everything blurs around the two of you, noise muffled like youâre in a bubble and all you can hear is his long exhale. âThis isnât forever, you know. Iâll come visit when I finally need you to pump my lungs of all the dirt Iâll be inhaling.â
âGonna cost you.â
âWouldnât expect any less.â
The two of you leave it at that. You could say more. Iâll miss you. I love you. Come back. Stay. But you say none of it. Part of you thinks that Scott knows, part of you hopes he doesnât. This is his big moment. His future. A picture-perfect frame and youâve been cut out from the canvas.Â
âWeâll keep in touch,â Scott shrugs with a promise.
Your hand flies to your stomach on instinct. You can practically feel that silent heartbeat. If you keep this baby, you canât possibly hide it from him.
If you canât hide it from him, he may hate you.
And thatâs not something you can ever bear.
So you smile and nod â and you let him go.
To say itâs been a long day would be an understatement. Starting your morning with a hundred unread emails followed by a series of difficult patients (one of which sneezed on you for good measure) and then a last-minute, dreaded ping at four from one of the study sponsors looking for data â all on a Friday no less.
What you need is some hot tea, a long massage, and preferably your phone buried six feet under. A place where you wonât be able to hear the constant calling of your name.
âGirl, are you ever going to leave?â Jenna pops her head in. âYou need to go and get ready.â
You peer down at your sleeveless blouse and slacks. âWhy cnaât I go to dinner in this?â
She gives you a look, a bone-chillingly disapproving one. âGet your ass out of here and Iâll come pick you up. Weâre going out out.â
Given that this is a planned outing, you shouldnât feel so miserable about it. Youâve even planned it all out â your mom takes Ben until Sunday, which neither of them mind because they adore each other â and you finally get one night to yourself to do whatever you wanted and an extra day to recover. Itâs the first time in four years youâve actually had time.
Donât get you wrong. Your body created the miracle that is your son. Beautiful, bright Ben. Sweet, kind-hearted Ben who inherited none of his parentsâ terrible tempers and foul personalities. You couldnât have asked for a better pregnancy, better birth, or better child.
Itâs the first time youâve been away for him for a personal outing. Usually, itâs some sort of work emergency; what constitutes a work emergency as a research coordinator, youâll never know but the higher-ups love the dramatics of making everything sound like life or death.
Jenna, your colleague and probably the closest person you consider a friend, swings by your place an hour earlier than promised.
Youâre still not fully ready.
âI knew you were going to drag your feet through this,â she sighs and drops an armful of clothes onto your couch.
âIâm not dragging my feet, I just have nothing to wear.â
âAnd thatâs exactly why Iâm here.â
Jenna has always had a knack for convincing people to do things they never wanted to do in the first place. For example, this is how you find yourself squirming uncomfortably throughout the night, wiggling to adjust the skirt lower down your thighs. However, when you do so, it ends up hanging too low on your hips, showing more skin than youâd like.
âWill you quit fidgeting?â she huffs as she pulls you through the crowd, âYou look hot.â
âI look like Iâm attempting a mating call with a freshman with a fifty-dollar fake,â you grunt.
She giggles. âWell, if you want to play cougar, I do see some college kids who have been eye-fucking you since you stepped in.â She nods her head in the direction of a group of boys who are in fact staring at the two of you, expressions a little too salacious for your liking.
âTheyâre looking at you,â you note pointedly.
Jenna is the the perfectly balanced combination spicy, smart, and sweet. At least two doctors and more than a fistful of residents follow her around like puppies around the hospital. She has them on leashes.
âThatâs because my tits look great in this dress,â she grins. âCome on, letâs get some shots.â
In hindsight, ripping three shots back to back when you havenât drank like since college is a terrible idea. It hits you hard and fast, but it was much needed to avoid crinkling your nose at the pile of sweaty bodies on the floor. You dance with Jenna for the most part, you let a few people buy you drinks, and⌠youâre having a good time.
Sometimes, you miss this part of you â the one that isnât a mom. You love being Benâs mother but at the same time, you have to relearn what it means to be you.
While this may not be you forever, this is a piece of you that feels like coming home. At least, thatâs what you think when you feel much looser with the liquor in your veins. Jenna twirls you on the floor and you laugh, barely paying any mind to the pinching of these knee-high boots or the fact that youâre showing more skin than you have these past few years.
She spins you around again â except this time, your balance is already walking a fine line, so you end up stumbling into a wall.
Shit, not a wall. Said wall is moving.
âFuck, Iâm so sorry,â you blurt out, hand to your chest to prevent your tits from spilling out of this top. The last thing you need on your first night out is to be arrested for flashing a stranger. Youâre straightening to look for Jenna when you hear your name.
Not only your name but itâs your name. Your name said in a way that has fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. Your name in a way that knocks the breath right out of your lungs.
Because itâs your name coming out of the mouth, with the voice of, the one person you thought you would never see again.
Scottâs eyes are wide when you finally lock gazes.
âYouââ he starts then stops. âHoly shit.â
âW-what are you doing here?â You gasp.
âIâm out with, um, the guys,â he says, but his eyes never blink. Neither do yours. You almost want to, hoping this is some sick nightmare and youâre going to wake up in bed with a filthy hangover that takes you out for the day.
On the other hand, itâs Scott â and he looks good. Too good. His hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck. His eyes shine fifty different shades of blue with the flashing lights. His strong brows are furrowed into that familiar frown, one that has heat gathering between your legs. Heâs got a suit on that seems to stretch for miles over his shoulders, top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his pretty collarbones and that gleam of a silver chain.
You canât be here. You canât do this.
âRight, okay. Iâll leave you to it then.â Youâre turning on your heel and youâve barely made it forty-five degrees before his large hand wraps around your elbow.
âWait, hold on,â he calls out, tugging you back towards him, your back landing against his front as you stumble backwards. He ducks his head towards your ear to make sure heâs heard but all you can feel is the ghost of his warm breath tickling your skin. âWhere are you going?â
You try to extract yourself from him but his grip is firm, now on your hips. âIâm here with a friend. I need to go find her.â
âIâll go with you.â
You absolutely do not want that. It must show on your face because then heâs scoffing, frown morphing into a disgruntled scowl.
âIs that how you greet a friend you havenât seen in years?â
Instead of deigning him with a response, giving him the satisfaction of your annoyance, you wordlessly turn and make your way through the crowd. Scott is close behind, you can feel his height looming over you. Heâs got a protective arm out to push away anyone who even comes close to touching you, charting a path through this Red Sea.
Jenna is on someoneâs lap when you find her. She drags her eyes away from an unfairly attractive man when she spots you. You narrow your eyes at the man before turning back to your friend. âAre you good?â
âPeachy,â she beams. Her attention on you is short-lived when it wanders to Scott whoâs hovering around you like a chaperone. âI see youâve found your entertainment for the night as well,â she winks, eyes practically glittering as she wiggles her brows at you. âIâll catch you at work Monday?â
Well. Thatâs your cue to go home. With one final press to make sure sheâs okay, Jenna waves you off.
âYour friendâs having much more fun, maybe you should consider doing that for yourself,â Scott whispers in your ear, head ducked to reach your ear. âI could volunteer myself for that position.â
Whirling around, you trap him with a burning glare, which he only grins at.
Thereâs no way in hell youâre getting into this clusterfuck tonight. Not when youâre still half-convinced that youâre dreaming this up. So you turn back around and start marching towards the exit.
Unfortunately, he continues to follow you. He doesnât even do anything except stick close to your tail. For some reason, that only pisses you off even more. Maybe if you will him away with your mind, youâll turn around to find him gone. Because he canât be here. Why the fuck is he even here?
âWhy the fuck are you here?â You snap now that youâre on the quiet sidewalk. The music inside is muffled, leaving you alone with your heart beating in your ears and Scottâs stupid smirk plastered across his face.
He leans back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. You can see how the cotton of his shirt stretches across his wide chest. Jesus, did he get bigger? How is that even possible? The worst part is the amused look printed onto his face, dimples carved out deep. âIâm doing a talk â at MIT.â
Of course, he is. You shouldnât be surprised. Youâd never admit it to him but you have been keeping up with him in the news. Heâs been building a startup with advanced technology focusing on disaster resilience combined with real estate development. While you donât know the full mechanics, you know heâs successful enough to be nailing government and corporate contracts, landing himself on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.
You could also lie and say that his face is everywhere, but you really had to look him up to find anything about him.
âSo why arenât you talking? At MIT. Why are you here?â
Scott shrugs, âI reached out to the guys to catch up. I wouldâve reached out to you too if I had your number.â
You stiffen, chancing a look at his face to find pure irritation. He has every right to be, but you also had your reasons for doing what you did â he just doesnât know it.
A gust of wind whips past your bare legs, the chill settling on your shoulders. Boston is unforgiving this time of year so you quickly shrug on your jacket. However, you can still the weight of his gaze rolling over the length of you, slow and warm. His steely blue eyes look almost onyx with the way he drinks you in, dragging across your exposed collarbones down to your bare legs.
âWhat are you doing here?â He asks coolly.
âOut. With a friend.â
His lips tighten around the corners â slightly, only enough for you to notice. âWhat, to pick up guys?â
âNo,â you scowl, âjust for a good time.â
âAre you?â
âWhat?â
âHaving a good time?â
You were â until him. âFabulous time,â you sarcastically sigh as you pull out your phone, readying yourself to call a car home.
But your movements halt when you feel warmth soak your entire body, your breath hitching in your throat. Scottâs buried his face in your neck, his front against your back, nose tracing the column of your neck, palms splayed over your stomach.. His teeth graze your skin, eliciting a trained shiver out of you.
âHow about we have a better time elsewhere?â
âNo,â you swallow, âwe shouldnât.â
âCome on, you donât miss me?â Scott slides his hands higher, enough for his thumb to brush the underside of your breasts. âWe used to have fun, didnât we?â
âScott, no,â you protest, but you sound frail even in your ears.
âWhy not?â He murmurs, lips placing soft, wet kisses against the back of your ear. Your head tilts on instinct, granting him more access as he nibbles down your neck.
âYouâre drunk.â
He chuckles, ââM so fuckinâ sober. I got a shot in when you bumped into me.â
âThen you should go back in there, go have a good time.â
âFound something more fun to do tonight,â he smiles against your skin. âWell, someone.â
His hands drift a little higher, cupping your tits and squeezing. The groan he lets out molds with yours as you resist another whimper crawling up your throat. âWeâre outside,â you hiss.
âNever stopped us before.â
The more warm kisses he presses onto your skin, the weaker your resolve becomes. Your body moves on its own accord, leaning back against his chest while your own rises with a stuttered breath.
âCome with me. Promise Iâll make you feel good. Just like old times.â
âScottâŚâ
He knows â by the way you say his name â that youâve given in. He doesnât give you a moment to hesitate, squeezing your hip and keeping you close as he calls a car. His hand stays on you, toying with your nipples until youâre grinding your ass back against the erection under his slacks.
He hasnât even kissed you, not properly at least. His lips stay on the pulse point on your neck, nipping lightly as his hands settle possessively around your waist. Even in the car, he hoists you over to his side, a thick arm wrapped around your waist to hold you hostage against him. When his other hand travels up to bury in your hair, he yanks on it just enough to have you gasping.
âAlways so sensitive,â he whispers with a grin, âso responsive for me.â
âFuck you,â you mutter weakly.
His breath is warm as he chuckles into your hair.
The car pulls up in front of some posh-looking hotel. You donât have a moment to guess how much this place costs a night â nor do you want to, the number would likely break your heart. His hand is wrapped around yours, tight, like heâs making sure you donât try to make a run for it, as he pulls you stumbling through the lobby.
Scott invades every single one of your senses when he corners you in the elevator. He bites down on his moan when he dips his head, nose nuzzling into the curve of your chin as he takes a deep inhale. His exhale quivering.
âYou still wear the same perfume,â he notes, sounding almost pleased.
âCreature of habit,â you mutter, hands finding purchase on his biceps in an attempt to stay upright. Your knees feel a little weak with the proximity, with how much heat his body is radiating.
Heâs barely swiped through the door and youâve barely had the chance to close it before Scott is pinning you against the door and slanting his lips over yours. The first kiss knocks you right off your feet and Scott is quick to catch you and hold you up against the door â one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.
He breathes you in as his tongue strokes your bottom lip. He tastes like a mix of vodka, sugar, and a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. The way he moves his mouth is familiar, youâre drawing on muscle memory to remember how you used to kiss. How to move your mouths in sync with the rhythm of your heartbeat.
You swallow his hungry groans as his hands explore you all over, sliding up your curves to push off your jacket before venturing south again to cup your ass from underneath your skirt. âThis fucking outfit,â he snarls low, ânever seen you wear anything like this before. So fuckinâ tiny, I could see your ass walking behind you.â
âJ-Jennaâs,â you clarify breathlessly. âMy friendâs.â
âAnd this goddamn top â I could peek down your chest the entire time we were there. Wanted to rip this off you so I could play with these pretty tits,â he murmurs, kissing his way along your jaw and down your neck. âThen thisââ he squeezes your ass, âif I saw one more person try to get a peek, I wouldâve bent you over the bar and fucked you then and there to show them that none of them have a shot. Not them. Itâs only going to be me.â
Your response dies in your throat when he begins to suck light bruises onto your skin, pain blooming in concentrated spots across your skin. Heâs always been territorial, leaving one mark after another to deter anyone else from coming close.
While you usually enjoy the slow build, the persistent ache between your legs demands otherwise.
âCome on, just fuck me already.â
âSo goddamn impatient,â he snips but picks you up, legs wrapping around his waist. Your body slips a little lower and you can feel the bulge in his pants poking against your own core. Your panties pressed directly against the thickness, which leaves very little to the imagination. âSo fuckinâ hard,â Scott grunts, âstarted getting a chub the moment I saw you. Then I saw you walking from behind, this gorgeous ass just swaying like youâre teasinâ me. Then you gave me that mean look youâve got and Iâve never been so fucking hard in my life.â
âYouâre such a freak,â you huff in a laugh
âTakes one to know one.â Scott backs you into the hotel room, letting you fall back against the bed as he tucks himself between your legs dangling off the edge. His eyes roam over you, exploring every inch of your exposed skin. Youâre fresh meat and Scott is starving.
He leans forward, a single index finger starting at the outer corner of your breast where itâs pushed up by your corset and journeys over the trim of your top. You hold your breath, back arching slightly into his touch. âI canât believe you were out like this. Dressed like a fuckinâ slut. I donât even wanna know how many guys out there imagined fucking your tits.â
Itâs demeaning, you should tell him off. But this is Scott and he knows exactly what you like and â god, do you like this. A whimper climps past your lips instead, a needy little sound that has him smiling to himself.
âBut Iâm the only one who gets to do that tonight. Isnât that right, sweetheart? You donât spread your legs for anyone else.â
âDo you ever s-shut up?â You snap, voice frayed to betray the desire thumping in your chest. His hands slide underneath you, settling on your lower spine, as your body rises instinctively to his touch. He drags the zipper of your corset down, peeling it off you and casting it aside.
Scott straightens again, tilting his head as he takes you in from his vantage point.
His gaze burns uncomfortably. He doesnât say a word and, for the first time with Scott, you feel⌠shy. Hands fly to your stomach as burning embarrassment sears like a branded mark on your skin. He takes a deep breath and his sweet time outlining the shape of you like heâs recreating a sketch of you in his mind.
âYouâve changed.â
Your heart sinks. The two simple words sting more than they should. Pregnancy changed your body. While you know that itâs created a miracle, itâs survived and remained strong, you also know that you arenât the same. Softer, more lines stretching across your stomach. Your muscles havenât survived your long hours at the hospital. You just never thought it would hurt this much for him to point it out.
But you know better than to take this kind of disrespect. If he no longer finds you attractive, you know that you could very easily find another man to satisfy you.
You try to wiggle away from him as your face shifts in aggravation. âWell, I have. So, if you donât like it, Iâm going to go because I donât fucking need this fromââ
âHold on, never said I didnât like it,â he murmurs, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above you. He ducks forward again, nose brushing against your jawline. He breathes you in, you can hear him gulp. âFuck, you look so good, sweetheart. Sexier. Something about you. Even better than I remember â and shit, do I remember you. Thought about you far too much.â
Oh. âReally?â
He pulls away slightly, eyes searching yours as his lips curl into that smirk. âReally. Every night, with my fist wrapped around my cock, imagininâ it was this tight cunt of yours wrapped around me. I remember how it would squeesze so sweet like youâre trying to choke my dick.â
âYouâre so crass,â you roll your eyes.
âYouâre tellinâ me that that doesnât turn you on?â He grins, hand stroking up your inner thighs until he finds your center, fingers nudging the damp gusset of your panties to the side as he dips in between your slick folds. âKnowing that I get off thinking about you. Thinking about this perfect cunt of yours and the way youâd pulse around me, milkinâ me dry every time you cum. Itâs like this pussy was made for me.â
On cue, you tighten around him, breath hitching in your throat with his filthy words.
âYeah, she likes that,â he chuckles, âshit, did you get tighter? I donât remember you being this stiff. Itâs gonna be tough getting me in, baby. Gonna have to stretch you out and itâs gonna fuckinâ hurt.â
You clench again at the thought, a moan bubbling up your throat. Well, seeing as you havenât slept with anyone in years, itâs not a surprise. But youâd never tell Scott that â you donât want to think about all the other people heâs fucked since the two of you split.
âWeâll make it fit, we always do,â he coos and you donât block the roll of your eyes, pulling another amused sound from his lips. âStill got that attitude,â he shakes his head, hands squeezing around your wrists, âDonât worry. Iâll fuck it out of you soon.â
Scott drags down your underwear, flinging it somewhere around the room. Youâre about to scold him but the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken whine as he stuffs two fingers into you. The slide in is humiliatingly easy with how wet you are, but his thick fingers still stretch out your taut insides.
âJesus,â he mutters, âwonât even let me in, huh? Have you been takinâ care of her, sweetheart?â
Heat pools low in your stomach and rises to your face. He pushes in and out of you slowly at first, blue eyes staying on you to watch you squirm, watch your body shift off the bed. He mutters something about still the fuckinâ same as he prods his fingers into you, testing out different angles to see which ones make you tick â like heâs relearning how to please you.
He realizes that it takes no time at all to do so because you still move the way he expects you too, especially when he brushes up against that spongy area inside you that wrestles a noise that mixes a gasp and a moan from your lips. Through the hazy blur of your vision, you spot a proud smile dancing on his lips as he continues to push and push until youâre panting desperately underneath him.
Every drag of his fingers along your cunt feels like the strike of a match that sets your entire body on fire. He sets off flames in different parts of your body, all the while heâs still holding you down with just one hand. His head ducks to take a nipple into his mouth and sets your entire being ablaze. The two actions combined are enough to have you sweating over the risk of cumming too fast, too hard.
Youâll be damned if you finish in under two minutes with him.
Another curl of his fingers has you resetting that bar to at least one minute.
âScott, please,â you rasp.
âPlease what, sweetheart?â
âYou know what.â
âUse your big girl words,â he tuts softly, âyou can do it. I wnat to hear you ask for it.â
Your brows descend in a vexed glare. âWhy are you suck a prick?â
âBecause it fucking turns you on,â Scott grins, âand because you like my dick.â
You canât help it, you poke because thatâs what you do with him. âI can find good dick elsewhere.â
His fingers stop moving inside you, his body completely still as he levels you with a stare that sends a shiver slithering up your spine. His jaw clenches, white fury masked by his terrifyingly composed expression. âYou wanna run that by me again?â
Your mouth feels like sandpaper now, snippy response scraped away to death on your tongue.
He pushes his fingers in deeper, drawing out a cry from your chest. âThink you can get good dick anywhere, sweetheart? Is that why youâre so fucking tight? Have you been spreading your legs for anyone?â
âFuck you.â
âI thought you had better taste. Clearly, none of them could stretch you out the way you like. You fuckinâ like it when it hurts, when it burns so good you can taste it on your tongue,â he mocks, hand releasing your wrists to grab your jaw. He applies just enough pressure to have your cheeks aching, but that pain only has you clenching around his fingers, stomach twisting with stupid need. âLook at you,â he chuckles, gripping you harder, âgettinâ so tight around me before I even stick my dick in you. Filthy slut just likes beinâ treated like one. Maybe I should stuff that mouth so you stop running it â donât need you to talk, just need to hear those desperate little sounds you make when I fuck you good.â
Your chest sings with shame when all you can do is take his words. But you take what he gives because he only gives you what you can take; he knows exactly what to say to rile you up, to tip you over the edge, have you seething and dripping between your legs. Even after years, he still knows your body best.
Except now, he has a touch more of that southern drawl that youâve always adored but could never get enough of.
âShe just squeezed me again, sweetheart.â His eyes twinkle with delight. âWhy donât you put yourself out of your misery and just ask me?â
Your lips pinch and Scott pushes deeper, eyes fluttering when he feels you tighten around him again. He can feel your control slipping away, pride curling deep into your chest to hide.
âFuck me.â
He raises an eyebrow. âThat it?â
âPlease.â
He's biting back a laugh, lips curving just a little more. âAttagirl, thereâs your manners. Was that so hard? Guess I havenât been around to teach you how to be polite with me.â
Your chest throbs with a mix of disgrace and need again. He pulls out his fingers, watches them glisten with your juices underneath the roomâs warm lights. Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he slides them over his tongue and closes his lips around it. He sucks on it hungrily, moan muffled as he laves at them to savor.
âTastes a little different too,â he hums, âmaybe I just missed you too much. Missed this pretty pussy.â
Maybe if you werenât so focused on getting him to fuck you, you mightâve noticed a strange something laced into his syllables â something you may mistake as hurt.
But that wouldnât be possible because Scott Miller doesnât get hurt. He takes and throws away like itâs nobodyâs business, only thinking about what would be beneficial for him until it no longer has a use. Heâs untouchable, always has been.
Before you can process even a hint of it, you feel Scott sliding his cock along your pussy lips, wet with juices that canât seem to stop leaking all over his sheets. âMakinâ such a mess already,â he grunts, tip poised at your entrance.
You nudge your hips lower in an attempt to encourage him to move faster, but his palm presses down on your hips as he gives you a scalding look.
âBehave.â
Your legs press together around his hips. He feels it. But you do as youâre told.
âGood girl,â he sighs as he slowly pushes himself in. The initial burn has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, like fire between your legs as you let out a cry with how much heâs opening you up. His cock parts through you like a spear and your breath catches in your throat as he finally buries himself all the way in. âFuck, sweetheart,â he hisses, âyouâre so goddamn tight. Feels like that first time. Like youâve never been fucked in your life.â
âB-been a while,â you stutter, the confession slipping out before you can stop it.
Scottâs hands on your hips drag you closer to the edge until your ass is against his hips, he pushes your legs up against your chest, feet thrown over his shoulders. âI can tell. Youâre such a good girl for me, baby. Been saving yourself for me? Have you been thinking about me too?â
Youâd die before you give him the satisfaction. Because you have, but youâll never tell him how many times youâve come undone with the memory of him alone. Filthy words heâd whisper in your ear toiling around your brain until you can practically hear him right next to you. Promises that have you gasping for air before youâre thrown over the edge of desire.
âPerfect pussy, sheâs takinâ me so well,â he moans, deep and guttural, as he begins to ease himself in and out of you. He starts off with a slow pace before building a steady rhythm that painstakingly stretches you out around his cock. With every thrust, he stretches you out just a fraction more, each time slightly easier than the last until the burn dissolves into warmth blooming between your legs.
Scottâs still watching you; with every jerk of his hips, he intentionally angles himself to hit all the right spots that have you crying out for more, your fingers tangling in the sheets. Itâs as if heâs drawing out a map of you, marking x wherever he finds a winning piece. He knows exactly how fast to fuck you to have you gasping and crying, tears leaking down your face until you can taste the salt on your tongue. He knows exactly how slow to go to have you begging him, desperate sounds falling from your lips until he has no choice but to show you mercy.
He knows that telling you youâve got a cunt like a virgin would have you squeezing around him. He knows that praising you for being such a good pussy for him would have you arching off the bed with your eyes slammed shut.
He just knows and that thought scares you more than anything.
âFuck, I missed this pussy. Nothing else could compare, you know. Tried to, trust me. Every time, I can only cum thinking about your leaking cunt, always drooling all over my fat cock, thinking about you sobbing underneath me until I kiss away those pretty tears. I couldnât stop picturing feeding her my cock, stretching her out until youâre whining like a bitch in heat,â Scott growls as he picks up his thrusts, sliding in easier, faster now that your arousal has paved the path in for him.
You should be offended by his words, the feminist in you wanting to tell him off for such ridiculously degrading words, but all they do is add fuel to the fire. You havenât felt this good in so long and you donât thinkâ
âWait, fuck,â you blurt out, fingers latching onto his bicep. âScott, condom.â
Scott freezes, like deer in headlights. âCondom? Weâve never fucked with a condom.â
âI know,â you bite out but again say, âcondom.â
Thereâs a vein pulsing on his forehead, the last shred of his self-restraint hanging on by a thread. He looks more inconvenienced than anything. âDid you get off the pill?â
âN-no, but just wanna be careful.â
Scott laughs, nudging his cock deeper. âWhy are you worrying? Itâs ninety-nine percent effective.â
Well, apparently, youâre part of that one percent of failure.
He sees that you still look conflicted and he lets out a frustrated exhale. âI donât have condoms. Havenât carried it around with me in forever.â
âI need to fuck this pussy, sweetheart. Iâm not letting that pretty head of yours change your mind. Not gonna go outside just to get condom. Iâll just pull out.â
âThat shit does not always work!â
âNeither does a condom!â
Fuck, he makes a good point.
Scott slowly begins fucking you again, chipping away at the walls youâve slammed up. âPromise Iâll pull out when I cum. Wonât do it inside you. No matter how much I want to cream inside this pussy, just like I used to.â
Your stomach flips with that admission.
âRemember how I used to fill you up? God, I can still see white leakinâ out of this cunt. I loved cumming inside you in the morning, you could never get all the cum out so youâd be dripping with me. Could smell you when I fucked you again after too.â
Shit, he knows your resolve is down to nothing when he pumps faster into you. He doesnât need you to confirm what he already knows. He returns to fucking you with fervor. His hips are eager as they chase after yours, slamming against you as his cock fucks all rational thought from your mind. He leans forward, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all his weight is squeezing the breath from your lungs. It only intensifies the pleasure, his cock sliding in with a trail of fire as he kisses your calves.
âThatâs it, sweetheart,â he coaxes, âgive it to me. I know you wanna cum. I can feel you tightening around me.â
More moans tumble from your lips as you babble your agreement, words slurring together in an incoherent mess.
âGive it to me. Let her go. I wanna see you fall apart on my cock, want you remember that no one else can make you feel like this. Nobody can â or ever will â fuck you this good. This pussyâs mine and Iâm gonna make sure she only remembers me, only takes the shape of my cock.â
Youâre struggling for air as your chest constricts, wanton need burning all throughout your body.
âCum for me, baby. Come on,â Scott grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust.
With a few more pumps of his cock, your stomach tightens, desire coiling tight until it snaps and your pleasure crests. It feels like youâre soaring, body trembling with the force of your orgasm as you clam down around him, legs shaking and pussy sucking him in deeper.
Your cunt continues to pulse as your descent from the high occurs painfully slow. But Scottâs not done. He just uses you at that point, treating you like a little pocket pussy to get himself off as he fucks dirty into you. He spreads your legs so he can see your tits bouncing with how fast heâs going. You can tell heâs close when his drives get sloppier, cock just fucking into you because he can. Then heâs quickly yanking himself out with a gasp, tilting his cock so that ropes of cum spill across your stomach, your tits, decorating the skirt with abstract splatters of white.
His hard cock twitches against his stomach as he holds himself up on the mattress, labored breaths weighing down on his chest.
Even in your weary state, you canât help but giggle. âItâs been a while, huh, old man? Canât keep up anymore?â
He tosses a glare your way. âLetâs not forget the last time I overstimulated you until you cried and begged for me to let you cum again. How many times was it? Five?â
Your cheeks warm at the memory. âThat was years ago.â
His gaze softens, melts into something that has your heart squeezing. âYeah, it was.â ith a groan, he pushes himself up and disappears into the bathroom, leaving you in the mess of his orgasm. When he comes back out, heâs got a warm, damp towel in hand that heâs using to clean you of the sticky mess.Â
He raises your legs again to check on your pussy.Â
âDoes it hurt?â
Youâre only mildly surprised by his concern, mostly because you havenât been on the receiving end of it for a while. âNo, Iâm fine.â
âYou sure? I went pretty hard.â
All you can do now is roll your eyes, using your foot to nudge his stomach. âIâm a big girl, Miller. I know what I can take.â
His lips twitch as he shakes his head, muttering something you donât catch under his breath. He plops down next to you, eyes sliding shut as he lets himself sink into the bed. He drapes an arm over his eyes, stomach dipping as he exhales deeply.
The lines of his chest are still defined. If anything, his muscles are more evident now. Veins running along his biceps to display the progress heâs made while he was away. You didnât realize how much heâs changed, how much broader he got, how there are more grays on his head than before. Jawline that was soft through the year that you knew him sharpened into a knife that slices straight through your chest.
You turn away from him, eyes glued to the ceiling. The moment Scott stepped back into your life, he rolled out a fog that clouded your judgment. Now that the haze has cleared, youâre lying in the consequences of your actions, you canât help but let the remorse carve its place into your bones. Youâre a fool if you think this time will be any different.
It took you one night â one night â to fall for his charm. One night for your years-long resolve to fall apart.
You thought you would feel differently about him now, that you could let these silly emotions fade into dust in his absence. However, your heart still beats the same way for him â a little faster, skipping a beat or two, but always towards him. The two of you still move in sync, like two pieces of the same puzzle finally slotting together.
But youâve changed â or, you shouldâve changed. You shouldnât be this easy, not anymore. Not when thereâs more at risk than just your heart.
The shame crashes over you in waves, pulling you under, and suddenly, youâre breathless. The air feels thin when you think of Ben â your son who doesnât even know who his father is, who has been curious enough to ask once but kind enough not to ask twice.
An arm splaying across your thighs sends you crashing back to reality. He rumbles with eyes closed, âSleep.â
Gently, you remove his arm as you come to your feet. You move swiftly, body functioning the same it always does â opting for flight rather than fight. You collect your panties and quickly tug them on under your skirt. Before you can reach for your top, a hand wraps around your arm.
âWhat are you doing?â
âIâm gonna go.â
His confusion deepens. âWhy?â
With a shrug, you pick up your corset from the floor and zip it back up. Scott steps in your path before you can make it to the entryway â still fully nude, cock half hard.
You force your eyes to stay on his face instead. âWe fucked, weâre good, right?â
Annoyance flashes across his eyes. âWhat the fuck is that supposed to mean?â
âWhat else do you want from me, Scott?â You sigh.
You try to sidestep him but he moves faster. His shoulders stretch out to their full breadth as he straightens. âWhat if I want to fuck again later?â
âYouâve survived this long with your fist, Iâm sure youâll be fine.â
For a moment, he doesnât say a word. The silence lingers like a ghost between you. He looks conflicted, eyes shifting around the room like he can find the answer somewhere on the walls. âWe havenât seen each other in years and youâre flaking on me?â
Itâs your turn to offer no response, mainly because you donât have one.
âYou disappear on me for years. Iâm seeing you for the first time since we graduated and you canât even be bothered to stay?â
You pinch the bridge of your nose. âI just really need to get home. I have to go to work tomorrow to wrap up a few things.â
âI can drive you.â
âI have no clothes.â
âWeâll leave early in the morning.â
âScott.â
Your mind wanders to Ben, wondering what heâs doing right now, how you should be there with him â instead of here with the dad that he never knew.
âAlright. Let me drive you at least.â
He watches as your eyes get distracted again by his nude form before you, him completely shameless, maybe even smug that you still find yourself cross-eyed with him.
âNo, I can find my own ride.â
When you manage to maneuver around him, Scott hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to yank you back, and youâre now facing his broad, bare chest, the light smattering of curls directly in your line of sight.
âCan I see you tomorrow then?â
He ducks his head so his lips brush over yours. You can feel that familiar dizziness tease the edges of your rational mind. He knows exactly what heâs doing, especially when you unconsciously lean towards him, like a moth to flame, Icarus who flew too close to the sun.
âScott,â you whisper when he pulls back to mock you.
âYou ever gonna tell me what happened? Why you left me high and dry. You disappeared from everywhere, couldnât find you on anything,â Scott begins, âThen you went ahead and changed your number. I had no way to reach you.â
You donât blame him for the bitterness that stains his voice. Even after you promised to stay in touch, the further along you were in your pregnancy, the more you realized that you couldnât handle the guilt of lying to him. So you⌠simply stopped. Stopped responding to his texts. Stopped picking up his calls.
Once he ceased his efforts, you changed your number. You hoped he wouldnât notice, that it would be a clean slate. Clearly, that isnât the case.
âCan we talk about this another time? Iâm exhausted and Iâm stickyââ
âUse my shower. Sleep here. Iâll drive you home then to work in the morning.â
Itâs a kind offer. Far too generous for a man whom you distanced yourself from. âYou donât haveââ
âI want to,â he insists, âdonât be fucking difficult.â
âTomorrow, alright. Please,â you plead one last time.
Scottâs blue eyes wash over you, searching for a sign of weakness. He must see the firm stubborn hold in your gaze, because you see him deflate in real time. âFine. Give me your number.â You open your mouth, ready to extend some bullshit excuse, but he beats you to it. âSo help me god if you try to argue with me again, woman, Iâm tying you to my bed.â
You know heâs serious. You can only relent and say that youâll text him.
âNow.â
âScott.â
âIâm not fucking around,â he snaps, âIâm not spending the time I have here trying to chase your ass down again.â
Again? Youâre too tired to question it further so you pull out your phone, finding his contact â one that you havenât touched in some time â and shoot him a quick message.
âHappy?â
âDelighted,â he bites back, baring his teeth at you.
You only roll your eyes. âNow, if thereâs nothing else, Iâm going to go.â
âCall a car.â
ââCourse, I will!â
He snorts. âDonât act like you wouldnât have taken the T home.â
Youâre about to argue again, but he knows you too well. The T wouldâve saved you money, but certainly not time. Instead of replying, you say, âIâm going to go.â
Scott still seems none too pleased but lets you go.
As you cave to the pull of slumber that evening, your phone lights up with a message.
It was good seeing you tonight.
Youâre a goddamn coward, thatâs what you are. You donât actually have to come into work the next day but you needed an out. Instead, you wake up that morning with an old friend â that jackhammering in your head commonly known as a hangover.Â
Vices hit a little differently when youâre older, especially when you havenât touched a drop of it in a while.
That goes for the drinks and Scott.
It feels like a fever dream when you wake up alone the next morning, you wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened. Like you didnât meet your former fuck buddy slash friend slash father of your child at a club and went to his hotel with him as if no time had passed.Â
Opening your phone to his text was the first slap of reality.
The second was when you look in the mirror to see the marks all over your neck like youâve been mauled by a mountain lion.
Possessive fucker.Â
Jennaâs message certainly isnât helping either. Hope you had a great night ;)Â
You did. You wish you didnât but Scott somehow still knows you like the back of his hand and, if you had stayed, there would be no doubt that he would change your great night into a fantastic night.
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you quickly reply to her with an appropriately crude emoji.Â
Scott â well, you do what you do best. You donât respond.
You donât reply when he asks you what time you get off work today.
You donât reply when he sends a single question mark as a follow-up.
You definitely donât reply when he saysâ
Youâre going to ghost me again, arenât you?
Instead of acknowledging the magnitude of your actions, you spend the weekend keeping yourself busy. Every time your mind veers to Scott and the messages left unanswered, you pick a new spot in the house to clean.Â
By the time Ben returns on Sunday, the house is spotless.
Your mom looks at you suspiciously. âYou cleaned.âÂ
âYes,â you say before you turn to pepper wet kisses all over your baby. He giggles and his face scrunches up. âHow was weekend with grandma?â
âWe ate ice cream!â
Itâs your motherâs turn to look guilty when you raise an eyebrow at her. âIs that so? How much ice cream?â
Ben, realizing what heâs just exposed, turns to his grandmother then back to you. He pinches his fingers together. âThis much.â
âMhmm, next time grandma gives you ice cream, Iâm gonna remind her how much dental visits cost,â you coo, pinching his nose.Â
He runs off to unpack his bags, which leaves you alone with your mother who is much too perceptive for her own good.Â
âSo, good weekend?â
âGood,â you brush off, glancing at your gleaming kitchen counter.
âDid you bring a man home?â
âMother!â You gasp, âWe are not talking about that.â
She rolls her eyes. âYouâre an adult, Iâm sure the birds and the bees talk is no longer necessary. Not to mention protection, youâve learned your lesson there.â
âThanks,â you drawl.
âIâm just saying you look⌠good. Satisfied.â Your cheeks flame. âYou know youâre allowed to have a life outside of all this. Youâre still young and thereâs still time to find love.â
Love, huh? Scottâs face appears in your mind with that stupidly attractive smirk. You shake your head. âYes, Mom. Iâm aware.â She stares skeptically at you. âI know. It was just a night of fun. I have responsibilities, canât be reckless anymore.âÂ
âIt was chance,â your mom murmurs, âyou were never reckless.â
âThe universe has picked her favorites and Iâm not one of them,â you laugh, âbut I think I milked my luck with Ben, canât ask for a better kid. Hopefully he behaved?â
âHe was an angel.â You nod, humming. âAre you not going to tell me about this man then?â
Groaning, you try to walk away from her but she follows you down the hall. âThereâs nothing to tell and I didnât bring him home.â
âOh, you stayed at his?â
âNo, I⌠went home.â
She lets out a little surprised noise. âThat bad?â
No, that good. âIâm not discussing this with you further.âÂ
Monday sends you crashing back to earth. While you spent your Sunday recuperating with Ben, a calm day of eating vegetables to balance the treats and touching grass on the playground, being back in this office â this dreary reality reminds you that life really isnât that swell.
It doesnât help that Jenna pounces the moment you walk in, an endless stream of questions pouring out of her lips about the hottie you were with and if you got your brains fucked out of your head. You donât satisfy her with a response, slipping into your office and locking it shut.
An office job coordinating and babysitting adults for the sake of science was never part of the plan, but plans change and youâve learned to accept it. Now, youâre stretching to work out the crick in your neck as you do a doom scroll of the countless unread emails in your inbox.
Youâre trapped in there for most of the day, vision beginning to blur when you have to squint at the screen to decipher the letters. However, the banging close to the end of the day has you jolting awake at your desk, knee slamming up against your table.
A curse slips past your lips as you hop over to open it. Jenna â wide-eyed and dangerously excited â grins like a cat thatâs caught a mouse.
âHottie alert.â
You look at her, unimpressed. âPlease donât involve me in your plans to cross professional boundaries. I donât want HR to mark me as an accomplice.â
âNo, I mean hottie â as in hottie from the club who gave you those hickeys that even your concealer canât hide.â
Your hands fly to your neck, where the bruises pulse in demand of your attention. Warmth crawls across your face. Youâve spent enough time allowing your mind to wander to memories from that night, you donât need to do it again at work.
âWhat are you talking about?â
âHeâs outside â looking for you!â
The splat of your heart dropping to the floor echoes in the ensuing silence. You must be hearing things because you couldâve sworn Jenna just told you that Scott is here at your workplace. The place where you work.
âNo,â you blurt out.
âYes,â she hisses, âget your ass out there. Clearly, you made quite the impression. Or did he make an impression with his dick inside yourââ
âFinish that sentence and I revoke your rights to see Ben,â you warn and she gasps, biting down her giggles. âCan you just tell him Iâm not here? Better yet, tell him thereâs no one here by my name.â
She gives you a look. âHeâs not an idiot. He saw me and clocked me as the friend who dressed her like that.â
Groaning, you press your forehead against the door.
âWas he that bad?â
Again, that good.
âHe looks like a good time. Mind if I take a crack at him?â
The question has you jerking upright, your expression souring. Jennaâs a great friend, but Scott isâ what is Scott? Heâs nobody. He should be nobody.
âIâm kidding,â she laughs, âjeez, youâre obviously into him. Why are you being difficult?â
Because this will end the same way. Your heart broken. Scott gone again.
âListen, I donât think heâs leaving and the others are starting to gossip. They think youâve got golden pussy thatâs bringing a male suitor around this desperately.â
Fuck, the last thing you need is Scott causing problems at work. With a relenting sigh, you follow Jenna out front and find Scott standing there, looking impassively at some of the women â nurses and patients alike â who are shooting flirtatious looks at him. In fact, heâs not looking at them at all â his eyes float around the room until they land on you.
He doesnât look pissed. No, his lips tug up into a smirk tinged with mirth. He says your name, your heart sinks. It sounds like a greeting and a threat. Your stomach turns.
Scott looks you up and down, a silent assessment that concludes in confusion at your clothes. Instead of addressing it, he hands you one of the cups in his hand.
âTea,â he answers before you can ask, âwith a spoonful of honey.â
Your favorite afternoon remedy.
Unfortunately, you feel your colleaguesâ aggressively probing gazes burning to your side. Itâs natural theyâre curious; youâve never had visitors aside from your mom and Ben â let alone a man. Let alone a man who looks like Scott.
Youâll never hear the end of this.
âFollow me.â You drag him by the elbow towards the waiting room, far away from the disappointed looks. When youâre finally out of sight, you turn around. âWhat are you doing here?â
Scott looks far from pleased, but his tone is calm. âCame to see you.â He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee â probably black with a drop of cream.
âYou canât be doing this to me at work, Scott.â
âYou werenât responding to my texts.â
âIâm at work.â
âI can see that.â
âDonât be cute.â
âYou always think Iâm cute.â
You take a deep breath. âScott, what happened last Fridayââ He perks up. âIt canât happen again.âÂ
âWhy not?â He scowls, jaw clicking off to the side.Â
âWeâre adults now, we canât be⌠doing whatever we were doing. It was fun when we were young but come on.â
âWhat? Too old to have fun?â
âI think Iâm at a point where I should be looking for something serious, not a repeat of college.â
Thereâs a firmness to his eyes that makes you squirm. Something unexpectedly grave thatâs foreign to Scott. âSerious,â he echoes, âyou want serious?â
âOf course, I do.â
He licks his lips, taking a step towards you. Your heart skips a beat.Â
âIf thatâs the caseââ
âMom!â
Your entire body goes cold, the word both warms and slashes your chest. Your son barrels down the hallway and you barely flinch when you feel his tiny arms wrap around your legs, Ben cheesing up at you with a toothy grin.
You donât spare Scott a glance when you crouch down to Benâs height, allowing him to wrangle you in a tight hug. âHi, bud, whatâre you doing here? I was supposed to meet you at home.â
âMissed you.â He pulls away to beam at you and your heart positively melts.
This perfect kid. âMissed you too, buddy,â you smile, âI still need to finish up work. Think you can be patient for me and wait a few more minutes?â
He blinks at you. âAunt Jenna?â
You shake your head. Jenna is always a crowd favorite. âAunt Jennaââ
âIs right here!â The familiar voice cheers as she appears next to you. Ben throws himself around her legs next with a giggle. âCome on, weâve got some new toys in the playroom I can show you. Cool LEGOs.â
Before you know it, sheâs already whisking him away, leavingyou, Scott, and your mother â who is staring at him with a little too much curiosity.
On the other hand, you canât even bring yourself to look at him. The thing that shakes your confidence the most is his silence. Upset Scott goes on long tirades, spitting out vile things until heâs clam enough to take action.
However, a very, truly angry Scott is quiet. The rage simmers on the surface, bubbling in imminent explosion on the inside.
Your mother grins at him with sparkling eyes. âI never knew my daughter had such a handsome friend.â
âMom!â You immediately scold, embarrassment spreading through you like wildfire.
Scott clears his throat, smile cordial as he turns to your mom. âPleasure to meet you, maâam. Iâm Scott. A friend.â The last word he seems to add reluctantly.
âOh yes, she did mention⌠a friend,â your mom says with a teasing lilt that proves to push that stake of betrayal deeper into your gut. âWeâre going to head back for dinner after this. Would you like to join us?â
âHe has other things to do,â you say at the same time Scott responds with, âIâd love to.â This time, you do turn to look at him.
His eyes are cool, almost distant, as he regards you. Itâs an impassive look that says more than most people expect. A shudder wracks through you as your mouth dries in fear.
âIâll be there,â he emphasizes, looking pointedly at you.
Your body withers slightly under the intensity of his gaze and you choose to redirect your own displeasure at your mother who simply disregards you. âWonderful, Iâll wait with Ben. Come find us when youâre done, honey.â
Leave it to your own blood to make the bed and force you to lie in it.
But youâre also your motherâs daughter so you take that as a chance to escape yourself. âI have to wrap up work so Iâll see you later,â you exhale quickly and high-tail out of there before he can even open his mouth.
Procrastinating emotions has always been your strong suit.
By the time you finish work and step back outside, you pray that Scottâs anger wouldâve faded. Heâs calm when he agrees to follow your family car in his own. Youâre constantly peeking at your rearview mirror to see if he changes his mind but his car never disappears from your line of sight.
When you let all of them inside the apartment, Scott gives it a critical once-over. He politely toes off his shoes and steps into the living room. Sweat piles on the back of your neck as you urge Ben to wash up while you and your mom prepare dinner.
âPasta alright?â You ask, testing the waters.
His answer is respectful and composed. A simple yes, thank you.
It only makes you more nervous.
Dinner passes by without a hitch, despite your bouncing knee the entier time. Your mom asks Scott how he knows you and what he does for work; sheâs at least smart enough to tread carefully on the bigger questions of why youâve never mentioned him and why he feels comfortable enough to show face at your job. The extent of his introduction to Ben is taht he is your son and Scott is your friend.
âUncle Scott,â Ben confirms, familiarizing himself with Scottâs name on his tongue.
You see the ice in his eyes chip away, albeit slightly, but he nods.
After Ben gets exactly a single scoop of the chocolate chip ice cream in the fridge, you tell him that itâs finally time for bed. He whines about how having a guest means that he should be able to stay up longer. You give him one look and he promptly skulks to the bathroom.Â
You take this chance to escape Scottâs attention for a little while; god knows his staring gets unnerving after two hours of it. You take your time preparing Ben for bed, switching him to his comfy pajamas, reading him his favorite book with the voices the way he likes it. When heâs finally out cold, you get up, press a kiss to his temple, and turn to exit.Â
Scottâs standing in the doorway, watching you quietly. His expression is thoughtful, but he doesnât say a word when you lead him back to the kitchen.Â
You walk your mom to the door, thanking her for the day.
Her eyes wander to Scott behind you who seems intent on lingering even when itâs late. She smiles at you. âHe seems like a good one,â she whispers. âI like him.â
âYouâve known him all of two hours.â
âI can sense it. I like how you are with him.â You raise an eyebrow in question. âEmotional. You get riled up so easily. Youâve spent the last few years playing adult that itâs sweet to see you like this.âÂ
Your cheeks are hot as you shoo her again. She throws out a final nice to meet you and see you again soon before she finally leaves the two of you alone.
Scottâs eyes chase after you as you fuss with your kettle, preparing caffeine for the conversation youâre about to have. Maybe you should break out that tequila buried deep inside your cabinet instead. He no doubt has questions. You donât know if heâs connected the dots; you can only hope he hasnât. Ben looks more like you after all.
Thereâs a small part of you that hopes Scott would know, call it fatherly intuition, but a bigger part of you wants to avoid addressing that question. Heâs only here to visit, he doesnât need to know that he has a son. If he doesnât know, then the two of you can return to life as is once he leaves.
You donât want to admit how much the thought stings.
âBen,â Scott clears his throat as you set a cup of coffee in front of him. He gratefully accepts it, takes a sip. âIs his dadâŚâ
âNot around.â Itâs a safe answer.
âWho is he?â
âNo one you know,â you lie smoothly, maybe too quickly.
His eyes narrow a fraction but he doesnât push. âYou never told me you have a son.â
âWe werenât talking, Miller. It wouldâve been strange to say hey, hope youâre doing well, by the way, I have a kid!â
âWell, whose fault is that?â He snaps.
The air is strung tight, electricity crackling quietly in the echo of his words.Â
âI justââ He takes a deep breath, hands shoved into his hair. âI donât want to fight,â he says, doing his damndest to try and mean it. You know that he wants to push, to question, to challenge you. Confront you for leaving him in the wind.Â
But he doesnât want to lose you â the same way you donât want to either.Â
âBenâs a good kid,â you murmur, thumb stroking the rim of your mug.Â
âWell, you did raise him,â he notes, lips twitching up.Â
You clear your throat. âThis is why I canât do⌠whatever that was last night again. It was a fluke and a mistake. Itâs been a long time since Iâve had a night out like that and apparently I just needed to get laid.âÂ
Instead of the chuckle youâre expecting, some jab about you being abstinent, there is weight that settles heavy in the atmosphere. Scott looks at you carefully, lips tight. âA mistake? Really?â
âNotââ you stop yourself, biting your tongue, ânot like that.â He cocks an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of irritation and interest. âI just think I shouldnât have been so irresponsible.â
âWhy? You wouldâve fucked any man that night?âÂ
âOf course not!â
âSo just me then.â
âYes!â
The moment the confirmation leaves your mouth, you stop. Scott smiles, smug. âGood to know.â
âOh, screw you.â
âYou already did.â
The urge to hurl your mug at his head grows stronger by the second.
Scott bites down on his smile but you can still see the ghost of amusement on his lips. âBut, listen, in all seriousness, if you need anythingâ I know raising a kid isnât cheap and, with your hours and obviously childcare and all the necessitiesââ
You cringe. âPlease donât tell me youâre offering me money right now.âÂ
âI just want to help.â
âNot your responsibility.â
His jaw clenches. âI know that, but it doesnât mean I canât help a friend.âÂ
His jaw clenches. âI know that, but it doesnât mean I canât help a friend.âÂ
You consider arguing with him again, defending your stance as a perfectly capable, independent, single mother. However, you know he means well. This is how Scott Miller helps, this is how he shows you he cares.Â
âThank you,â you sigh, âI appreciate it, but I promise you Iâm fine.â
Scott hesitates for a second. âYouâre not a nurse.â Itâs not a question.Â
âI wanted to do it, but the pregnancy and the tough hours just didnât seem healthy â or fair to a newborn. Iâm doing something safer, more regular hours. Itâs not so bad.â
âWasnât your dream though.â
âWell, sometimes dreams donât work out.â
He doesnât look appeased. âWhy not now? Heâs a little more grown. How old is he?â
Your heart rushes in your ears. âI have a good routine going. Itâs not like I hate what Iâm doing nowââ
âBut you donât love it.â Once again, not a question.
âItâs⌠a job, Scott, Iâm lucky to be employed in this economy.â
He grunts but doesnât push further. âIâm not going to give you shit for not telling meââ
âShocker.â The sarcastic remark slips out on instinct, Scott tosses you a scalding look with no heat behind his eyes.Â
âBut at least let me try and help you.â He knows you too well, can sense the argument threatening to fall from your lips, so he quickly adds, âI donât want to hear it. However I can help, I will.â
When he has this voice, you know thereâs no point in arguing, so you let it slide. âSure. Thank you,â you surrender. âHow long are you here for?â
âIâm leaving tomorrow afternoon.â
Oh. Youâre fast to school your expression. âGot it. We should plan to catch up properly at some point then. Maybe tomorrow morning.â
The corners of his lips tug up and youâre already rolling your eyes, ears tingling with the stupid comment to come. âYou donât think we did that already? Or did you want a repeat?â
âPig.â
âYou love it.âÂ
A laugh bubbles up your throat, light and airy that has Scottâs smile rising a smidgen higher.Â
For a moment, you think everything will be okay.
+ sam: im sorry for the woman i've become with him (i'm not) (i love this idiot so dearly). hope you enjoyed this part and look forward for more drama to come in the second!!!
scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt
Summary: Clark decides to reveal another one of his powers to you during one of your most vulnerable moments
Clark Kent x Reader
w/c 1,636
a/n i've been on such a clark kick lately and the heatwave in the uk at the minute inspired me
ââââââââââĄâĽâĄâââââââââ
Heatwaves in New York were usually bearable, or they would be if your AC was working. The shitty machine had been on the verge of death for months now, yet chose the moment the city turned into the pits of hell to finally give out on you.Â
You had never cursed an inanimate object more.Â
On such a high floor where opening the windows provided no breeze, and your AC didnât work, you didnât have many other options than to melt.Â
Clark, your sweet, loving, do-gooder Clark, had tried his best to fix the air conditioning. He brought over his tools, tried to look like he knew what he was doing, but in the end he had to admit defeat. He never actually knew what he was doing at any point, nor did his pa when he called him for help. Unintentionally he probably made it worse. It was the thought that counts. So, you were going to have to call a repairman, who most likely wouldnât be available until the heat wave was over. What use was it then?Â
You just had to stick it out for the time being. You wished you could say it was easy, but your brain was slowly being fried along with your body.
âCan I get you anything, honey?âÂ
You cracked open one eye and almost sighed at the sight in front of you.Â
Clark loved the sun. And the sun loved Clark. It was literally how he functioned. So, in times like these he was the chirpiest youâd ever seen himâ meanwhile you were sluggish and irritated. But he still tried to fit in to keep up appearances. Heâd done it all his life. Even when you told him he didnât have to do that in front of you, it was just a habit.Â
Seeing him strutting around in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts wasnât doing much to cool you down. His tight white shirt had been discarded somewhere between him vowing he could fix the AC and him giving up. You hadnât complained, but it was evil. Almost every inch of his Kryptonian skin was on display and it was making you hotter than you already were.
You tried to shake off all your dirty thoughts. Now wasnât the time. âWorking air conditioning.âÂ
He smiled, strutting over with his god-like body. It was a miracle you didnât let out a whine when he craned his neck to kiss you sweetly.Â
âAlready tried that, did more harm than good,â he joked. His large hand brushed some of your damp hair away from your even damper skin. Despite the way your nose scrunched in insecurity, the sweat didnât seem to bother him one bit. âAnything else?âÂ
You shook your head. Youâd tried everything. Fans, going outside, popsicles (which nearly made Clark lose his mind). Nothing worked. You simply needed to not move an inch so you couldnât possibly over exert yourself. That was the only way.
Clark felt bad that you were suffering, even though the sight of you in your underwear, with rivulets of sweat running down your body, was a rather appealing sight for him. He would leave you to your own devices until he found a solution.
By the time night fell, the air hadnât gotten any cooler. Although the sun had long since disappeared, the temperature had remained at a similar level. To say you were over it would be an understatement. You were seconds away from snapping. Which made it all that much worse to be sharing a bed with a human-adjacent heater.
You had been tossing and turning for hours, trying to find any cool spot you possibly could. It wasnât helping. Nor was the heavy arm thrown over your stomach.Â
Normally you loved how Clark loved you. He was touchy, affectionate, and in any other weather you would have welcomed it. Right now though you were considering cutting his arm off just to cool you down.Â
You tried to shuffle out from under him a few different times, and a few different ways. Of course your fidgeting was nothing on his otherworldly strength. He didnât budge. Each time was getting you hotter and hotter.Â
You were about ready to cry.Â
By some will of God, with a quiet grunt he lifted his arm long enough to allow you your escape. As if even in his sleep he knew what you needed.
The relief didnât last long.Â
He couldnât stay away from you. If you had known his next move you would have raced away before he trapped you again.
The first sign was his shuffling, followed by the creak of the bed as he shifted. His quiet mumbling, usually endearing, was now like a warning siren.
âNo, honey,â you tried to warn, but it was no use. He hadnât heard you.
His arm found its old place once again, only this time he tucked his head into the crook of your neck. That wasnât the worst of it. The moment he pressed his front to your back it was as though your skin was sizzling.
There was zero way you could sleep like this. Not for a second. Your only choice was to enforce strict rules about staying on his own side of the bed tonight.Â
Either keep your hands to yourself or go home.
It should have been easy. And it would have been. If hurting his feelings wasnât like kicking a puppy.
You shook him awake, being met with a semi-startled grumble.Â
âWhatâs wrong?âÂ
Even half asleep, with eyes lidded and awful bedhead, he was still the most devastatingly beautiful man youâd ever seen.
You had to soften the blow. âClark, handsome,â you cupped his cheeks, stroking your thumb over the slightly heated skin. He gazed at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Not a single piece of his focus was aimed anywhere but at you. âI love you. Youâre the light of my life.â
His entire face lit up, cheeks tinting pink as his big, doe eyes filled with adoration for you. It was how he always looked at you, you were just noticing it more right now because you were about to break his heart.
âBut if you keep touching me right now Iâm going to break up with you.â You would never, ever, but you needed him to understand the level of seriousness you were at. Nothing and no one should mess with your sleep like this.
His face fell.
You felt horribly guilty.
âOkay.â His voice came out quiet, which frankly made you feel even worse.
âItâs not you. Well, it is. Your body is, like, a thousand degrees. Must be some Kryptonian thing. Usually itâs great, but right now⌠Itâs just too hot, you know?â You were over explaining because you felt bad.
He nodded. âOkay.âÂ
âOkay.âÂ
The two of you fell back into silence, filled with only the sheets underneath you rustling as you rolled onto your side again, facing away from him. You would cave too quickly if you could see his pouty expression. It was safer this way.
He managed to leave you alone for all of two minutes, a record for him.
He gently moved your hair from the back of your neck, pulling a huff out of you. âClark, what did I just say?âÂ
The sudden icy breeze on the back of your neck was heavenly. You gasped, followed by something akin to a pleased moan as the feeling cooled your entire body down for the first time today.
âOh my God. What is that?âÂ
âSuper-breath. I didnât tell you?â He knew full well he hadnât. You could hear the smile in his voice.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the borderline orgasmic chill that ran down your spine. One of your hands reached backwards, landing on the hardened muscle of his torso. Yet another reason on the very long list of why Clark Kent was the greatest man in the world. The more you thought about it, the more sense it made that he was from another planet. No man on Earth could ever quite live up to him.Â
âNo! Iâve been melting all dayâ youâre evil. Why wouldnât you tell me about this?âÂ
âIâve got to leave some tricks up my sleeve.âÂ
He was enjoying this.
With a newfound energy that you hadnât had all day, you rolled over to face him, finally able to stomach the thought of being near his molten body. You blinked a couple times at the sight of him, looking all smug and handsome in a sleepy way. It truly wasnât fair that he could get away with being this attractive.
âDo you even love me?âÂ
That startled a laugh out of him. âOf course I do.âÂ
You narrowed your eyes, acting like you were unsure. âYou promise to keep doing that until I fall asleep?â He hummed, entirely amused with you despite how tired he was. He would walk, or in his case fly, to the ends of the Earth for youâ staying up a little longer to make sure you were comfortable wasnât exactly asking much of him. âOkay. Then I guess I believe you.â
âClose your eyes, honey.âÂ
When your eyes fell shut you expected the same immediate relief heâd given you moments ago, but instead you were met with his thumb softly brushing underneath your eyes, then down the slope of your nose and over the line of your lips.Â
Your heart thumped in your chest.Â
The cool sensation of his so-called Super breath came a second later.Â
You hummed, a small, content smile creeping onto your face. This was the happiest youâd been all day. âI am so in love with you, Clark Kent.âÂ
Who needed air conditioning when your boyfriend was basically Elsa?
Sinopsis: After Clark pulls away, you try to convince yourself you can live without him. But jealousy, fear, and one emergency with Eloise finally force both of you to confess what has been left unsaid.
Maybe you decided too quickly. You didn't realize it until the third day.
The first day without Clark was fine. You tidied up the apartment a little, the baby slept most of the day, and you thought that maybe it was nice having the space all to yourself.
The second day started to feel strange.
The couch was empty.
There was no freshly brewed coffee in the morning.
The kitchen was clean but quiet, without the sound of Clark moving pots around.
The third day was worse.
You missed his presence already.
Not just his help, but his company.
The sound of his breathing from the other room.
The way he held the baby and spoke to her softly, as if she could understand him.
The way he glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking.
You told yourself it was pregnancy sensitivity.
Or postpartum hormones.
That you were emotional, that everything felt bigger than it really was.
But no matter how many times you repeated that to yourself, the sadness wouldn't leave.
It was a small thing, but irritating, like a pebble trapped inside your shoe.
You missed him.
And you didn't know whether it was love or habit, but you missed him.
That night, the baby cried through the early hours of the morning.
It wasn't the kind of soft cry that could be soothed with a lullaby.
It was loud.
Desperate.
The kind of cry that breaks your heart because you don't know what else to do.
You picked her up and rocked her.
You sang to her.
You nursed her.
You changed her diaper.
Nothing worked.
The baby kept crying, and you felt like you were about to cry too.
It was two in the morning.
You hadn't slept at all.
Every time you closed your eyes, she started screaming again.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating your exhausted, desperate face.
You sat on the bed with the baby in your arms, and suddenly, unable to stop yourself, you started crying.
Heavy tears rolled down your cheeks and fell onto the little girl's head.
With a trembling hand, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand.
You unlocked it and searched for Clark's name.
You typed quickly, without thinking:
"Can you come over?"
But before you could send the message, you heard a noise at the window.
You looked up and saw him.
Clark was already there, floating outside your window in the blue-and-red suit he wore when he flew.
He slipped through the frame like a shadow, barely making a sound.
You stared as he stepped inside, concern written all over his face, his eyes immediately searching the baby, then you, then any sign of danger.
"What happened? Are you both okay?" he asked hurriedly, still adjusting his cape.
"The baby's fine," you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you cried even harder. "She won't stop crying, Clark. I don't know what to do. I barely got her to sleep a little while ago, and now she's awake again. I think I'm not good at this."
Clark smiled.
It wasn't a mocking smile.
It wasn't pity.
It was the kind of gentle smile that says, It's okay. Everything's going to be alright.
He approached slowly so he wouldn't startle you and wrapped his arms around you.
He held you carefully, as if you were a crystal glass that could shatter.
One hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked the baby's head.
"It's part of the process," he said in his calm voice. "Babies cry. They don't know how to talk, they don't know how to point at things. They only know how to cry when something feels wrong. It's not your fault."
"But I don't know what's wrong with her," you sobbed against his chest.
"I'm going to buy everything that might help," Clark said. "A wipe warmer, some drops for colic, one of those pacifiers everyone recommends, a white-noise machine. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
And while he said that, he was already thinking about everything he had read online during those two weeks, every product parents recommended for babies who cried for no apparent reason.
Clark pulled away just enough to cup your cheeks in his large, gentle hands.
Slowly, with his thumbs, as if he had all the time in the world, he wiped away your tears.
His fingers were warm, and the touch made you feel a little less alone.
"Actually," he said, "I'll leave when she starts sleeping through the night and you're able to get proper rest. Until then, I'm staying."
You looked at him, your eyes still wet.
Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down a little, only whimpering softly against your chest.
You knew Clark was doing a lot for you.
Maybe too much.
And it hurt to say it, but you said it anyway.
"But it's not your responsibility. You're only the donor."
Clark nodded because it was true.
He was only the donor.
But he was also something more.
Something he didn't dare say out loud.
The father.
The man hopelessly in love with you.
"But I'm your friend," he said instead, "and I'd love to help you. Really. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to."
That wordâfriendâsettled in your chest like a warm coat in winter.
It wasn't what you might have wanted to hear.
But it was exactly what you needed in that moment.
Someone who would stay without asking for anything in return.
You hugged him, squeezing the baby safely between the two of you, and Clark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
I wish this moment would never end.
I wish I could stay like this forever.
Clark guided you gently back to bed.
First, he made sure the baby was completely asleep and settled her into her bassinet with a small blanket wrapped around her.
Then he returned to you.
"Let me check your incision," he said.
Even though it made you a little embarrassed, you nodded because you knew he only wanted to help.
You lay back against the mattress and lifted your shirt slightly.
Clark knelt beside the bed and, with extreme care, examined the C-section scar with the tips of his fingers.
It was pink.
Healing well.
No signs of infection.
"It's better than last week," he said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
He took the opportunity to use his special vision, just in case there was something that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.
Everything looked fine.
Clark also started hugging you more.
At first, they were quick hugs, the kind people give when saying hello or goodbye.
But then they became longer.
Tighter.
More necessary.
He knew you were still sensitive from the C-section, that sometimes your back hurt or you felt tired for no reason.
And he had discovered that when he hugged you, you relaxed.
That your body softened against his, as if his arms were the only place where you could finally lower your guard.
So he started hugging you for no reason.
In the kitchen, while you waited for the food to heat up.
In the living room, while the baby napped.
By the entrance, before he went out to buy something.
And you, without thinking too much about it, leaned into his chest.
Closing your eyes and resting your head against his shoulder had become a habit.
And many times, without even realizing it, you fell asleep like that.
Standing.
Wrapped in Clarkâs arms.
He would feel you grow heavier against him, hear your breathing become slower and deeper, and then he would carefully carry you to the couch or the bed.
He would lay you down gently, cover you with a blanket, and stay there for a while, watching you sleep.
He used those moments to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your strands as if they were silk.
It was his favorite moment of the day.
When you didnât have to pretend anything.
When you didnât have to be strong.
When you were just you, sleeping peacefully, and he could love you without anyone seeing.
That was when Clark realized that maybe Clark Kent could have the life he had always longed for.
The life of a normal man.
A home.
A woman waiting for him.
A daughter who smiled at him when he came back from work.
The kind of life people had in movies, with family dinners and unhurried weekends.
And he could hide it.
He could keep being Superman when the world needed him, and still come home before dawn.
He could have both.
Because seeing you there, with the baby in your arms, was enough to make him want to try everything.
But he was afraid.
That fear wouldnât leave, no matter how hard he pushed it away.
It was like a shadow following him everywhere.
And it wasnât a small fear.
It was a large, heavy fear that tightened around his chest when he least expected it.
The little girl was growing.
Every day, she was stronger.
More alert.
More beautiful.
She learned how to smile.
How to crawl.
And as he watched her grow, he thought about all the terrible things that could happen.
A villain discovering he had a daughter.
Someone following them to your apartment.
The little girl inheriting his powers and not knowing how to control them.
Hurting herself.
Or worse, hurting someone else by accident.
Those images haunted him at night, when everything was dark and his mind refused to stop spinning.
One day, without saying anything, Clark made a decision.
He went back to his apartment.
It wasnât a goodbye.
It wasnât a fight.
It wasnât a door slammed shut.
It was an, âIâm going home to sleep, Iâll be back tomorrow,â that turned into, âI stayed behind to take care of a few things, Iâll come by over the weekend.â
And then into an entire week without him crossing your doorway.
You didnât say anything to him, because what could you say?
It was his home.
He had every right to be there.
But you missed him.
You missed him the way people miss the sun in winter.
The bed felt bigger and colder.
The empty couch seemed to stare back at you accusingly.
The baby turned her head toward the door every time she heard a sound, as if she were waiting to see him walk in.
And so did you.
Even if you refused to admit it.
You knew he had to keep living his life.
You couldnât keep him locked inside your apartment forever.
It wasnât fair.
Besides, you started thinking things that hurt.
What if he truly loved someone else?
What if, someday, he met a woman who didnât have a recent C-section scar and a crying baby at two in the morning?
What if he wasnât afraid of anything with someone else?
And then forgot about you?
That thought pierced your chest like a thorn.
You tried to pull it out, but it kept coming back again and again.
You shouldnât be angry if that happens, you told yourself.
He was only a donor.
He wasnât your boyfriend.
He wasnât your husband.
He hadnât promised you anything.
He was just a friend who had been very generous.
And if one day he fell in love with someone else and left, you would have to accept it.
You would have to smile and wish him the best.
Even if your whole world collapsed inside you.
Even if you didnât want that.
Even if you wanted the exact opposite.
When the little girl turned seven months old, you went back to work.
Not at the Daily Planet.
Not yet.
You worked from home.
Editing articles.
Correcting drafts.
Sending emails to journalists so they would rewrite entire paragraphs.
It was tedious work, invisible work, but someone had to do it.
Perry valued your work because it was still excellent, even if you were doing it from the dining table with the baby crawling between your feet.
He called you once a week to ask how you were, and he always ended up saying, âWhenever you want to come back, your position is here.â
That made you feel good.
It reminded you that you werenât just a mother.
You were also an editor.
You also had a life.
Clark, for his part, didnât disappear completely.
He was still present, but in a different way.
On Fridays, after work, he knocked on the door.
He didnât knock loudly.
He didnât make noise with the knocker.
Just two gentle taps with his knuckles, as if he didnât want to disturb you.
You opened the door and he was there, with a tired but sincere smile, his hands full of things.
He picked up the little girl immediately.
He took her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted her above his head, and the baby let out a contagious laugh.
A laugh that made even the plants in the apartment want to dance.
The little girl knew him very well.
She recognized his scent, his voice, the tickle of his beard when he brought her close to his cheek.
And Clark loved that child with an intensity he could barely contain.
His entire face lit up when she grabbed one of his fingers with her tiny hand.
You hesitated whenever you watched him holding her.
Whenever you saw him laughing with her, spinning her in the air, blowing raspberries against her little belly.
Something moved inside you.
Something you didnât know how to name.
You wanted him there every night.
Not just on Fridays.
Not just once in a while.
You wanted him every day.
Every hour.
Every minute.
But you knew that wouldnât happen.
You couldnât ask that of him.
It wasnât fair.
And besides, what were you supposed to say?
Stay with me because I canât bear it when you leave?
It sounded insane.
It sounded like someone in love.
Clark looked at you and smiled.
That quiet smile of his, the one that always disarmed you.
But there was something in his eyes too.
Something you didnât know how to read.
Something that seemed to say, I miss you too, but in a language neither of you dared to speak.
He never arrived empty-handed.
He brought gifts for the little girl.
A new rattle.
A cardboard book with animals.
A soft stuffed toy the baby sucked on until it was soaked with drool.
And for you, dessert.
Always something different.
Flan.
Rice pudding.
A slice of apple pie.
Bread pudding.
Or sometimes, when it wasnât dessert, he brought flowers.
A small bouquet, the kind sold on the corner, tied with a simple ribbon.
You placed them in a glass cup because you didnât have a vase, and you looked at them for days, until they withered.
You never said anything to him.
But every time you saw those flowers, your chest filled with something warm and sweet.
And then, as if it were nothing, Clark stayed.
He stayed to clean up the kitchen.
He washed the dishes from lunch, wiped down the counter, put the milk back in the fridge.
Or he went to pick up something from the dry cleanerâs that you had left there because you hadnât had time to go.
Or he fixed the squeaky closet door.
Or changed a lightbulb.
Always with an excuse.
Always with something to do.
Because the truth was that he looked for any reason to come back to you.
Any excuse to be near you.
He didnât know how to tell you.
He didnât dare stay completely.
But he couldnât leave entirely either.
So he lived in that middle place.
That limbo of Fridays, desserts, and flowers.
And you let him.
Because even though you never said it, you also looked for excuses to make him stay a little longer.
Just a little longer.
Always a little longer.
Until the night grew late and he said, âWell, I should go,â and put his shoes on by the entrance.
And you, sitting on the couch with the baby asleep on your chest, could only manage to say, âTake care.â
When what you really wanted to say was, Donât go.
You found a caregiver to look after little Eloise.
That was the girlâs name.
Eloise.
A soft name, like something from a fairytale princess, one you had chosen because it sounded beautiful and because you didnât know anyone else with that name.
Clark had nodded when you told him.
And later, when she was already a few months old and you called her by name, he would say, âEloise,â in a voice so tender it was as if the name melted in his mouth.
The caregiver was an older woman, the kind with gray hair gathered into a bun and hands that were soft but firm.
Her name was Rosa, and she had years of experience taking care of babies.
She had raised five children of her own and nine grandchildren, so she knew more about diapers and colic than all the books in the world.
Clark found her after interviewing seven people.
He investigated her without her knowing.
He used his hearing to listen to her conversations from far away and his eyes to see if she was hiding anything bad.
He made sure she was truly a good woman, not just someone who appeared to be one.
And Rosa was.
She arrived on time every morning, wearing her white apron and her grandmotherly smile, and stayed with Eloise while you went to work.
The baby loved her from the first day, maybe because Rosa smelled like bread and lavender soap, or maybe because babies know how to recognize good people.
So you went back to the Daily Planet.
On the first day, you woke up nervous, as if it were your first day at work instead of your return after many months away.
You put on a shirt that fit you well, a pair of pants you could finally button again, and stared at yourself in the mirror for a long while.
âIâm the same person I was before,â you told yourself. âIâm a good editor. I can do this.â
You kissed Eloise on the forehead, left a bottle ready for Rosa, and walked out the door with your heart pounding in your chest.
But the first day wasnât what you expected.
You arrived at the Daily Planet, and the smell of paper, ink, and old coffee hit you like a hug from a friend you hadnât seen in a long time.
Typewriters clattered.
Phones rang.
Journalists rushed from one side to the other with papers in their hands.
Everything was the same.
Everything was exactly as you remembered it.
Lois welcomed you the way she always did, with a big smile and a shove to the shoulder.
âFinally! I was getting tired of being the only sensible woman in this place,â she said, and you laughed because Lois was anything but sensible.
Jimmy hugged you, a strong and quick hug, and then looked you in the eye and said, âWhereâs the baby? I miss her more than I miss you.â
And you laughed again.
They both knew your little girl, and they loved her.
They had visited her several times.
They had fought over who got to hold her longer.
They had bought her dresses and stuffed animals and books she still couldnât read.
They were family too.
They made coming back feel safe.
But then Perry called you into his office.
It wasnât his usual desk anymore, because now he had a bigger office, with windows overlooking the street and a plant dying in the corner because no one watered it.
You sat across from him, and he smiled at you with that grumpy old-man face that, deep down, belonged to someone good.
âI have a surprise for you,â he said, and pressed a button on his phone. âSend her in.â
The door opened, and a woman walked in.
A blonde woman.
The kind of blonde who looked as if she had stepped out of a magazine, with long, shiny hair that seemed like it had been straightened that very morning.
She had green eyes, a pale green like moss after the rain, and a beautiful smile.
The kind of smile that made you want to smile too, even when you didnât feel like it.
Perry introduced her to you.
âThis is Lexie. A new editor,â he said.
And you looked at her.
Measured her from head to toe without meaning to.
And something in your stomach tightened without you knowing why.
Perry kept talking, but you were no longer fully listening.
âSheâs been working with Clark these past few months,â he said, as if it were an insignificant detail. âI placed her as a staff writer first, but I think she has editor potential.â
You smiled.
You made the automatic gesture of nodding and extending your hand to greet her.
âNice to meet you,â you said.
And your voice sounded normal, even though inside, you felt very far from normal.
Because then you remembered something.
You remembered how Clark, in the last few weeks before you returned to work, sometimes spent time on his phone with a smile.
A strange smile.
One that wasnât for you, or for Eloise, or for anyone you knew.
He would be sitting on the couch in your apartment, the baby asleep against his chest, and suddenly his phone would vibrate.
He would look at it and let out a tiny smile, the kind that slips out before someone can stop it.
You hadnât given it any importance then.
You thought maybe it was a message from Lois, or an article that had turned out well.
But now, with Lexie standing in front of you, blonde and beautiful and smiling, Clarkâs smile took on another meaning.
Clark had never mentioned there was someone new.
Of course, he didnât have to.
You werenât a couple.
You didnât owe each other anything.
He could work with whomever he wanted.
Talk to whomever he wanted.
Smile at whomever he wanted.
There was no agreement.
No promise.
No rule saying he had to tell you about every new person who showed up at the newspaper.
Although he did know you were coming back.
He knew you would return.
And still, he hadnât said anything.
Maybe because it wasnât important.
Maybe because it meant nothing.
Or maybe because it did mean something, and he didnât want you to know.
You lowered your gaze for a moment.
Your shoes, black ones you had worn to feel more serious, suddenly seemed ridiculous.
You went back to your place, the desk you had left empty for so many months.
Someone had cleaned it.
There was no dust, no old papers.
Everything was tidy, as if they had been waiting for you.
But something had changed.
Lexie was seated in front of you now, at the desk across from yours, right where there had been no one before.
Now she was there, with her blonde hair and her smile and her green eyes, arranging her things as if she had belonged there all her life.
You looked at Clark.
He was standing beside his desk, a few feet away.
He saw you looking at him and smiled at you, that smile of his that used to calm you and now did something strange to your chest.
âWelcome home,â he said softly, as if nothing had changed.
As if you were still the same people you used to be.
You nodded.
âThank you,â you said, and turned back to your chair.
But everything felt different.
More distant.
As if there were an invisible pane of glass between you and the rest of the world.
The sounds of the newsroom seemed muffled, the familiar faces blurred, and every time you looked up, Lexie was there.
Typing.
Laughing.
Leaning over to speak to someone.
And you had no right to any of it.
You had no right to feel jealous.
No right to be angry.
No right to ask Clark why he hadnât told you anything.
Because he didnât owe you explanations.
Because he was free to live his life.
Because you yourself had told him, through your actions, that you didnât need him.
When he left your apartment after the birth.
When you let him pull away.
When you did nothing to keep him there.
You had told him without words that it was fine for him to leave.
And he had left.
Not completely.
But enough for there to be room now for someone else.
You watched them joke around.
Clark and Lexie.
They were standing near the coffee machine, she with a cup in her hand, he with his arms crossed.
Lexie said something.
Clark laughed.
And you saw the way he tilted his head toward her, as if to hear her better.
Inside jokes?
Jokes only the two of them knew?
The weeks she had spent working with him, those months when you hadnât been there, had created something.
Something you hadnât watched grow.
Something that was now right there, in front of your eyes, and you couldnât ignore it.
You looked away.
You looked at your computer, the screen glowing white, the cursor blinking as it waited for you to write something.
Anything.
A headline.
A correction.
Whatever.
You told yourself it was foolish.
That Clark had left your apartment because maybe he felt too obligated.
Maybe he felt trapped.
Maybe he didnât want to be the donor who stayed forever because that wasnât what you had agreed on.
Maybe he needed his space.
His life.
His friends.
Maybe you had been a burden without realizing it, and he had simply been too kind to tell you.
Maybe Lexie was everything you couldnât be.
Lighter.
Easier.
Without a baby waiting for her at home every night.
Without a C-section scar that still hurt sometimes.
Without a pile of diapers and bottles and sleepless nights.
So you focused on your work.
You opened your pending emails, reviewed the articles that had been assigned to you, and began correcting the first one.
It was a piece about a gas leak in the south of the city.
You read every word.
Corrected commas.
Rearranged a few paragraphs.
You did everything right.
Everything professionally.
But every two or three minutes, unable to help yourself, you looked up.
Clark was still there, talking to Lexie.
She was laughing, running a hand through her hair, and Clark was smiling.
It wasnât a huge smile.
It wasnât a burst of laughter.
It was a comfortable smile.
The kind someone gives to a person they know.
To someone who doesnât make them feel self-conscious.
And from your desk, you felt like a stranger in your own place.
As if the months you had spent away had erased something that used to exist.
Something that maybe had only existed in your head.
You said nothing.
You couldnât.
You had no right.
Clark wasnât yours.
He never had been.
He was only the friend who had donated his sperm to you.
The friend who had stayed for two weeks taking care of you.
The friend who was now smiling at another woman while you watched from far away.
And that empty feeling in your chest was nothing more than the memory of something that had never happened.
Or that was what you tried to make yourself believe as you typed âreviseâ beside the articleâs headline and pressed your lips together to keep a sigh from escaping.
The weeks passed.
And it wasn't easy.
You couldn't stop yourself from crying, and you hated yourself a little for it.
Because you cried in the newspaper's bathroom, with the water running so no one would hear.
You cried in your car before starting the engine.
You cried in the shower, when no one could see you.
It was stupid, you knew that.
It was stupid to cry over someone who had never been yours.
Now you had your daughter, a beautiful little girl who looked at you with those huge eyes and filled your heart in a way no one else ever could.
You couldn't compare yourself to Lexie.
You couldn't compete with her.
Because this had been your decision.
You had decided that Clark was only a donor.
You had decided that the two of you wouldn't be a couple.
You had decided that he could leave whenever he wanted.
So you had no right to feel bad about seeing him with someone else.
And yet, you felt terrible.
You felt so terrible that sometimes it was hard to breathe.
So you focused on the only thing you could control: your daughter.
Every afternoon when you got home, happiness hit you in the face the moment you opened the door.
Because Eloise would see you, stretch her little arms toward you, and make that sound that was almost "ma-ma," though she still couldn't quite pronounce the "m."
You would pick her up, hold her tightly against your chest, and for a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
Lexie disappeared.
Clark disappeared.
The office, the looks, the inside jokesâeverything faded away.
There was only you and her and the baby scent that had soaked into your clothes.
Clark still came to your apartment.
But not like before.
Not with the same frequency.
He showed up on Fridays, sometimes Wednesdays, always with some excuse.
He brought something for Eloise: a new book, a toy, a blanket.
But you no longer looked at him the way you used to.
Before, whenever he walked through the door, your whole face lit up.
Now you greeted him with a short, "Hi," and went back to whatever you were doing.
You didn't offer him coffee.
You didn't sit beside him on the couch.
You didn't rest your head on his shoulder while the baby slept.
You had built yourself a shell.
An invisible suit of armor that wouldn't let him get close.
He noticed, of course.
Clark noticed everything.
But he didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say either.
And the worst part was that you had started cutting phone calls short too.
When he called, you let it ring a few times before answering with a curt, "What is it?"
You talked only about what was necessary.
The baby.
The caregiver.
Some paperwork.
And when there was nothing left to discuss, you would say, "Alright, see you..." and hang up before he could answer.
You didn't want to hear his voice any longer than necessary.
Because if you listened to his voice, your heart softened.
And you couldn't allow that.
Not again.
You felt guilty.
Terribly guilty.
Because Clark hadn't done anything wrong.
He had simply continued living his life.
He had simply gone to work and met someone new.
He wasn't a traitor.
He hadn't betrayed you because he had never belonged to you in the first place.
Because you had never been together.
And yet, you treated him as if he had stabbed you in the back.
Every time you hung up without a proper goodbye, you stared at your phone afterward and thought:
I'm an idiot.
But you couldn't stop yourself.
Something stronger than you kept pushing you away from him.
Kept telling you to protect yourself.
To avoid giving him the chance to hurt you.
Even though he wasn't even trying to hurt you.
At the Daily Planet, no one besides the people closest to you knew that Clark was Eloise's father.
To the rest of the newspaper, you were simply a woman with a baby.
The father was a mystery.
An anonymous donor.
A "none of anyone's business."
Lois and Jimmy protected the secret as if it were treasure.
They never mentioned it out loud.
Never made comments that could raise suspicion.
So when Lexie arrived, she had absolutely no idea what had happened between you and Clark.
She didn't know he had slept on your couch.
She didn't know he had bought the crib.
She didn't know he had wiped your tears away in the middle of the night.
To Lexie, you were simply the editor who had returned after maternity leave.
And Clark was simply her coworker, the one who had shown her how everything worked during those first few months.
But Lexie, without knowing any of that, began making you feel awful.
You didn't know whether it was intentional or simply her personality, but her words pricked at you like tiny needles.
The kind you barely notice until your skin is covered in punctures.
One afternoon, in the newspaper kitchen, while you were heating water for tea, she approached with her mug and her perfect smile.
"So you really have a baby?" she asked, as though she had only just found out.
You nodded, smiling as politely as possible.
"Yes. Her name is Eloise," you said.
Because she was your daughter, and you were proud of her, even if talking about her with Lexie made you uncomfortable.
Lexie nodded, wearing an expression that suggested she was thinking something over.
"Hmm... and if you have a baby, wouldn't it be better to stay home?" she asked. "I mean... I feel like women who become mothers aren't as dedicated to work as they used to be because they have other things to focus on."
She said it softly.
As if it were a sincere concern.
As if she were doing you a favor by saying it.
You looked at her.
You felt the blood rush into your face, but you refused to let it show.
You stood there with your mug in your hand and took a slow breath before answering.
"I used to think the same thing," you said, with a calmness you didn't actually feel, "until Perry called and told me he needed me back. I guess he still hasn't found anyone better than me."
Then you smiled.
But it was a sharp smile.
The kind that cuts.
And you walked away before she could respond.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You moved quickly down the hallway, your eyes burning.
You didn't want to cry in front of her.
You didn't want to give her that satisfaction.
You entered the women's restroom, locked the door behind you, and leaned against the wall while taking deep breaths.
The tears came on their own.
Just like they always did these days.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, but more tears followed.
"I'm a professional," you repeated to yourself.
"What that woman said is ridiculous."
"I'm good at what I do."
"I have a daughter, and I'm good at what I do."
But tears never listened to reason.
That was when your phone rang.
It vibrated in your pocket, and you pulled it out quickly, assuming it would be Lois or Jimmy.
But it was Rosa's number.
âRosa? Yes?â you said, trying not to let it sound like you'd been crying.
Rosa's voice was worried.
She didn't waste time getting to the point.
The baby had a fever.
Not a very high one, but she was restless, crying more than usual, and Rosa thought she should be seen by a doctor.
Your heart dropped straight to the floor.
You hung up without a proper goodbye, shoved your phone back into your pocket, and hurried out of the restroom, almost running.
You went straight to Perry's office.
You didn't look around.
You didn't notice Clark and Lexie in the distance, laughing about something again.
You didn't care.
Nothing mattered more than your daughter at that moment.
You reached Perry's door and knocked.
âCome in,â he called from inside.
You entered and explained what was happening, your voice shaky but determined.
Eloise had a fever.
Rosa was worried.
You needed to leave.
Perry looked at you over the rim of his glasses, frowned for a moment, then nodded.
âGo,â he said. âYou've been doing good work since you came back. Don't worry about things here.â
You thanked him and left without looking back.
As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, you heard hurried footsteps behind you.
âWhat happened?â
Clark's voice.
He had followed you.
Of course he had.
He always noticed when something was wrong, even when you didn't want him to.
You stopped.
Closed your eyes for a second.
You could have told him the truth.
You could have accepted his help.
You could have let yourself fall into his arms the way you had so many times before.
But no.
Something inside you hardened.
Hardened like stone.
No.
No, no, no.
You couldn't keep doing this.
You couldn't keep depending on him.
You couldn't keep needing him.
You couldn't keep feeling like he was the only person capable of holding you together when everything was falling apart.
Because he wasn't yours.
He belonged to no one.
Or maybe he belonged to Lexie.
Or maybe to whoever he wanted.
But not to you.
âNothing,â you said, your voice sounding angrier than you intended.
But angry was better than broken.
Angry was better than letting him see how badly you were falling apart.
Clark took a step closer.
His face was full of concern, the kind of expression he wore whenever something happened to you and he didn't know how to fix it.
âBut something happened. I saw you leave Perry's office withââ
You paused.
Took a deep breath.
And in that moment, you understood that this wasn't fair.
He didn't owe you anything.
You had no right to treat him badly just because you were hurting.
Clark had been good to you.
Kinder than anyone had ever been.
And you were repaying him with silence and slammed doors.
But even then, you couldn't let him get close.
Not again.
Because if he got close, you would fall again.
And falling a second time hurt too much.
You looked into his eyes.
Those blue eyes you had always liked.
Those blue eyes you still liked.
âEloise has a fever. I'm going home,â you said.
More calmly this time.
But with a distance that hit him like a punch.
âI'll come with you,â Clark said instantly.
He didn't hesitate for even a second.
His body was already moving toward the exit as if accompanying you was the most natural thing in the world.
But you stopped him.
You lifted a hand between the two of you, as if that gesture alone could keep him away.
âNo,â you said.
And the word came out stronger than you intended.
âYou keep living your life. I'll take care of my daughter.â
My daughter.
Not ours.
It wasn't a mistake.
You did it on purpose.
Because you needed him to understand that boundaries existed.
That the two of you had created them.
And that they had to be respected.
You walked away.
You headed for the exit without looking back.
But if you had looked back, you would have seen Clark standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms hanging limply at his sides and his expression shattered.
You would have seen him drag a hand over his face as if sadness could be wiped away like dust.
You would have seen him open his mouth to say something.
And then close it again because he couldn't find the words.
You would have seen a man in love.
Alone.
Standing in an empty hallway.
Watching the woman he loved and his daughter walk away from him without being able to do anything to stop them.
Because he knew he had no right.
Because he felt guilty too.
Because every night he told himself the same thing.
You can't put them in danger.
You can't love them the way you want to.
Keeping your distance is what's best for them.
And now that you were giving him that distance, it hurt as though someone had ripped a piece of his chest away.
But you didn't look back.
You walked out of the Daily Planet, the afternoon sun warming your face, and got into your car.
And as you drove home, toward Eloise, you cried again.
You cried because your daughter had a fever.
You cried because of what you'd said to Clark.
You cried because you missed him.
You cried because you didn't know how to be angry and heartbroken at the same time.
You cried until there were no tears left.
You arrived home with your heart lodged in your throat.
You climbed the stairs without even feeling your feet, your keys clenched tightly in your hand so no one would see them shaking.
You opened the door, and the first thing you did was search for Eloise.
Ready to run to her.
Ready to pick her up.
Ready to hold her until the fever broke.
But you didn't see her.
She wasn't in her bassinet.
She wasn't on the blanket where you usually let her crawl.
She wasn't anywhere.
The silence frightened you even more.
âRosa,â you called, your voice trembling.
The caregiver appeared from the kitchen wearing a calm smile that made no sense.
She didn't look worried.
She didn't look frightened.
She looked calm.
Far too calm.
âSheâs already with her father,â Rosa said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
âMr. Clark calmed her down.â
You froze.
Clark.
He had arrived first.
Of course he had arrived first.
He must have used his speed to get there before you.
To be there while you were still in your car, driving through your tears.
He had flown.
Or run.
Or whatever it was he did to move faster than any normal human being.
And instead of feeling angry, you felt a wave of relief so intense it almost hurt.
Because he was there.
Because he had come.
Because he always came.
You entered Eloise's room quietly.
The door was slightly open, and you pushed it wider with your fingertips.
There was Clark.
Standing beside the crib.
His eyes fixed on the baby.
He saw you enter, and his face immediately filled with sadness.
Not guilt.
Not pride.
Only sadness.
As if he already knew you wouldn't welcome his help, but had given it anyway.
âI heard her heartbeat from the Planet,â he said softly, almost whispering.
âIt was too fast.
Much too fast.â
You looked at him, not fully understanding.
Rosa hadn't realized it, but things had been more serious than they appeared.
The temperature had been very high.
Dangerously high.
The kind of fever that could become dangerous in a baby.
The kind that could rise quickly and cause harm before anyone noticed.
Clark had arrived just in time.
âI... used the cold to help regulate it,â he said, gesturing gently toward Eloise.
âMy breath. Ice. Things like that.â
And she fell asleep.
He looked at her for another moment.
Those eyes of his swollen from worrying.
From watching.
From feeling too much.
Then he carefully settled her into the crib and tucked a thin blanket around her so she wouldn't be too cold or too warm.
The baby took a deep, peaceful breath.
As if the danger had never existed.
Clark turned toward you.
He took a step forward.
Just one.
With the intention of getting closer.
Maybe to hug you.
Maybe to say something.
But you lifted your hand.
And placed an invisible wall between the two of you.
âGo back to the Planet,â you said.
Your voice came out harsher than you intended.
âI can handle this on my own.â
You left the room before he could answer.
You needed air.
You needed space.
You needed not to fall apart in front of him.
In the living room, Rosa was waiting with her purse in hand, ready to leave.
You gathered what little strength you had left, wiped your face with your sleeve even though you weren't crying yet, and smiled at her.
A fake smile.
The kind that hurts because it takes so much effort to hold in place.
"See you tomorrow," you said, trying to make your voice sound normal. "Clark already calmed her down, and we'll take her to the doctor."
Rosa smiled in relief, nodding.
"That's good."
She blew a kiss into the air in farewell.
You opened the door, watched her disappear down the stairs, and when the sound of her footsteps faded away, you closed it again.
You rested your forehead against the cool wood of the door and closed your eyes.
Behind you, Clark was still there.
You could feel him.
You could feel him without looking at him, the same way you can feel someone's gaze on the back of your neck.
"I don't understand," he said.
His voice wasn't angry.
It wasn't even sad.
It was tired.
The voice of someone who had spent days, weeks, months trying to understand what had happened.
"What did I do wrong for you to treat me like this? What do you want from me?"
You turned around.
You looked at him angrily, but it was the kind of anger that hurt more than sadness.
There were so many things you wanted to tell him that they all crashed together in your throat.
You lowered your gaze to the floor because you couldn't hold his.
Your shoesâthe same ones you'd worn to work that dayâsuddenly felt like the only real thing in the middle of all that chaos.
"You're not the problem," you said.
And your voice cracked.
"It's me. Just... go away, Clark."
Clark took a step forward.
Not a threatening step.
The step of someone who wasn't willing to leave without fighting for an answer.
"Why?" he asked.
And that single word carried more weight than any other word he'd spoken in his life.
You looked at him.
You couldn't hold it back anymore.
Tears filled your eyes, and one escaped, warm against your skin, rolling down your cheek to your chin.
"Because it was a mistake," you said.
The words barely made it out of your mouth.
A mistake.
Two words capable of changing everything.
"Eloise is the best thing that's ever happened to me in the entire world, but... having your genes..." You swallowed hard. "At first, I thought it would be the most beautiful thing in the world."
You looked at him angrily.
But it wasn't anger directed at him.
It was anger at yourself.
At your own stupidity.
At believing you could have him without actually having him.
"My God," you continued.
The words rushed out as though you were afraid time was running out.
"The only reason I even had that thought was because I liked you. Having a child with the person you're in love with is a dream. But... I can't demand anything now that Lexie is there. God, that woman is..."
You stopped.
Took a deep breath.
Tried to calm yourself.
"I can't even insult her because I'm the one who said we were nothing. That nothing would happen. That you'd only be a donor. And now I'm jealous because you acted like we were something ever since I got pregnant and..."
Your voice broke completely.
You couldn't continue.
You covered your face with your hands as if you could hide from him.
From your own words.
From everything you had just confessed.
You cried openly now.
Your shoulders trembling.
Your fingers pressed tightly against your face.
"You didn't tell me about Lexie," you managed between sobs. "And I know that's your right, and... it hurts so much. Just... please go away, Clark."
And then you felt arms wrapping around you.
His arms.
Clark hugged you.
It wasn't a hesitant hug.
It wasn't brief.
It was a full embrace.
The kind that completely surrounds you.
The kind that presses you against a warm chest and makes the entire world stop for a moment.
You cried against him, soaking his shirt with every tear you'd spent weeks holding back.
And he didn't let go.
He didn't tell you to stop crying.
He didn't tell you to calm down.
He simply held you.
One hand cradling the back of your neck.
The other resting against your back.
As if he wanted you to know that he would never let you fall.
"Are you jealous of Lexie?" he asked softly.
His voice was so close that you felt his chin brush the top of your head.
You didn't answer.
You couldn't.
All the words were gone.
But he didn't need an answer.
He already knew.
"If you had told me you wanted me to stay, I would have."
Clark's voice trembled slightly.
"I would've done it without hesitation."
You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
Your vision was blurry.
But you could still see him clearly.
As if the rest of the world had turned gray and only he still had color.
"You said it yourself two years ago, Clark. You didn't want anything serious."
The words came out wrapped in a knot of pain.
You had carried them for so long.
Turning them over and over in your mind.
Trying to understand them.
Trying to accept them.
Clark cupped your face in both hands.
Slowly, he wiped away your tears one by one with his thumbs.
His fingers were warm.
Gentle.
The touch made you tremble.
"I didn't want to hurt the woman I love," he said.
And those words, spoken so plainly, struck your chest like lightning.
You stared at him.
Confused.
"What?" you whispered.
Because your brain couldn't process what it had just heard.
Clark smiled.
A sad smile.
A tender smile.
The smile of someone who had waited a very long time to say something and had finally found the courage.
"I thought having a child with you would at least give me the chance to stay close to you."
His thumb brushed away another tear.
"Without having to fear someone hurting you just to find out where Superman is."
Another tear.
Another gentle touch.
"Just to stay close to you."
You stared at him, eyes wide.
"What?" you repeated.
Because there was no other word left in your mind.
Clark laughed.
A small laugh.
A nervous laugh.
The laugh of someone risking everything.
"If you tell me to stay right now, I will."
His voice softened.
"Because there hasn't been a single woman I've loved since the day you walked into the Planet who wasn't you."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
"And Lexie is nothing more than another woman among many."
His eyes locked onto yours.
Blue.
Deep.
Like entire oceans.
"But you're the woman I've loved."
The words settled between you.
Heavy.
Certain.
Real.
"And if you want me to stay, I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you. I won't be afraid of having a family anymore."
His voice almost broke.
"But I need to know."
He waited.
Silence stretched between the two of you.
Growing larger.
"Do you want me to stay?"
You looked at him.
And you cried.
But these weren't tears of sadness anymore.
They were the kind of tears that come when something broken for a very long time finally begins to heal.
Clark saw you crying.
And something in his face dimmed slightly.
As if he thought you were going to say no.
As if he were already bracing himself for the impact.
But you weren't going to say no.
You could never say no.
"Don't leave again," you whispered.
Barely louder than a breath.
And you threw yourself into his arms as if your life depended on it.
You clung to him.
His arms.
His back.
His shirt.
Everything.
Clark let out a breath.
Not an ordinary breath.
A huge one.
A breath of relief.
The kind released by someone who has been holding it for years.
He took your face in his hands again with a tenderness so overwhelming it nearly broke you apart.
And he kissed you.
Not on the lips.
Not yet.
He kissed your tears.
Your wet cheeks.
Your closed eyelids.
He kissed every tear as if he could erase them with his mouth.
And while he kissed you, he spoke between each kiss.
His voice broken.
But steady.
"No. I'm not leaving."
A kiss.
"I'm not leaving anymore."
Another kiss.
"Never again."
Another.
"I'm staying."
His forehead rested against yours.
"With you."
A kiss.
"With Eloise."
Another.
"I'm staying for as long as you'll let me."
His voice shook.
"And if you throw me out, I'll come back."
A kiss against your temple.
"And if you push me away, I'll crawl back."
Another.
"But I'm not leaving."
His eyes closed.
"Not again."
His hand trembled against your cheek.
"Not you."
And you held him tighter through your tears and uneven breaths.
And for the first time in monthsâ
For the first time in so many monthsâ
You felt like you could breathe.
Because Clark was there.
Because Clark was staying.
Because Clarkâthe good, quiet man who had loved you in silence for so longâhad finally said everything he needed to say.
