mari

she/her | adult!!

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gatorade kisses \ matt rempe

my champ \ nathan mackinnon

authors note ! hi everyone, my name is mari. i'm in my early twenties, i like hockey and i am somewhat new to writing (: i hope you enjoy my work 🤍

additional tags below :) check them out if you want :)

[kniesonice]

No Thing Defines A Man Like Love That Makes Him Soft ╰┈➤ NM29

summary: everyone knows that nathan mackinnon is a hard ass. monotonous. grumpy. maybe even a little boring to the outside perspective. then there’s you, who’s the complete opposite—giggly, bubbly, loud and cries anytime the titanic soundtrack plays. he should hate you—you’re all that plus cale’s little sister—but he just can’t. so nathan just pretends. but it’s not easy when his teammates start seeing through the facade.

[word count] 14.8k

warnings: MATURE! grumpy x sunshine trope | friends to lovers | obvious pining | humour / crack | cliches | drinking | swearing | mentions of throwing up (from drinking) | the most soft yearning nathan mackinnon you ever did see | a kiss | mentions of smut | timelines that make no sense obviously | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

pairing: nathan mackinnon x makar!reader

authors note: if you don’t like nate you’re just lying to yourself! kidding, kidding. but in all seriousness, I love writing for him so much and what better way than to do a little brothers teammate/ sunshine x grumpy trope :) title from strawberry wine by noah kahan.

lace dividers from @cursed-carmine

🎶 strawberry wine by noah kahan, bells & whistles by megan moroney and kacey musgraves, fool for you by zayn, wishful dreaming by 5 seconds of summer, staying by lizzy mcalpine, the longest goodbye by role model + kiss it better by rihanna

PART ONE: superman's citrus kryptonite

nathan mackinnon knows you've arrived landy's annual avs pre season afternoon barbecue once he hears your all too familiar laugh echo throughout his perfectly groomed backyard.

in nathan’s defense, it's a very distinctive laugh. loud, bright, and completely unrestrained. and you also usually snort, like a pug, which he would never admit he finds endearing, but he definitely does.

it's spills over the low hum of conversation and the crackle of the grill in front of him, cutting through everything else like it belongs at the center of it all. it bounces off the wooden fence, carries over the clink of bottles and the thud of a cooler lid slamming shut, and somehow manages to shoot right through nathan's chest.

he exhales slowly through his nose and forces himself to not look around like a lost puppy until he can spot you. because that would just be...obvious. the air smells like charcoal and something sweet—barbecue sauce, probably—thick and warm under the late afternoon sun. but when nathan takes a deep breath in, he swear he can only smell your perfume.

fruity, clean, and light. he'd never admit it, but one time he smelt almost 30 bottles in a marshall's, trying to find something that remotely resembled you.

but don't get it twisted, nathan mackinnon isn't a freak—or a pervert or anything else in that realm. he's just...no, he can't think of that right now.

someone's playlist hums in the background, bass low and steady, and just loud enough to fill the quieter moments. if there were anyway. but erik is yelling in the pool as he plays marco polo with the kids, and kadri is going crazy at corn hole. and you're still laughing.

"...and then I tripped," you're saying, voice animated. surely, your hands are moving as much as your words. like windmills. "like fully tripped—no recovery, no saving it—just straight down in front of everyone."

a chorus of reactions follows—laughs, groans, someone who sounds suspiciously like mikko mutters no way.

nathan keeps his composure, smashing some more burgers on landy's black stone like he's not actively yearning to catch even just the smallest glimpse of you. but he doesn't need to look because he can picture it anyway—your expression, the way your eyes go wide, and the inevitable grin that would follow like embarrassment is just another thing you turn into a joke.

he can't help but smile down at his feet just as the thought.

"you're lying," a different voice sounds. definitely ashley kadri, he thinks. it's confirmed when you briefly start cooing at nylah. always easily distracted.

eventually, you continue. "I swear! there was, like, a full second where I thought I could play it off, and then—nope." you clap your hands together once, sharp. "gone. and so was my popcorn, all over the floor of the theatre."

more laughter follows, and nathan's got to press his back molars together. god, who even is he?

it all started on a summer evening the year after their stanley cup winning run. everything smelt like sunscreen and chlorine. ice coffees melting faster than they can be drank. and the team, still high from winning the whole damn thing, decided to have some sort of celebration—a big lunch thing for friends and family at a local denver spot.

cale introduced you in passing. his kid sister, fresh out of college, coming out to denver to live closer with who you called your sibling turned best friend. nathan can relate, he feels that close with sarah as well.

he barley noticed you at first. well, that's technically a lie. because obviously he noticed your yellow sundress, and the way your smile lit up the entire restaurant, and how everyone seemed to gravitate towards you without knowing more than just your name.

but it was just a quick glance, a tight nod and a clipped—hey, nice to meet you—as nathan put out his calloused palm for you to shake. but you didn't shake it. no, you brushed it off with another smile and claimed you were a hugger, before pushing up onto your toes to embrace him.

you should've been his worse nightmare...so why for that entire evening could he not stop looking at you? and it's not like you didn't notice it—he wasn't exactly subtle from across the long table, wedged between EJ and melissa landeskog. how his eyes would keep flicking back to you when he thought you weren't looking, how he went unnaturally still when you laughed—like he was trying to memorize the sound without letting himself react to it.

he didn't ask you questions, didn't lean in, never smiled the way everyone else does—but he listened. it was easy to think he didn't like you. hell, at one point melissa turned to him, voice all hushed and straight up asked what his deal with you was.

but nathan didn't have an answer, which only made him look guiltier. but he was blushing and melissa knew. then landy, and then all of his teammates had this sort of suspicion that even they don't believe half the time.

even to this day, it would be easy to think he doesn't like you—he kind of makes sure of that, all distance and short answers and carefully controlled indifference—but there's something just slightly off about it.

too deliberate and too practiced like he's trying not to give himself away. and over the past few years, it seems to have worked at getting his teammates off his back, but it doesn't change the fact that deep down, ever seen you walked into the restaurant in that yellow dress, nathan has been obsessed with you. adores you. wants you.

wants you in every way he shouldn't want someone that much younger than him. someone who's related to one of his closest teammates. someone who is the complete opposite of himself. but he does—he wants all the late night pillow talks, the arguing over what colour to paint the living room walls, the sweet kisses and babies and everything in between.

but if someone was to ask? deny, deny, deny. sure—he'd say, acting indifferent—y/n is nice but she's just not my cup of tea. nathan mackinnon will lie through his perfect teeth before ever admitting to one of his insufferable friends that he has feelings for you.

the sound of your laughter breaks nathan out of his own thoughts. he curses to himself as one of the burgers starts smoking—blackened and charred. whoops, that's what he gets for thinking about you like that. your laugh, your mannerisms, your scent....no!

he turns away from the grill and grabs a drink from the open cooler by his feet. maybe a little harder than necessary when a few ice cubes shoot up and over the edge. the cold beer can seeps into his palm, a nice distraction from his own racing mind.

nathan exhales as he straightens, slow and measured, willing himself to chill the fuck out.

without wanting to burn anymore food, or get an earful from his captain, nathan turns heel back towards the grill. only, he's momentarily stunned when he sees you making your way over to him.

fuck.

your eyes meet and you're already grinning, expression brightening like seeing him is the best part of your day. maybe it is. and you weave through people with an ease that feels practiced and natural. effortless even.

he straightens slightly without meaning to. he still hasn't blinked by the time you stop in front of him, close enough that he can catch that faint citrusy scent. the long, white sleeves of your top are pushed up, some lacy, frilly thing that probably costs too much. you've paired it with jean cut offs and sandals, looking like a dream.

"hi nate," you say, slightly breathless from the heat and your trek across the yard. you reach up and tuck some of your hair behind your ear, passing your neck.

he gulps, burger press and can of beer still in hand. "y/n, hi."

there's a pause that follows, and in that you take the time to study him. and you're not shy about like he would be. it's open, and curious like you're trying to figure something out.

you hum, light a breezy, stepping impossibly closer. if you shifted an inch to the right, the knuckles that have gone white around his beer can, would brush your boobs. jesus.

"you look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

he swallows. puts down the beer. very careful to avoid touching your covered nipples or anything else just as incriminating. "i'm fine."

there's that hum again. unconvinced or something similar sounding at the back of your throat. your eyes dance over his features softly, and nathan has to force them to stay stoic. "scale of one to ten?" you prompt.

of course you're asking him that. it's just so you—so much so that it gets him to crack a smile. a barely there thing, half upturned lip that resembles a smirk more than anything. but a smile nonetheless. because you're the only one who could be asking him to rate his experience on a scale and nathan get all giddy about it.

however, he keeps his composure, getting back to the smokey grill and burgers. "i'm not doing a scale."

"okay," you drawl out, sliding in closer. "but if you were—"

"i'm not." he cuts in, sending you a look over his broad shoulder that says if you ask me one more time i'll totally rate it.

but you don't push. just grin—immediate and unfiltered. like that was exactly the response you wanted.

"landy come tell you how to properly do this yet?" you muse, all mock innocent, looking between nathan's tan face and the darkened, greasy stone.

"what?" he half bristles, stopping mid press. "I am doing it properly."

your grin only widens. "you're not, i've been watching and cringing for like, 10 minutes." it's an exaggeration, because nathan knows you've only been here for maybe 6.

"you're so full of it. there's no wrong way to smash a burger."

your mouth falls like he's just declared something catastrophic. like pineapple belongs on pizza. or that new moon is the worst movie in the twilight franchise. he can't help but roll his eyes at your dramatics, but he's also obsessed with them so he can't help the grin splitting his face again.

if someone was to look over, they'd think he's having a stroke. because there's no way that nathan fucking mackinnon would be having a good time with y/n makar—who is unarguably his complete opposite. if your personalities were powers, yours would be his kryptonite.

"there absolutely is," you tell him, "and you're butchering it." not waiting for a response, you push your way between him and the grill, and nathan is immediately hot with two things. your scent up close, expect now there's also something vanilla-y about it—a shampoo or something. and the second is that your ass is pretty much against his crotch, which is a whole new territory.

he swears lowly, so quiet that you don't hear it. or maybe you don't hear it because you're too busy trying to grab the burger press from his hand.

"i'm serious. let me do it." you say, looking at him over your shoulder. it shouldn't be so sexy because you're surrounded by everyone and there's kids running around with snotty noses and popsicles. but somehow it is.

nathan tries to put some distance between your bodies, but it only ends up with him bumping into a chair, which then sends him jumping back into you.

"you've never even grilled before." his protest is weak, because he can't even fucking concentrate properly.

"that not the point—give me the pressy thing."

and he does. of course he does. and you smile triumphantly like it's more than just a burger press.

with your bodies still an inch from being together in a way that would be indecent, nathan watches over your head as you start pressing against the balls of raw beef, flattening them and all their inter-webbed seasoning against the stone.

"see," you slightly grunt, putting real strength into it. but you're also laughing, joyful and happy. far too much enthusiasm for cooking burgers, but nathan feels proud like you're accomplishing something greater.

grease pops, making you flinch and yelp back into his strong chest. his warm palm settles on your torso—right on the sliver of skin between your shorts and top—meaning to steady you, but as soon as he's touching your bare skin, nathan’s forgotten how to breathe like a normal person.

you laugh at yourself, shaking out your hand. the grease must've made contact.

he blinks, "are you okay?" his eyes then asses you at the speed of lightning. fingers, palm, wrist. then briefly over the rest of your exposed skin, checking for grease related injuries. he finds none.

you spin, still pressed close. a smile on your face. "i'll be better when you let me do the next round as well."

"do I really get a say if you continue?"

"nope." and then you're back at it, grabbing more meat from the blue and white patterned bowl beside the blackstone, dropping it down with a splat (which makes you snort and make some comment about it looking like plankton from spongebob on the bottom of a shoe).

but he forces himself to look away from you. because you're too much in the best, most overwhelming way possible.

thankfully, gabe comes over and immediately starts telling you that your smash burgers are better than nathan's—which has you fucking floating. it's good, because he's sure if he was alone with you and your smell and your pretty lips and annoying laugh a minute longer, he would've done something stupid like kiss the shell of your ear. or tell you how he feels.

but he knows he just...can't.

PART TWO: reel it in

the line to the downtown nightclub curls halfway down the block. a slow moving, impatient thing made up of heels on concrete, low conversations, and the distant thud of bass leaking through the club doors. the night air is warm for september, but in that sticky, city way—perfume and exhaust and something sweet drifting from somewhere nearby.

every few seconds the line shifts forward just enough to make it feel like progress. nonetheless, you're practically vibrating in the spot.

"okay, no, but this was a good idea," you insist for what has to be the third time, turning halfway around to face the group, hands uselessly flailing around as if gesturing to it. the club. the line. who knows. "like, objectively, this is fun already."

you're already tipsy. borderline plastered and already in that state where it's a gamble whether you'll remember from here on out in the morning.

"it's a line," erik mutters behind you, hands tucked into his jacket.

you shoot him a pointed look. "and you're old."

he snorts.

"besides, it's the anticipation," you correct, grinning. "very exciting."

nathan stands just off to the side, adjacent to your bare shoulder. he's close—close enough that if you leaned back even slightly, you'd bump into him. he lets himself think about that for only a second. wrapping you up, forearm around your collarbones.

he hasn't said much since you all got here, which was about 15 minutes ago. actually—he hasn't said much since you told him the plan earlier in the week.

because...clubs aren't his thing. their loud, crowded and unpredictable and everything he tries to avoid. in other words, they're exactly like you. everyone knows that, and when you mentioned wanting to do this for your birthday, you said that you didn't expect him to come because of his hatred for the party lifestyle.

and yet here he is. black button down open to reveal his white t-shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. jaw tight like he's already over it, eyes scanning the street instead of the line. instead of you.

in all honesty, he hasn't been able to properly look you in the eye without going through an internal crisis since he pulled up to landy's, where you had already been getting ready with mel, tracey and ashley.

he had walked in and could already smell you, which was a whole thing in itself. but then you came waltzing down the stairs, glittery and dressed like that. a tight complicated looking dress that looks painted on—paired with a birthday sash and crown. even though your birthday wasn't technically till midnight.

nathan tried to look unaffected when you hugged him, drunk and loud, but erik had caught on. and nathan knew that he did—so he's been avoiding both erik and your eyes since then to save some face.

it's not until you spin, unsteadily, to face him that nathan looks at you properly again. mostly because he's scared you're going to fall on your face, so he's already got his hands out to steady you.

but you don't fall, only giggle when the crown stars to slip. you shimmy closer to him through the packed line, which hasn't moved since the last time, and blink up at him like a doll.

"you're gonna hate it in there," you say.

he avoids breathing through his nose when he replies, because you smell like fucking heaven. tequila as well, but that's not even a problem.

"I won't." he lies. just then, a couple of drunk frat guys come stumbling out of the club, yelling something about their greek affiliations that make nathan pull a face.

you squint, teasing and accusing all the same. "you already do."

he looks back at you and forces his features back to that unaffected, neutral look that he uses in every interview. "I don't."

"you're scowling."

"i'm not scowling."

you lean in slightly, still peering up at him. like you're inspecting the evidence. the crown slips down again, sitting against your eyebrow, but you don't notice. "you definitely are."

"i'm not."

you hum, unconvinced. "we'll fix that."

nathan not sure who we entails, but his mouth twitches despite that.

just then, erik just has to squeeze between where you're standing and gabe, meaning that you’re forced to shuffle closer into nathan's orbit to make room for the giant defender.

obviously, you don't care. practically snuggling up to nathan and all his warmth. meanwhile, he's freaking out. naturally.

and it's like you know that when you look back up at him, because your grin widens like you've just won something.

he, once again, has to immediately look away. jaw tightening to stone, composure snapping back into place. because maybe if these were different circumstances and nathan wasn't such a weirdo, he'd wrap his arms around you and keep you against his chest. press kisses to your jaw and neck until you're laughing at the feeling of his stubble—attempting to escape his hold but also not trying at all.

"you didn't have to come, you know," you say, nudging his chest lightly with your elbow, snapping him out of his thoughts. he blushes like he's been caught. you continue, "I wouldn't have been offended. I know you don't like all this stuff."

"I know." he shrugs. like...that's that. so simple.

"but you did anyway." you note, already half way back to grinning. the line inches forward. someone up ahead laughs too loudly, the bass inside the club pulsing stronger now every time the door opens. erik is still babbling on about something irrelevant with gabe.

nathan exhales, gaze still fixed somewhere over your shoulder. "it's your birthday...thing," he says eventually, like that's explains why he's like, abandoned his morals. and then like you don't know what he's talking about, he pokes at your lopsided crown.

you raise a brow.

then, ever so timidly and only after making sure all your friends weren't watching him with the eyes of a hawk looking for its dinner, nathan's knuckle hits the bottom of the crown and then pushes it back up. into place.

once he drops his hand, you tilt your head slightly, studying him. "yeah, it is."

he swallows the golf ball sitting in his throat. fingers itching to reach back up and graze your hair. or your forehead. frankly, any part of you would do. a beat passes, before he says anything more, eyes still locked with yours.

"so happy birthday," he adds, quieter.

your smile should be illegal. "thanks nate." then you add, tone almost conspiratorial. "although, it's not my birthday quite yet."

catching that comment behind you, erik makes a noise, now invading your bubble of space. "by the time we get in there it will be."

—

considering that the music sounded loud outside of the club, it shouldn't come as a surprise that when you, nathan and the rest of the group finally get inside, it becomes deafening—loud enough that it stops feeling like sound and starts feeling like something physical. settling in nathan’s chest and rattling his ribs with every beat.

the lights flash in quick bursts—neon blues and pinks and whites—catching on faces, on moving bodies, on raised hands and spilled drinks and everything in between. it's too much for nathan, and he's scowling again.

but all the reason he hates it are the exact reasons why you love it.

you're immediately wrapped up into the crowd with ashley, tracy and melissa. once again, you've all already been drinking and getting pumped up for this, so nobody can blame you. the guys kind of just hover at one of the tall tables that line the floor and bar, looking out for you all while also just…chilling before the season really begins, and nathan stars jumping on their asses for even thinking about beer.

he can't keep his eyes off of you, because of course he can't. and in the dark of the club, nathan isn't worried about being caught, so he lets his eyes roam over your figure freely. your dress, your legs, the glitter sash sitting between your boobs. it's ethereal. and then you smile, laugh, and nathan feels like he's ascending to the clouds.

you're enjoying yourself, that much as clear. and he thinks he's starting too as well.

it's only about 45 minutes after arriving that you seem to remember the guys even came with you, and when you manage to spot them through the crowd and squeeze through dancing sweaty bodies, you're gone. unsteady on your feet, and warm and light and giggly in that way that makes everything feel softer.

"nate!" you beam, appearing in front of him like you've been dropped out of nowhere. you practically fall into him, between the table and his torso. your front to his. "I missed you!"

the drinks you'd been nursing (and spilling) are long gone. nathan is sure you've been sneaking shots that he hasn't noticed, because he can smell them on your breath.

"you okay?" he asks like an idiot, completely ignoring the admission on purpose. gabe snickers at that from beside you, and nathan is sure to shoot his captain a look.

he looks back at you, eyes scanning your face—the too bright smile, the way you're bouncing a little on your toes without realizing it, the glassy, dazed look in your eyes.

"yes," you slur a little. "i'm great. this is the best night ever."

erik and naz snicker from across the table, finding humour in the way you’re drag your words and stumble into nathan's chest without evening meaning to. then, naz the little shit, calls your name with a teasing twinkle. "hey y/n, want another shot?"

and you gasp, like its the best idea you've ever heard. nathan groans like it's the worst. "no," he tells you and his way too amused teammate. "no more shots."

"but i'm thirsty," you all but pout, fisting the material of his shirt in your palm.

once he stops shooting daggers at his friend, he looks back down into your eyes. fuck, that damn pout. nathan keeps his hand at his side uselessly, even though he wants nothing more than the slide the pad of his thumb over your petruding bottom lip.

"that won't help," he tells you, gentle but firm. if nathan was a better man, he'd be embarrassed about how controlling and possessive he sounds over a girl that's not even his. but the other part of his brain, the one that can register the feeling of you pressed against him and the way you’re now playing with the fingers he's got wrapped around his beer bottle, doesn't think about how it looks.

in his moment of distraction (or weakness) you manage to take the bottle right out his hand and press it to your lips. he opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out when you begin to promptly down the entire thing without breaking his gaze.

jesus—

"I hate beer," you grimace, then hiccup in a way that almost makes you gag.

he takes the bottle and puts in on the table with an empty clink. "you didn't have to drink it," nathan reminds you, a hint of a grin on his face that you don't catch because he's dropped his head down next to your ear, so you can hear him over the roaring bass.

warm breath fans over your cartilage as he continues. "it was also mine."

you giggle at that, like you know that despite his authoritative tone, he's full of shit. pulling your head back just enough, you look back up at him, full of mischief and something else equally as belly swooping. "come dance with me."

nathan almost hesitates in telling you no. because you're just so beautiful and smiley, peering up at him like he's the best part of your night. but at his core, nathan is anything but submissive. especially when it comes to dancing in public.

"i'm not dancing." he tells you through a laugh.

you stare at him for a second—like you're trying to process that answer. just a second. "please," you say, drawing the word out. even go as far to tip your head back, giving him your most exaggerated, over the top pleading look. "it's my birthday."

and despite himself and all his best efforts, nathan mackinnon lets you drag him onto the dance floor.

—

by the time you all make it back to gabe and mel's place, the night has tipped fully into that blurry, disjointed kind of late. nathan doesn't even want to look at the clock above the fireplace because he knows it's way passed the time he usually sleeps. meaning his routine will be all fucked up tomorrow. but his heart tells him the way you're leaning all your weight onto him makes it worth it.

multiple pairs of heels are kicked off at the front door in uneven piles, erik is laughing too hard in the kitchen all things considering, and ashley is already halfway collapsed on the couch with her arm thrown dramatically over her eyes like she's been personally victimized by the evening.

your groan next to him, now considerably shorter with your shoes discarded. the smell of leftover takeout and sweet caramel candle wax mix together in a nauseating way. because despite nathan's best efforts, you managed to sneak a shot, or three, off of ej and naz when nathan wasn't paying attention.

and to your credit, you held on for a long time, including the ride home in the back of an uber—which is just a pukey nightmare. you had been squished between mel and nathan, gabe yapping away in the front to the driver about the upcoming season—because of course the driver was a fan. that's probably why he let you guys in the car, even though you looked like one stomach roll away from throwing up all over nathan's lap.

you manage to make it two steps into the living room before the level of your alcohol intake finally catches up to you.

you sway, lost of all colour and your grasp on reality. "oh no," you whine, sticky crown falling off your damp head and onto the floor.

cale looks over from the kitchen immediately, pausing his water chug. "what?"

"I don't feel—" you swallow, face scrunching as the room tilts just slightly. "I don't feel good."

that's all it takes. there's a chorus of uh ohs and yep there it is from your friends—minus ashley because she's already snoring on the couch. someone snorts (erik definitely), and someone else mutters something about it being inevitable (melissa probably), and before you can even properly complain, you're being gently yet firmly redirected down the hall.

"bathroom," your brother says, steering you towards the powder room at the front of the house.

"I know where the bathroom is," you mumble half heartedly, deeply offended for no real reason other than being drunk.

cale snorts when you walk into the door frame. "clearly."

you try to glare at him, but it doesn't stick as the bathroom light flickers to life. it reflects off the mirror, making everything feel worse.

you drop to your knees with significantly less grace than you'd like, bracing yourself against the edge of the toilet like it personally wronged you. "this is the worst day of my life," you declare after a violent, spitty dry heave.

the door clicks closed softly, shutting out most of the noise from the rest of the house.

"you're fine," a familiar voice that definitely doesn't belong to your brother says. nathan's voice is low and steady, like he's intentionally keeping things calm.

you don't even bother asking him what he's doing, because it's obvious enough. he's taking care of you, undeterred by your bile or the perspiration lingering by your hairline.

"i'm not fine," you argue immediately. "i'm dying."

he grins behind your back, "you're not dying."

"you don't know that." you whine, cheek dropping to the toilet seat until it's pressed flat. you can’t think about the germs, or else you'd start gagging again.

there's a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he moves closer. a second after he appears as a blur in your line of sight, you feel his hand on the side of your face, fingers gently pushing tangled hair back behind your ear. gently, not tugging.

"stay still," he murmurs.

"I am still," you protest, even though you're shifting and rubbing your hot cheek against his rough palm.

he almost throws up himself at that, simply because the feeling of you nuzzling against his skin is enough to send him on a roller coaster.

"oh my god," you mumble suddenly, voice muffled. "I feel like kat in that scene from 10 things I hate about you."

nathan's hand stills for a half a second against the side of your head. "what's that?"

your head snaps up—almost smacking his nose in the process—enough to look at him, completely scandalized. "you've never seen it?" you gasp, much to his amusement. "oh my god, nate, please watch it with me."

and then you gag over the toilet bowl again. nathan runs his hand up the nape of your neck without thinking, and takes ahold of your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you continue to heave.

"maybe when your head's not in a toilet bowl." he reminds you, firm yet gentle.

you blink at him when you've calmed down, tears in your eyes. then, despite everything—the nausea, the spinning, and the general state of your existence—you laugh.

it comes out a little weak, a little breathless and stinky, but neither of you seem to care. you because you're hammered, and nathan because he fucking, like, loves you.

"you're funny," you muse, like you've just discovered something shocking.

"i'm not." he breathes a laugh of his own.

"you are," you insist, turning your head slightly so you can look at him better. "you just pretend you're not when everyone's around."

he doesn't have a response to that. he just watches you for a second, expression unreadable but softer than it usually is, like the edges have been smoothed down by the privacy of the bathroom. and you. always by you.

"you hate this," you add suddenly, a little quieter now, wiping at your runny nose with the back of your hand. "tonight, I mean."

"I didn’t hate it."

"you hate clubs." you remind him.

he hums, "I do."

"and you came anyway."

he exhales lightly, gaze dropping for a moment before coming back to you. "yeah." his grip on your hair adjusts again, thumb brushing lightly near your temple like he's making sure everything stays out of the way.

and you're looking at him all fuzzy and sweet—nathan doesn't even care that you're all clammy and there's a little bit of puke on the toilet seat, because to him, you're still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

it's too much all at once, and he's on the brink of telling you thing he shouldn't—not only because you're drunk and gagging, but because he knows he can't.

"focus on not throwing up," he tells you instead, pushing away all mushy thoughts of kissing you and feelings and confessing out of his head.

"bossy." you mumble, smile faint as your eyes begin to flutter closed. exhaustion slowly creeping its way into your bones.

—

nathan isn't surprised when he walks downstairs and sees that you haven't woken up yet.

it's all decorated, courtesy of melissa who's smile changes when she sees it's him coming into the kitchen and not you. a big glitter birthday banner hags from the ceiling, along with balloons and a matcha drink with a candle on top—because you don't like cake.

the guys and tracy and ashley are scattered around the island, some noticeably worse for wear. erik groans like he's been shot when the toaster pops.

"it's bread," gabe snickers in the direction of his oldest teammate. "relax."

"you relax," erik hisses, heels of his palms pressed so deep into his eye sockets that it must be painful.

nathan sits down on one of the empty bar stools, looking like he didn't even go out last night. to be fair, he only had like two beers. and despite the time on the clock when he finally got you into bed and the went to sleep himself, nathan still managed to get up at the crack of dawn. where he then promptly took an hour in gabe's home gym to get his muscles moving, and then took a long hot shower.

because he kind of smelt like your perfume and your bile, which wasn't the most ideal. neither was staying up an extra hour once all the chaos has died down because he couldn't stop thinking about you. or your tiny dress, or how you looked at him while chugging his beer. or your drunk smile—especially that smile.

the stairs creak, and before he can be chill about the idea of seeing you this morning, nathan's head whips aorund so fast it's a shock that his neck doesn’t snap.

but it's not you, just the dog.

with a sigh, he faces forward again, gaze landing on the ice matcha with the pink candle melissa shoved into the straw opening. he itches to get up and put it in the fridge, because the ice is starting to melt and you hate when it's watery like that.

"you gonna bring that up to her?" gabe suddenly asks, leaning on the island directly across from him.

nathan blinks in suprise. "no?"

"why not?"

"she's probably still asleep." he huffs, and when gabe's knowing and all too pleased smirk starts to grow, nathan can't help but scoff. "don't you have food to cook?"

his captain laughs, bright and too loud, making nathan's scowl deepen. "and?"

his jaw tightens slightly. "and i'm not waking her up."

gabe tilts his head, studying him in that way that feels a little too perceptive. the eggs sizzle un-attended on the stove, and he briefly leaves nathan to flip them.

"you sat with her last night." he notes, looking over his shoulder at him.

nathan stills for half a second.

"cale told me," gabe adds easily. "said you didn't leave until everything settled."

he shrugs, like it's nothing, even though his stomach suddenly feels queasy at the prospect of his friend being able to read him so well. because if gabe knows, then melissa knows and then you'll know.

jesus, he needs to like go home or something.

"she wasn't feeling good." nathan answers like that all there is to it.

"right." gabe can only muse, but its layered. because he knows that nathan doesn't do this kind of shit. go to clubs, take care of drunk girls. fucking hold their hair back while they puke. its easy to see that nathan is down bad for you, no matter how much he tries to hide it from you, his friends, and himself.

thankfully, gabs doesn't add to that, only sliding a mug of decaf coffee across the counter until it sits between nathan's clenched fists.

and all the nova scotia native can do is pick up the mug and takes three scolding gulps.

PART THREE: 99 sonny angels on the wall

the next few months of nathan's life continue the exact same way they have since the moment he met you—switching between watching you from afar with his heart in his ass, and watching you up close, lightheaded from your scent, your smile, your laugh, and everything else about you.

at this point, it's more obvious than it's not. because nathan is almost giving up on try to hide it more so than he is trying to come across indifferent. he just can't with you.

it starts ramping up in the way all good things do, two weeks before the season is supposed to really start. cale and tracy are hosting an intimate engagement party that nathan just so happened to be invited to. and knowing you'd obviously be there—in the wedding party and the sister of the groom—he made sure to dress up as nice as he could with his lack of nice yet casual fashion knowledge, spray on cologne and prepare to spend an unknown amount of hours with you.

you'd been wearing some flowy and butter yellow. that's the first thing nathan noticed when he arrived halfway into the afternoon. you'd also been fluffing about a long desert table, telling one of tracey's college friends all about how the count bites were to die for. he had gravitated towards you without even realizing he was doing so.

up close, he could see that you were a little glassy eyed and flushed. but smiling so wide. always smiling. and the second your eyes landed on him, you gasped and skipped right up to his chest.

"nate!" you had beamed, tugging at the open collar of his linen button down. "I made you something." and nathan let you pull him around the backside of the table, a little dazed and totally not watching the way your hips swayed under your dress.

"cookies." you brightened when his eyebrows raised a fraction. "I looked up your whole, like, superstar diet thing," you explained, waving a hand vaguely. "and I made them with all the stuff you're allowed to have. less sugar, more...whatever it is you eat. they actually turned out really good."

he almost wanted to tell you everything in that very moment—seconds and one half bitten cookie away from dragging you further into the garden to kiss you silly.

but he didn't.

and then the season started, and where nathan should've been completely focused on hockey and his own high performance schedule, he was focused on you.

your name brought up in passing in the locker room? nathan's head was snapping up to listen in. cale mentioning his family coming down to watch a game? nathan's wondering if you'll be with them. a dinner at a teammates house? nathan's all nonchalant (no he's not) wondering if you'll be attending.

then there was that one dinner party at the kadri's, where you were sat next to nathan. he'd been trying not to look at you because he was trying to remain composed, but you laughed at something ej said and put your hand on nathan's thigh—and he almost choked on his steak, leaving him a coughing blubbering mess while you thumped on his spine and ej just laughed at the ordeal.

and he couldn't even be mad about it, because you were so concerned, and so sweet and made some little joke about not choking for you again anytime soon. nathan almost said something back about that, but he bit his tongue.

because it isn't just the fact that you’re cale's sister—though that alone would make things complicated. it's that, in his mind, you and him exist on completely different wave lengths. you're soft where he's sharp. impulsive where he's careful. open in ways nathan's never quite learned how to be. and the thought of trying—of actually letting himself have you, let himself feel what it would like to call you his beyond the walls of his mind—sort of scares him.

because if it falls apart, if the differences between you nathan is so sure will break you actually do, then he doesn't just loose the possibility of you, but he looses you entirely.

and nathan knows, deep down, that once he crosses that line and even has a piece of you, going back to pretending you're nothing to him won't just be hard—it'll be messy and impossible.

so once again, once he just can't. or rather, he's trying really hard not to.

—

nathan's barely out of the locker room post game, still half in that post win haze—adrenaline not fully settled, teammates talking over each other in the background—when he hears your voice mixed in with some of the WAGs and lingering teammates.

you're leaning on a wall next to melissa, baby luke cuddled in your arms like he's yours. you're rambling about something that based on the twinkle in your eye, clearly feels urgent to you and absolutely not to anyone else.

he laughs through his nose at that, a breathy little sound only for his own ears. and the closer he gets, the easier your words are to make out.

"...and it's literally just been on my floor for, like, a week," you huff, exasperated. "because I thought I could build it myself, which—clearly—was a mistake."

nathan glances over, just as tracy snorts. "how hard can a bookshelf be to build?"

the sound of you pressing a loud kiss on the baby’s cheek sounds before you answer your sister-in-law. "you tell me, trac. seriously, damn you ikea and your minimalistic instructions."

truly, nathan meant to just walk past you. swear. sure, if you noticed him and said something, nathan would've obviously said hello. he's trying to be respectful, not an asshole. but that just goes straight down the drain the second your eyes lock.

"nate," you smile, sliding next to him like a magnet. "good game."

he tickles under luke's chin—because how else are you supposed to great a smiley baby?—and then looks back at you. too blinded by your pretty face to form a response that's not stupid, he just mumbles—"you watched?"

then his eyes fall closed because immediately he wants to take it back. obviously you watched the game because here you are, standing in front of him with a family & friends pass hanging from your neck.

but you only laugh and bump your elbow against his arm. "always," you say instead.

nathan is sure you're trying to kill him with that. he watches, a little dazed, as you pull down luke's little jersey, dividing your attention between the baby and your friends who have moved on from the whole book shelf debacle he overheard.

then before he can think better, nathan gently gets your attention, this time by brushing his elbow against your torso. it's subtle, but it works and you peer up at him, pretty.

"I can help," he swallows, then continues, "with your book shelf."

at first, you just blink at him, but as the words register, a big grin splits across your face. "you can?"

he nods. "yes."

you breath a sigh of relief and almost sag into him. "please, yes. a million times yes. there are too many screws and the instructions are like, aggressive but also lacking."

"aggressive?" his smirk is full of amusement, and you mirror it.

"don't judge until you see them."

"alright," he holds up a hand in surrender, "not until I see them."

—

a few days later, nathan mackinnon finds himself standing in your apartment and is instantly overwhelmed. because he's never been in your space before. sure, he's imagined every single corner, but his imagination pales in comparison to the real thing. it's just so...you.

colourful with big open windows, curtains that are nothing but beads. it's cluttered, but not messy. never dirty. and it smells like you, so much so that when you first opened the door for him and the scent wafted out, nathan had to hold himself up on the door frame.

and it didn't help that you looked like a dream. hair pulled back into two twisty braids. wearing a open button down with a paint mark on the cuff, paired with sun coloured dungarees.

even now, sitting on a fuzzy area rug that resembles a cat more than anything else, instruction sheet held in his calloused hands, nathan can't help but to keep stealing quick glances at you.

wood panels are scattered all around like they've been there since you unpacked them. knowing you, they truly have. nathan hums, flipping a page.

"well?" you ask, sitting crossed legged beside him, gesturing to the instruction.

"these are fine."

"they're not fine," you argue, handing him something that may or may not be the right piece. "they skip steps."

he smiles down at the papers. "they don't skip steps."

you frantically move your finger between two of the steps. you definitely think they don't make sense, but they totally do. "see this?" you look at nathan, exasperated. "they imply steps."

he exhales, but there's no real bite to it. instead he puts them down and reaches for two of the wood panels. "hold this."

and you do. for the most part. your attention drifts every few seconds while you loosely attempt to assist nathan in the bookshelf endeavours, bouncing between him, your phone and the pile of things that still haven't been put away—books, yes, but also a concerning number of stuffed animals that have somehow migrated into the construction zone.

it takes less than an hour to build, which is kind of disappointing because nathan doesn't want to leave you in your element so soon. so he lingers purposefully. not that he needs to make an excuse though, because you're grabbing at his wrist like a kid and asking him to help you put everything on the new shelves.

obviously, he tried to play it nonchalant and like, pretended he didn't want to stick around. "I just built it." nathan had reminded you, secretly hoping you'd keep pushing.

"and now you help style it," you replied, like it was obvious and thank jesus.

it started somewhat normal considering he is always one second away from loosing it around you. books get stacked together and sorted by author and series. apparently it's a system, at least that what you told him when you stepped back for the 10th time to admire the aesthetic.

it makes absolutely no sense to nathan, but he doesn't complain. just offers appropriate hums and nods when you ask him if the boys of tommen series looks good next to the chestnut springs series. whatever that means.

it's not until you start asking him where the stuffed coffee cup should go that he raises a brow. "you've got more stuffies than books." it's not true, but he can't resist teasing you in his own, awkward way.

and it works—you gasp, offended but also not at all. "that's just a lie! and they add decorum anyways."

"right," he mutters, clearly unconvinced, picking up a small figure from the pile. he turns it over in his hand, frowning. "are these...naked babies?"

you immediately grab it back. "they're called sonny angels, you wouldn't get it."

"that's doesn't answer anything."

"they're cute." you pout, holding a baby dressed like a strawberry up to your cheek.

nathan has to swallow back his initial reaction. because you look so fucking cute, all pouty and big eyed like the baby figurine you're holding. instead of leaning down and kissing the pout off your mouth though, he just plucks the figurine out of your hand.

"they're weird." he muses, turning it and flipping it over. his frown deepens when he sees it's actually fucking naked.

"they're collectible," you correct, snatching it right back and then placing it carefully on the shelf in front of some brightly coloured books.

for a moment, it's like his body forgets that you're you—the biggest infatuation of his mind, and the blood pumping through his veins. the reason he considers forgetting his entire moral system.

nathan smiles behind your back. before he gets too distracted looking at your pink painted toenails or the exposed nape of your neck, he reaches for another book apart of one of the many stacks sitting on the rug.

you watch him over your shoulder as he flips it, scanning the back. "what are these about?"

"romance."

he glances up. "all of them?"

you shrug and take it from it. "mostly."

there's a pause—one of those quiet, suspended moments where you can practically see the gears turning in his head. his eyes narrow just slightly, like he's trying to piece something together, and then—"...do they have... sex stuff in them?" he asks, the question coming out slower than expected, cautious in a way that almost feels studied.

you freeze. just for a second. and then the realization hits in a blinding flash. a slow, dangerous grin spreads across your face—bright, delighted, a little bit wicked.

nathan sees it happen in real time, and immediately regrets everything.

"oh my god," you breathe, like you've just uncovered something priceless, waving the book between you like a toy.

"what?" he mutters, defensive already, even though he's not entirely sure why.

"you don't know?"

"I didn't say I don't know."

"but you asked."

"I was asking like—generally," he insists, crossing his giant arms like that somehow solidifies his point.

"yeah," you nod, already turning toward the shelf, fingers skimming over the spines like you're browsing for something specific now. "they do."

nathan watches you, dread settling low in his stomach as he clocks the way you're enjoying this. "don't—"

but the protest comes too late because you've already pulled a different book free, flipping it open with an ease that suggests you've done it a million times. your thumb slides along the pages, scanning quickly, eyes darting—and then you stop, whole face lighting up.

"oh, this is a good one," you say, barely containing your excitement.

"don't read it out loud."

you clear your throat dramatically anyway, because of course you're not going to listen. nathan's stomach already feels tightly coiled, and he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "seriously—"

you start reading, way too happy. "his tongue licks up her dripping folds, lapping up her sweet and sticky arousal," you quote, unaffected as you continue. every word lands clearly, every implication slipping into the space between you, every line getting a little more suggestive, a little more pointed the longer you go.

nathan goes still at first. like if he doesn't react, it won't register to the part of brain that controls his dick. then he stiffens—subtly, but noticeably—because obviously he's getting hard. how can he not when the girl of his dress is reading him porn. her own book with porn!

so he gets busy. very deliberately busy. he reaches for a stack of books beside him, shifts them, straightens them, picks one up just to put it back down again. his movements are controlled, purposeful—but his ears are turning red now.

then quickly the color spreads, creeping down the back of his neck.

and you notice of course, because now you're giggling, making your voice wavers like you're trying not to. you keep going, dragging out a line just a little longer than necessary. "and as he pushes his rock hard length into her tiny entrance, they both let our guttural sounds."

"okay," nathan cuts in finally, sharper than he means it to be.

but you don't stop because that's just not in you're nature. because you're enjoying this.

you push through another sentence, then another, eyes flicking up just in time to catch the exact moment it clicks for him—that you're not stopping.

"you're unbelievable," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it. just tension. something tight and coiled underneath.

you snap the book shut with a soft thud, grinning up at him like you've just won something. you eye his flush. "oh, you loved that."

"I didn't."

"you so did." you move closer, and he swallows. "maybe you've just found your new favourite form of porn."

"I don't..." he stops himself, laughing once. "you're so—"

"you're blushing." you snicker, poking his cheek.

"i'm not."

"you are," you insist, stepping even closer—enough to close some of the space between you. enough that he has to look down slightly to meet your eyes. "it's cute."

and that doesn't something, deep in his stomach. right between his ribs. everywhere. nathan mackinnon feels those two words, and the way you’re gazing up at him, everywhere.

his jaw tightens, shoulders shifting like he's trying to reset himself—like he's trying very hard to stay in control of whatever is happening.

"put the books away," he says instead, voice lower than possible.

you hum, clearly pleased with yourself, turning back to the shelf. your fingers trail along the spines again, slower this time, like you're considering your next move. but you're still smiling.

mostly because you can feel his eyes on you, tracking every step. and he doesn't even care that you're aware. he's not avoiding, or trying to distract himself from your smile or scent. instead, nathan is basking in it all.

he steps towards you without thinking just as you reach for another book with the cartoon cover—how can something so innocent be so filthy, nathan wonders.

you didn't hear him move, but suddenly he's right there, just behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his arm near yours. and your breath catches—just slightly.

slowly, you turn your head, and find he's already looking at you. the air has shifted now, and not just because of the smutty words exchanged between you. it's because of your proximity. proximity that for the first time since you've met, he’s initiated.

your hand is still on the book, but you've forgotten about it entirely now.

his gaze drops—just briefly—to your mouth, and then back up again. it's subtle enough, but also not at all because he's physically unable to hold himself accountable anymore.

obviously you catch it, because how could you not? your heart stutters, just once. "what?" you murmur, soft like the teasing edge has slipped into something else entirely.

he doesn't answer right away. instead, his eyes search your face, like he's trying to decide something. like he's right on the edge of it—the edge of really doing it this time.

you don't move. don't breathe. don't dare break whatever this is.

nathan lifts his hand, a little hesitant, then settles it lightly against the shelf beside your head, caging you in without quite touching you.

your lips part slightly, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your pulse loud in your ears as he inches closer. is this it? is the moment that, unbeknownst to everyone else including nate, you've also been wanting. needing.

but then—he huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh, and shakes his head just slightly as he pulls back. nathan pushes off the shelf, "we should finish up."

you blink, still caught halfway in the moment. your body a step behind your brain. you watch as he turns away, picking up a stack of dark romance books you've never read because they kind of scares you.

you take them from his hands. the knowing look in your gaze shouldn't surprise him, but it does. "you were gonna kiss me," you state, narrowing your eyes at him.

despite the blush that's been adorning his face for the greater part of the evening, nathan pales.

"I wasn't."

"you were."

"I wasn't."

you stare at him for a beat and then grin. and that's when nathan knows he's ultimately screwed. instead of doing what he should—throw those books to the floor, grab your face and kiss you until you're both dizzy—he’s backing down. he's incapable of committing to you. because he can't no matter how badly he wants to.

instead, he scoffs, not looking at you now. he reaches past you to grab the book from your hand and shove it back onto the shelf.

"put. the books. away." nathan reiterates.

you just laugh softly, leaning back just a little. still entirely too close for his hearts sake. "yeah," you murmur. "okay."

you don't let it get awkward. in all honesty, you pretty much allow the space for nathan to forget it even happened. which he can't decide if he hates or not yet. easy conversation flows between you as you finish putting away all your books and trinkets, and soon enough, the red hue leaves his cheeks and everything goes back to how it was.

nathan watching wishfully from a distance and you pretending you don't realize.

—

cale makar

to nathan mackinnon

heard you helped my sister build her bookshelves. and apparently she read to you? whatever that means

cale makar

to nathan mackinnon

bro you're so whipped

PART FOUR: a love like that

by the time 7:30 rolls around, the movie night you planned with your friends seems to be unraveling. on your phone screen, a list of sorry's and babe i'm gunna have to reschedule's sit. ashley can't come cause nylah is running a fever, and when one kid gets sick, so do the others, meaning melissa and gabe are also out. and tracy got her dates mixed up, and she has to be up early for a flight, so there goes that. cale said he'd come, but you waved him off.

now you sit cross legged in the middle of your couch, staring at the wall like it might change everything. you're not mad per say, it's just—you bought all the good snacks and wine and we're gunna order a pizza and just chill.

but now you're alone, lights dimmed just right, throw blankets ready for people who won't be occupying them, and a big glass of wine you've already polished off.

fuck, you even vacuumed. which is crazy.

"i'm so tragic," you groan to yourself as you flop back against the cushions dramatically. the tv glows painterly across from you, sitting on the netflix home page.

you can't help but sigh wistfully and reach for another slug of wine, this time right from the bottle. once again, you're not mad, but you've just been looking forward to it all day and ugh! for the first time ever, you're feeling truly upset you don't have a husband and family like your friends do.

it's just you and your snacks and wine.

you're mid tying your hair back when a knock sounds at the door. and for a moment, you freeze. because who changed there mind? who's kid miraculously got better?

wait.

the sound comes again, softer this time, like whoever's out there knows you're home. and remembering who you invited know, you know there's one person who didn't cancel—one who would never.

you're off the couch in seconds, nearly tripping over one of your carefully placed blankets on the way before you yank the door open—and there he is.

nathan is standing there like he belongs on your doorstop, a soft blush on his cheeks like he's remembering exactly what happened last time he was in your place. you let your eyes briefly wander over his outfit—a dark hoodie and sweats. he looks comfy and ready for a movie. and maybe it's because you thought everything went into the toilet tonight, but the idea that he came prepared makes your heart swell.

you're completely at odds with the way your brain short circuits for a second. "you came," you say after a beat, a little breathless.

and knowing nothing about the evening besides everyone getting together for a movie, he just looks down at you like that's a strange thing to say. "I said I would."

"I know, but—" you wave a hand vaguely, stepping aside to let him in. "everyone else canceled."

"oh." he hums, almost freezing at the revelation that you're about to be alone. together. again. thankfully, he manages to move his cement filled feet and slip off his shoes—without being asked, of course.

and then he's moving like he knows the space, which is a way he does. h nathan walks into the living room, huffing what sounds like a laugh as he looks over your snack filled coffee table.

you follow. "you don't have to stay."

but much to your surprise, he just shrugs, easy, like it's nothing. "It's fine."

something warm and steady settles under your ribs. "okay," you say, breezing past his ridged body to plop back into your favourite spot. middle cushion, duh. you purse your lips and look up at him, "then you're stuck with me."

he glances between you and the cushion next to you warily before settling down beside you. thigh pressing into yours, arm too. it's nice. he's nice. and warm and big and smells like a clean shower.

your grab a blanket to distract yourself from like, grabbing him.

"what are we watching?" he asks.

the grin you give him is involuntary. "it was going to be that new action movie, but know that it's just us...i'm thinking something more, light hearted."

nathan exhales through his nose, already bracing. "what?"

"10 things I hate about you, obviously. you said you've never seen it," you tell him, pointing at him with the remote like you've just caught him in something incriminating. "it's perfect."

"perfect for who?"

"for me," you reply shamelessly.

he snickers under his breath, but there's no real bite. only adoration.

the movie starts, filling the room with familiar dialogue and the soft glow of shifting scenes. instantly, you're locked in—quoting under your breath, reacting before things happen, occasionally glancing over to gauge his response like it's a test.

at first, nathan doesn't give anything away. arms crossed loosely, posture relaxed but not fully sunk into the couch. eyes on the screen in that deliberate, observant way—like he's studying it instead of watching it.

"you're analyzing it," you accuse quietly about 30 minutes in.

he looks over at you, momentarily dazed at how you look under the glow from the tv. "i'm watching it."

you only laugh, nudge him once and then return to your attention back to the screen. but nathan? he lets his gaze linger on your profile for a moment longer than he should.

it's not soon after you pause the movie because you're hungry. nathan's immediate reaction is to make a comment about the food on the table, in which you respond with a almost slurred need for pizza. he orders it on his phone because you get distracted explaining a scene that hasn't even happened yet.

the door bell rings soon after because he paid extra for express delivery. he also gets up before you can even blink, which is just hot for no reason.

when he walks back into your living space, holding a pizza box in just one hand, the smell of warmth and grease and saucy immediately invades your senses.

"ohmygod," you exclaim so quick it all blends together into one word, "smells like sex."

he shoots you an amused look as he puts down the box next to the wine bottle and the untouched popcorn, but you don't notice because you're too busy flipping open the cardboard lid and sniffing like a mad woman.

"dinner," he says before sitting back down.

you grab a slice and it hits your wrist, which only makes your mouth water. nathan raises a brow as your eyes meet, but instead of answering with words you just take a messy bite—grease and sauce smearing on your cheek.

"you having some?" you ask him through a mouthful.

he shrugs, "I don't eat that stuff during the season."

"boooooo!" you chant until he laughs. but you're not done being a slim, because you dance the slice in his direction, as if trying to tempt him. it doesn't. "don't think about it," you tell him, mouth still unattractively full. "just experience joy."

he pushes your hand away. "I experience joy."

"you observe joy from a distance," you correct, eyebrow quirked knowingly. "do it for my shit movie night."

nathan sighs, a little reserved, but when your pleading eyes don't waver, he's already got his mind made up. there's a long second where he just looks at you, but then—like he's making a conscious decision to ruin his own reputation—he reaches forward and grabs a slice.

a slow grin covers your face as you chew, and before you can think otherwise, you grab your phone and start recording. because this is like, unheard of.

"oh my god, is nathan mackinnon about to eat something with grease?" you whisper dramatically, camera pointed at him.

he pauses, looking between your eyes and the lens. "put your phone down." he says, but he's already grinning.

"no, I have to record this for the future. this is gold."

"oh my god."

you grin, unwavering, holding your ground.

nathan takes a bite then, because it'll make you happy. he chews thoughtfully, enjoying the flavour, because let's be honest, it's been so long since he's eaten something this unhealthy.

and you gasp. naturally.

he keeps chews, expression carefully blank, but you can see it—the flicker, and the split second shift when he realizes grease can be good.

"say something," you urge quietly.

"i'm not saying anything."

"you love it."

"I didn't say that."

"you love it." you beam, "admit it. grease is fucking delicious. maybe not for the gut, but for the soul."

nathan exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh as he drags a hand down his face. "you're so stupid." but he says it with so much softness that you want to kiss him.

you eat almost half the pizza, and nathan only manages to polish off one slice. but you'll take it. the movie keeps playing, beating the climax of the plot.

you've shifted closer to him without realizing it—if that was even possible. the blanket you'd been using has somehow started to spill onto his lap, and your shoulder is practically in his armpit. your legs are tucked under you now, angled slightly toward him, like your body's made the decision before your brain has.

and nathan doesn't move because of he wouldn't dream of it.

the sven plays out, and instinctively you turn to look at nathan, wanting to catch his reaction. but when you do, you find him already looking at you.

the moment stretches like molasses. the movie plays on, familiar lines and voices filling the room, but it all fades—background noise to something quieter and fragile. because neither of you look away.

"watch the movie," he says quietly.

"you're not watching it."

"I am."

"you're not." you challenge, voice barley above a whisper.

the only answer he can manage is to look back at the movie, but it says enough.

when the movie ends and the familiar credits roll, it's probably late enough for it to be concerning. you're both completely sunk into the couch, and you've toed the pizz box away so nathan has somewhere to rest his sock covered feet.

"...I want that," you murmur suddenly—wishfully—almost to yourself.

nathan's attention shifts immediately. he lazily looks over at you. "want what?"

you don't meet his gaze right away. for a beat, your attention stays on the screen, following the moment as it unfolds. "love," you clarify, quieter now. "I want a love like that."

you're not sure why you tell him that. but it's the kind of honesty that slips out when you're comfortable. when your guard is down. when you're not thinking about how it sounds. and maybe it's lingering longing from earlier about feeling alone, or maybe it's something else entirely.

it's all the same when you watch nathan go still. it's subtle enough, but you're still pressed together, so even if it was just a hitched breath, you would've felt it.

he holds your gaze. his hand, resting near yours on the couch over the throw, flexes once—like he's about to reach for you but can't quite get there.

"you will."

your voice goes soft. "you think so?"

nathan swallows down the lump in his throat. he could say it then. tell you, right here. right now. tell you that he knows you'll get a love like that, because he already feels that way for you, and whether you know it or not, you have it.

and just for a second, the admission is on the tip of his tongue.

and you can see it. clear as anything. it's in the way his expression changes, and in the way something deeper pushes past the usual control he keeps locked in place.

his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like he's weighing something, like he's standing right on the edge of it.

"I—" but he stops, words hanging in the space between you like a vice.

your heart stutters with disappointment.

nathan exhales as every fear and doubt about telling you how he feels climbs up his throat. no matter how badly he wants to say it, he can't risk it. can't risk the possibility of loosing you.

the moment folds back in on itself, the walls snapping back into place like they were never down to begin with.

"you will," nathan says instead, quieter this time, like he's settling on something safer. "you deserve that."

not knowing what to say without telling him exactly how you feel about another failed kiss, you just study for a moment. and as you do, underneath the shadows cast from the tv and the hard exterior he blankets his face with, you can see there something there. making him hold back.

"okay," you say finally, just as soft.

he doesn't stay much longer after that. muttering I should go while the credits nears the end—because you'd been too dazed to stop them from rolling—already standing from the couch and leaving you feeling cold. and you had just nodded, and instead of asking him a million questions like you want to, you walk him to the door.

there's a moment there—of course there is—where you both linger a second too long. nathan's hand brushes yours as he reaches for his shoes. your breath catches for no good reason. and he looks at you like he's about to say something again. but you already know he won't.

"thanks for coming," you mumbled, leaning against the wall.

he pauses, and then—"goodnight y/n."

the second the door closes behind him, it all hits you. from the moment you met all those summers ago with the season looming around you, to all the barbecues and birthdays and every quiet moment in between.

you stand there for a moment, staring at nothing, back against the door now—the quiet of your apartment pressing in loud.

what the hell was that?

you replay it instantly—the couch, the way nathan looked at you, the almost. the very obvious, very real almost. the way he started to say something and then didn't. the way his eyes dropped to your mouth like—god.

why didn't he kiss you?

It wasn't just in your head, you think you know that much. because It couldn't have been. because if you felt it—he felt it. that kind of moment doesn't just happen for no reason. people don't look at each other like that and then just...leave like it's another day accomplished.

unless you've read everything wrong. because maybe this entire time you thought you've discovered who the enigma that is nathan mackinnon, and what makes him tick. but maybe—just maybe—you've been mistaking every snear for a smile. every awkward laugh as a pleased one.

your stomach twists at the idea that you've been sitting here for years building something up that was never actually there in the first place.

"no," you mutter, grabbing your phone, pacing once across your living room before turning sharply back. "no, i'm not doing this."

it won't be another night of wondering. not another week of overanalyzing every look, every word, every almost until you drive yourself crazy. if you've been wrong, you need to know now.

if he's going to confuse you—whether it was accidental or on purpose or you're just going crazy—he can deal with the consequences.

"okay," you say to yourself, already pulling on your shoes, barely even thinking about it. "fine. great. perfect."

and then you do something any slightly insane girl would do—call and uber and give him nathan's address.

—

by the time you're standing outside his place, your heart is beating so hard it feels ridiculous. because this is insane. you know that. but you also know you're not one to brush this kind of shit under the rug, if there's something that needs to be said, you're ready to hear it. no more pussy footing around.

you knock before you can overthink it. and then you're immediately holding your breath, panicking while your hand is frozen in place mid air.

then the door opens.

nathan blinks in surprise, obviously not expecting to see you all things considered, hair slightly messier than before, hoodie swapped for a t shirt now. he looks soft, but also more off-guard than you've maybe ever seen him.

"y/n? are you okay? what are you doing here?"

his eyes roam over you, looking for injuries or an answer you haven't given him. he steps out into the porch, eliminating a foot of space between you.

you don't give yourself time to hesitate, words coming out firmer than you intended. "do you hate me or something?"

his brows pull together immediately. "what?"

"I mean," you huff a laugh, hands slapping the sides of your thighs as you drop them, "I thought you liked me. I thought that I made you nervous or something—but it's been years and i'm starting to think I got the wrong impression."

he just stares at you for a second, like his brain is trying to catch up to the fact that you're here. now. saying this. because how could you ever think that? sure, nathan thinks, he has never been forthcoming with your about his feelings, but he's sure he's never given the impression that he hates you. right?

"do you...want to come inside?"

you blink. "do you want me to come inside?"

a beat. he swallows, fingers twitching like he's trying not to touch you. "yes. I do."

your chest tightens, even though you're trying to remain neutral. you tilt your chin up, "then yes."

nathan steps back without another word, gesturing for you to go ahead.

you walk past him, heart in your throat, door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes everything feel suddenly, terrifyingly real.

there's a moment of silence. mostly because you don't have a plan and you're already regretting it.

"I don't hate you, y/n."

you turn to face him, arms crossed like a shield. "no?"

he shakes his head, stepping a little closer, voice quieter now. "never."

the word lands between you, steady and certain, and it does nothing to calm the way your chest is rising and falling like you've just run all the way here instead of taking an uber.

"okay," you breathe, but it comes out thinner than you mean it to. "then you can't just—" you gesture vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding through now that you're here, now that you've started, "—do that and then leave."

his brow furrows. "do what?"

"you know what," you insist, stepping closer without really deciding to. "the couch. the looking at me like you were about to—" you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "you almost said something."

and based off the look in your gaze, nathan knows you don't just mean tonight. his jaw tightens slightly. "I didn't."

"you did. you do," you push. "and then you just...shut it down. like always."

"that's not—"

"It is," you interrupt, softer now but more certain. "you get right up to the edge of something real and then you just—pull back. like it doesn't even matter."

"It does matter," he says immediately, stepping closer.

"then why have you never kissed me?"

at that, the room goes silent. your breath catches, eyes never leaving his. there's no taking it back. not that you would, but the idea is almost suffocating. alan or as much as the way he's looking at you.

his eyes bore into yours—like the question physically hit him. like he wasn't expecting you to say it out loud even though it's been sitting there for god knows how long now, obvious and unavoidable.

your heart is pounding, loud enough you're sure he can hear it. "well?" you press.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needs the movement just to think. "it's not that simple."

"then explain it to me," you fire back. "because for me, it is."

the quick pace he'd been doing comes to a stop as his eyes meet yours again. there's something less guarded about his gaze now, but it comes with a rise of concern. "you want me to be honest?" he asks.

your stomach flips and then flips again—because like usual, you're not sure what to expect from him. "yeah," you swallow, nervous, and continue, "I came all the way here, didn't I?"

a beat passes between you, and then he takes a step closer. "I didn't kiss you," nathan says, voice low, and rough around the edges, "because if I did, I wouldn't be able to stop." the air leaves your lungs as he continues, "and I don't trust myself to do that halfway. I can do that with you."

"why not?" your pulse stutters, heat rushing up your neck.

"because it won't be just a kiss for me," he admits. and as he continues, a weight begins to ease off his rigid shoulders. "It wouldn't be something I could just walk away from after. It wouldn't be something I could pretend didn't change everything. because for me it would be more."

you swallow. "and that's a bad thing?"

"yes," nathan says—too quickly and it makes you flinch. at that, his expression shifts immediately—because he doesn't mean it that way. he could never.

"no," he corrects, softer. "not bad. just—" he exhales, frustrated now, searching for words he clearly doesn't like having to say out loud. "complicated."

"complicated how?" you almost whine, defeat weighing on you now. and it hits nathan right in the gut—because how can he make you understand when he barley knows himself.

"you're—" nathan stops himself after a pause, then shakes his head once like he's trying to recalibrate. "you matter too much."

"that doesn't make any sense."

he moves towards you, stopping so close that you're almost pressed together. "It does to me." he admits, voice so quiet it's almost impossible to register.

"then help me understand," you say, meeting his gaze as you take that final sliver of space and crush it. chest to chest. "because right now it just sounds like you're scared of something that hasn't even happened."

"I'm not scared," he snaps, automatic, that media trained side of the best atheist in the world coming to the surface. it makes your raise almost a playful yet knowing brow. nathan huffs, quieter this time. "okay. maybe I am."

you soften, just a little. "of me?"

his gaze drops to your mouth again—quicker this time, like he doesn't mean to, like it's instinct. maybe it is. "of what happens if I let myself have you."

that does it. you can't help the laugh that bubbles out of your mouth. because hearing that has everything in your chest just—clicking into place.

"nate," you start, placing your palm on his stomach. "the only things what happen is that i'd let you."

nathan blinks at you like he's fighting something—like every instinct he has is telling him to hold the line, to keep things where they are, safe and controlled and unchanged. but he's losing. you can see it.

"y/n—"

"tell me you don't want to kiss me," you interrupt him gently.

there's a choking, thick beat before he closes the small distance left between you, one hand coming up—hesitant for only a fraction of a second before it settles at your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek like he's testing something fragile.

"I can't tell you that because it wouldn't be true."

your nose brushes his, a smile beginning to take its way over your face. "so maybe you should stop lying to yourself...and just let this happen."

"yeah," he says, voice dipping lower as he finally closes that distance and kisses you. it's not tentative, or unsure. it's everything he's been holding back all this time. yet it's controlled, but only barely, like he's still trying to keep a grip on it even as it slips.

nathan's hand tightens just slightly against your jaw, tilting your head as he pulls you closer—he's been thinking about this for a long time, and he's finally giving himself permission.

your hands bunches in his shirt without thinking, gripping, grounding, and pulling him in like you're afraid he might disappear if you don't.

but he doesn't, because of course he doesn't.

if anything, he deepens it—just a fraction. just enough to make your head spin. just enough to prove his point of you being more to him than just this.

when nathan pulls back, it's only far enough to properly peer down at you. breathing uneven, and forehead almost brushing yours.

"that's why," he says quietly.

and you don't have to ask him to explain.

PART FIVE: the kat stratford ending

1 year later

you're wedged into the corner of cale's sectional that's definitely too small for the number of bodies currently occupying it, one of nathan's hoodies swallowing your hands, socked feet tucked under his thigh like it's second nature.

because now, it is.

the tv is on, but no one's really watching it. someone—probably mikko—has the remote, flipping channels with zero commitment while a half finished debate about something stupid unfolds in the background.

nathan's barley paying attention, to be honest. he's beside you, an arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers idly tracing patterns against your shoulder like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. every so often, his thumb will hook into the fabric of your sleeve, tugging you just a little closer without looking.

this close, he can smell that citrusy sweetness that used to haunt him. now, he craves it more than anything. nose brushing against your head as if trying to find the source.

a year ago, this would've short circuited his brain. you lean deeper into him, humming contently as you drop your head back to look at him.

"you're not even listening," you murmur, smiling.

"I am," he says automatically, but there's a familiar twinkle in his eyes that tells you he's totally lying.

"you're not."

"I know exactly what's happening," he insists.

"okay," you hum, amused. "then what are they arguing about?"

that has him pausing before taking a very educated guess. "hockey?" you just stare at him, brow quirked, and nathan shrugs, pressing his lips to your temple. not a kiss, just an absentminded brush. tender.

"that's usually a safe option." nathan says.

you huff a laugh and nudge him with your shoulder. his hand slides down your arm in response, settling warm and steady at your elbow.

across the room, your brother is watching. which is never a good sign because he likes to annoy you at the best of time. he leans back in his chair, eyes moving between the two of you with the kind of slow, knowing look that immediately makes you suspicious.

"what?" you ask in a way only a sibling could, narrowing your eyes.

he shrugs, way too casual. "nothing."

"that's not a nothing face."

he almost scoffs, "it's absolutely a nothing face."

"It's not," you say flatly. "you're about to say something annoying."

"I'm just saying," he starts, already grinning and you groan out a here we go. cale continues, "this is exactly how I pictured it."

nathan's hand stills slightly against your arm as he listens in.

you blink. "what is?"

"this," he repeats, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "you. him. the whole—" he waves again, like the concept is too obvious to need words. "being in love thing."

in the past year, your relationship with nathan grew into something he used to have doubts about. being with each other has been easy and undeniable. he's still steady and guarded, while you're definitely still too bubbly to digest. but instead of how he feared that would pull you apart, it's made you both blossom.

whatever the odds felt like at the start, the two of you were always going to make sense. thinking about it now, nathan almost feels stupid for thinking your lack in similarities would be your demise.

mikko, from the other end of the couch, snorts. "took you guys long enough anyways."

now it's nathan turning to look. "excuse me?"

"I'm just being honest," the finland native muses, holding his hands up like he's not about to stir the pot anyway. "we all knew."

"you did not all know," nathan argues immediately.

gabe raises a brow from where he's sprawled out on the rug, luke between his thighs playing with a toy. "we absolutely did."

"no, you didn't," you say now, looking between all of them—which now includes mel, tracy and susanna who are nodding along knowingly. traitors. you practically squawk, "because if you did, someone could've maybe said something instead of letting me think I was insane for—" you cut yourself off, gesturing vaguely. "—for years."

"you were just as bad as each other," your sister in law speaks up, sending you a sheepish smile when you send her a baffled look. "we were just letting you two figure it out."

gabe hums, "don't lie tracy," the blonde directs his attention towards you then, "if it's any consolation, y/n, nathan was like immensely worse."

your boyfriend sits up. "hey, I wasn't that bad."

"you used to run away when she walked into a room."

melissa snorts, "one time you texted me trying to figure out what perfume she wears."

"you held her hair back when she puked."

"you built her a bookshelf dude."

"alright," nathan grumbles, cutting of his friends attack. but there's no bite there.

across the room, someone says something else because they can't help themselves from bugging you. mikko argues, cale throws a cushion at him, and the tv keeps playing something no one's watching—

But here, in this small space carved out between all of it nathan leans down just enough to press another quick kiss to your temple.

absentminded and certain. like it was always going to end up this way.

© kniesonice - all work is written and owned by me. please do not copy, translate or transfer any of my work to any other blogs or websites or claim as your own work.

[makarshughes]

Devils @ Maple Leafs \ December 30, 2025.

[eyesthatroll]

[eyesthatroll]

sick and twisted

[honeyslibrary]

AI Handyman | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, penatrative sex, spanking, cursing, cringe?, edited once, not sure what else

Summary; Reader does a TikTok prank on Luke while he's at the gym.

Word Count; 5.7k

Authors Note; Hey, long time no see! Life has been kicking my ass in multiple ways, but I missed writing and I missed you guys, so I am back (: So so sorry for disappearing, that was never my intention and I feel super horrible about it!!!! I hope you guys are doing well! 🤍 P.S: this was originally a nate mac fic, so if you see a nathan here or there sorry lol!! i only edited once

You're scrolling through TikTok during your lunch break, procrastinating on the work emails that can definitely wait another ten minutes, when you stumble across a video that makes you laugh out loud.

A woman has sent her husband AI-generated photos of an impossibly attractive shirtless handyman supposedly fixing things around their house, complete with perfectly ridiculous texts about how helpful he's being. The husband's increasingly frantic responses are hilarious.

You watch it twice, grinning, and then a delightfully evil idea forms in your mind.

Luke's at the gym right now, some team workout that he'd mentioned this morning over breakfast. You have the house to yourself and approximately thirty minutes before your next meeting. That's plenty of time.

You pull up one of those AI photo generator apps you've seen advertised and get to work. After a few attempts and increasingly specific prompts, you manage to generate a photo of a generically handsome man in jeans and work boots, strategically shirtless, kneeling in front of what could plausibly be your kitchen sink with a toolbox beside him.

It's absurd. The lighting is slightly off, and if you look too closely, something about his hands seems wrong in that uncanny AI way. But at a glance, especially on a phone screen when you're not expecting it? It's convincing enough.

Perfect.

You save the photo and open your messages to Luke, barely containing your laughter as you type.

Hey babe, dishwasher broke. Had to call someone to come fix it.

You attach the photo and hit send before you can second guess yourself.

Then you deliberately silence your phone and set it face down on your desk, going back to your laptop to at least pretend you're working. You give it three minutes, enough time for Luke to see the message but not so long that you lose your nerve.

When you flip your phone over, there are already two messages waiting.

Luke: What?

Luke: Who is that?

You bite your lip to keep from laughing and type back: The repair guy. He got here like five minutes ago.

The typing indicator appears immediately, disappears, appears again. You can practically feel Luke's confusion through the phone.

Luke: Why didn't you just call me? I could have looked at it when I got home.

You were at the gym and it was leaking everywhere. I didn't want to bother you.

Luke: You wouldn't have been bothering me.

Luke: Why is he shirtless?

You have to press your hand over your mouth to contain your laughter. Time to commit to the bit.

He said it was hot under the sink. Something about the pipes?

Luke: ???

Luke: It's November

Luke: The house is not that hot

Idk babe, he said he runs warm.

There's a longer pause this time, and you're watching the screen with gleeful anticipation when your phone starts ringing. Luke's calling.

You decline the call and immediately text back: Can't talk right now, he's explaining what's wrong with the dishwasher.

Luke: Why can't you talk

Luke: What's he explaining

Luke: Actually why do you need him to explain anything, that's what I'm for

You're fully giggling now, hunched over your phone like a teenager, and you're very glad you're working from home today because you would not be able to explain this to coworkers.

He's actually really nice! Very knowledgeable about appliances.

Luke: I don't care how nice he is

Luke: Why is this man in my house without a shirt on

Luke: Please tell me you see how this is weird

You decide to really push it and quickly generate another photo, this time of the same AI man standing up, wiping his hands on a towel, looking directly at the camera with that perfectly generic handsome smile.

He says he can fix it! :)

You attach the second photo.

Your phone immediately starts ringing again. You decline it again.

Luke: ANSWER YOUR PHONE

Luke: Who is this guy

Luke: Why does he keep posing for pictures

Luke: Why are YOU taking pictures of him???

Luke: I'm coming home

Luke you're being ridiculous, he's just fixing the dishwasher

Luke: WITH HIS SHIRT OFF

Luke: IN OUR KITCHEN

Luke: I AM THE GUY. I FIX THINGS. ME.

You're laughing so hard now that tears are streaming down your face. You can picture him so clearly at the gym with his teammates, probably getting increasingly agitated while they wonder what the hell is going on.

Luke: I'm leaving now

The gym is 20 minutes away, you just got there!

Luke: Don't care

Luke: I'm literally walking to my car right now

Luke: Tell shirtless appliance man his services are no longer needed

You probably should come clean now. You've definitely pushed this far enough, and the last thing you want is for Luke to actually be upset. But the thought of his face when he gets home and realizes he's been pranked is too good to pass up.

You're overreacting. He's almost done anyway.

Luke: I'm not overreacting

Luke: There's a half-naked stranger in our house and my wife is TAKING PICTURES OF HIM

Luke: How is this not worth reacting to

He's not a stranger, he's a certified repair technician

Luke: I don't care if he's certified by the Pope himself

Luke: He needs to put a shirt on and leave

Luke: Actually just the leaving part. He can stay shirtless, just not in my house

Luke: Wait no

Luke: He needs to be fully clothed AND leave

You're trying to type a response when another message comes through.

Luke: I'm driving. I'll be home in 20 minutes.

Luke: Maybe 15 if I hit the lights right

Luke: Please tell me he'll be gone by then

You decide to show mercy. Kind of.

Okay okay, relax. I'll tell him you're on your way.

Luke: Good

Luke: Wait are you saying he's still there??

Luke: I thought you said he was almost done

He is! He's just wrapping up!

Luke: Wrapping up should take 30 seconds

Luke: Tell him to wrap faster

You set your phone down, still grinning, and actually try to focus on work for the next fifteen minutes. You've just finished responding to an email when you hear Luke's car pull into the driveway, definitely faster than 20 minutes, possibly breaking a few traffic laws in the process.

The front door opens with more force than necessary.

"Hello?" Luke's voice carries through the house, tense and alert. "Where is everyone?"

You appear at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing with your most innocent expression. "Hey! You're home early."

Luke is standing in the entryway, still in his gym clothes, looking slightly wild-eyed and definitely suspicious. "Where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"The-" Luke gestures vaguely, frustratedly. "The shirtless dishwasher guy!"

"Oh, him." You start down the stairs slowly, enjoying every second of this. "He left about ten minutes ago."

"He left." Luke's eyes narrow. "Just like that. Coincidentally right before I got home."

"Well, he finished the job." You reach the bottom of the stairs, and Luke's looking at you like he's trying to solve a complicated puzzle. "Said it was just a loose connection or something."

"A loose connection." Luke's voice is flat.

"Yep."

"That took a shirtless man forty-five minutes to fix."

"He was very thorough."

Luke stares at you for a long moment, and you can see the exact second he starts to suspect something. His eyes narrow further, and he takes a step closer.

"Show me the dishwasher."

"What?"

"The dishwasher. Show me what he fixed."

"Luke-"

"Show me." But there's something in his voice now, a slight shift that tells you he's starting to figure it out.

You lead him to the kitchen, and Luke immediately goes to the dishwasher, opening it, running his hand along the front. Everything is completely fine, exactly as it was this morning.

He straightens up slowly and turns to look at you, his expression somewhere between realization and disbelief.

"There's nothing wrong with the dishwasher."

"Isn't there?" You're fighting back a smile now.

"No. There's not." Luke crosses his arms over his chest. "So either your repair man is a miracle worker, or..."

"Or?"

"There was no repair man."

You can't hold it back anymore, you burst out laughing, and Luke's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession. Realization. Disbelief. The beginning of amusement. And then something that looks suspiciously like annoyance mixed with reluctant humor.

"Are you kidding me right now?" He's trying to sound stern, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching. "You made me leave the gym. I was in the middle of training."

"I know!" You're still laughing, pulling out your phone to show him the AI-generated photos. "It's a TikTok trend! Look, these aren't even real people!"

Luke takes your phone, examining the photos more closely, and you watch as he spots all the telltale AI glitches: the weird hands, the slightly off lighting, the too-perfect features.

"These are fake," he says slowly.

"Very fake."

"There was no shirtless man in our house."

"Nope."

"I drove like a maniac across town,"

"You did."

"Cut my workout short,"

"Uh-huh."

"Probably gave Seamus and Šimon the impression that I was having some kind of emergency,"

"You definitely did."

Luke sets your phone down on the counter carefully, and when he looks at you again, there's something different in his expression. Something heated.

"You think this is funny," he says, and it's not a question.

"I think it's hilarious." You're still grinning, pleased with yourself. "You should have seen your texts. 'I AM THE GUY.'" You do your best impression of his voice, and Luke's jaw ticks.

"You pranked me."

"I pranked you," you confirm.

"With a fake shirtless handyman."

"AI-generated shirtless handyman, yes."

"And you let me think," Luke takes a step closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels smaller. "You let me drive all the way home thinking there was some other guy in my house."

"In my defense, I didn't think you'd actually leave the gym." Your voice is slightly breathless now because Luke's looking at you in a way that makes your stomach flip. "I thought you'd just be mildly annoyed."

"Mildly annoyed." Luke takes another step forward, and you instinctively take one back, your hip hitting the counter. "I wasn't mildly annoyed. I was," He pauses, seeming to search for the right word. "I was significantly annoyed."

"I can see that."

"Can you?" He's right in front of you now, his hands coming up to bracket you against the counter, caging you in. "Because you're still smiling like this is the funniest thing that's ever happened."

"It kind of is though." You're looking up at him, your heart racing, and you can see the exact moment his annoyance shifts into something else entirely.

"You're so annoying," Luke says, his voice almost a childish whine, exasperated. "You know that?"

"I know."

"You'd be upset," His eyes drop to your lips. "if I did the same thing." He deadpans.

"Upset at what?" You try to keep your voice steady with faux confidence. "A harmless prank?"

"Harmless." Luke laughs, but there's little humor in it. "You had me convinced some guy was in here, taking his shirt off, being 'really nice' to my wife."

"AI guy," you correct.

"I don't care if he was AI or real or imaginary." Luke leans in closer, his mouth nearly touching your ear. "The point is, you made me think someone else was in my house, with my wife, and you thought it was funny."

"It was funny."

"You're not even sorry."

"Not even a little bit."

Luke pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark with something that makes heat pool low in your stomach. "You should be."

"Should I?"

you can read the rest of the fic (smut) on my patreon if you so desire 🫶🏽🫶🏽

[honeybunnyale]

Pet l C.K.

w.c: 3.6k

t.w.: Soft-Dark fic!, Smut (Consensual), Somnophilia (dub-con/non-con), Super Harem inspired, Breeding kink, Pregnancy kink, Pregnancy, Some violence, Implied that Clark is a stalker, Bro has a thing for uteruses, Clark doesn't like being called Clark because he’s speciesist 

a/n: Please read warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only! 

Summary: Had Clark seen the second half of the transmission... 

A plume of grey surrounded you, it filled your lungs and blurred your eyes. You shouldn’t have opened your mouth, you could taste the ash and it was almost warm from the carnage happening around you. 

The city has dealt with Metahumans for years, but it was still relatively new. Your generation took the brunt of the changes in society. 

Superheroes, supervillains and monsters have suddenly become a reality. But it has been getting out of hand. You’d just gotten out of college and things haven’t been settling down. 

You hated this. You could feel the ground shake. You wipe your eyes and feel as if it did nothing to clear your eyes. 

Then you felt the air shift, a gentle quiet enveloping you amidst the chaos. Cool air blows against your face and it almost stung. It sounded like a gentle breeze from a windy day across a coastline. 

Everything clears. You look down and, oh god, your leg is trapped under rubble. You don’t scream. You just groan in annoyance, you could still move your toes and ankle. 

And suddenly the cool air gets chillier, and the sound gets louder. A man was above you, floating up in the air, cheeks puffed out like a puffer fish as he blew the dust away from the area. 

It was a man in a bright blue suit and bright red cape. Another hero with another gimmick you suppose. 

“Hello.” 

You respond with a small ‘Hi’ as he lifts the piece of concrete off of your right leg gently. His eyes roam over your body as you slowly make your way out of the rubble. The analytical gaze made you feel embarrassed. 

“Just some bruises, no sprains, you should be fine,” he mumbles under his breath, as if taking notes like a doctor would when reading a chart. 

He pauses at your lower stomach, his eyes blanking as they roam near your nether regions. They soften perceptively before darting to your eyes. He looks away when you do, his face reddening. 

He lifts you in his arm as you attempt to stand, your body still shaky from shock. You protest. 

“You don’t have to- I can walk.” 

He smiles softly at you. It shuts you up. He had very defined dimples. The sun was behind him and created a halo that sprouted from his crown of dark hair, a single perfect curl out of his slicked back look. 

As if he hadn’t broken a sweat from the fight. The only evidence being ash on his cheekbone. 

There was a certain warmth to him that other heroes didn’t have. He held you close to him, his chest comforting against your side. 

“The S stands for hope.” 

He nodded assuredly, with conviction. You could see his hands fidget from where you sat in the medical tent set up near the destruction. He was nervous as he made his debut. You give him a thumbs up as he glances in your direction. He smiles widely. 

You were his first damsel in distress. 

The cameras flashed and headlines would announce the newest hero of the Metropolis. 

Superman. 

…

You didn’t think he had a crush on you. Your intuition is usually wrong though. 

Clark was unnerving. He’d make whatever room you stood in feel unsettling. Like when you wake up from a bad dream and feel a pit of anxiety at the start of your day.  

There was nothing ever wrong with him, he was normal, a little awkward but otherwise ordinary. But there was something about him you couldn’t quite understand.

He comes to your coffee shop all of the time, usually around 8 in the morning right before he goes to work. His press badge clued you in to his name and when you had called him by it, he almost looked astonished. As if you had remembered him from the last time he was there. 

He started appearing after your news interview went viral. Some reporters and cameras crowded you as you were being checked over by EMTs. 

It was mostly due to the fact that you ‘were unapologetically thirsty for the new hero’. In reality they cut the part where they asked you if you thought he was handsome, making it seem as if you brought it up yourself. 

It brought attention to your business, so you let the story run through social media. 

People found you quickly, your younger employees really wanted to make a special drink to keep up with the hype. So you let them. It brought even more attention. 

You had assumed Clark Kent, the one who had the first ever exclusive interview with Superman himself would also write a piece on the drink. He even ordered the ‘Supershot’, or a regular Lungo shot the first time he came around. 

He stares at you from the sitting area, his laptop open as if he were typing. You couldn’t help but feel his eyes on you every time you weren’t looking in his general vicinity. 

You’re making him a sandwich, cutting it in half before ringing the bell and calling for his name at the counter. He smiles at you, his large form squeezing by the chairs and tables as if he were a giant. 

He was, judging by his height and his width. But his imposing figure was somehow diminished by his sheepish behavior and stumbling movements. 

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

You hum inquisitively, tipping your head up to look him in the eye. Maybe he was going to ask for an interview once and for all, it would do good for the business. He might be asking for permission to write about the shop seeing that he comes around almost every day at this point, even chatting with you as you worked when it wasn’t as busy. 

“Can I take you out to dinner?” 

You give him a wide-eyed stare. Your face heats up and your stomach drops. Your hands drag across your apron nervously, you swallow thickly as you stutter out a response. 

“I’m seeing someone.” 

He smiles at you, the complete opposite of a reaction anyone who was just rejected would have. He nods, he says a quiet ‘I understand.’ and leaves out the door, leaving you slightly mortified and confused. 

…

“He comes in for coffee and just sits there. He asked me out today.” 

You stir the sauce mixture, glancing at the pot of boiling pasta noodles on the other burner. You feel his hands wind around your waist, his chin resting atop your shoulder. His entire chest covered your back, he made you feel cocooned. Safe. 

Superman had found his way to your apartment window the week after he had made his public debut. You didn’t know how he found you, or how he even knew you’d be opening your front door to see him appear on your window, but you didn’t really think about those things. 

He was a hero, he probably heard about you on the internet and wanted to check in. 

He made himself part of your nightly routine, knocking on your window, climbing in and playing with your cat, Luna, as you made dinner. Luna liked his bongo pats. He liked the way she would sit on his lap and kneed his stomach, especially when he was wearing sweaters. 

He had told you he was lonely, that he was new to the city. He needed a friend. You gave him the company he so wanted, and more. 

He revealed that his name was Kal-El after a month. He was an alien from Krypton, a planet that had been destroyed. His parents sent him to earth to survive and to act as a guardian. His goal was to protect the planet. 

He didn’t mention much else, an offhand comment about his human ‘caretakers’ made you think he didn’t really get along with his adoptive parents from Kansas. You didn’t judge. Although it did confuse you how much he didn’t talk about his childhood.

He kissed you last week, you made love the night after. You swore you heard him whisper a promise to take care of you as sleep pulled you deeper into unconsciousness.  

He stands in his civilian clothes. Khakis and a sweater, hair swept back and perfect as ever. He pecks down your neck and to your shoulder. You shiver at the feeling.  

“What did you say to the poor guy?” he asks softly. 

You pause, you feel your heartbeat so fast your throat almost seizes. You shrug as you take a shaky breath in. 

The relationship with Kal was so new, you didn’t want to presume anything. 

“Told him I was seeing someone…” you say slowly. 

He hums as a response. He holds you tighter and kisses your cheek roughly, eliciting a short laugh from you. 

A comfortable silence surrounds you both afterwards, his hands were on your lower stomach, caressing near the waistband of your pajamas, right on your lower belly.

He’s been doing that a lot, you noticed. His eyes and touch would migrate to the area, sometimes you catch him staring when you’re sat down, his body would almost shut down and he would drift off into his own thoughts. 

It was funny to you, especially when he would pop his own bubble of daydream and look at you as if he had missed years of conversation. 

He watches you eat with newfound affection. You were loyal. He liked that. Loved it, actually. He loved how ready you were. You were in your fertile days, he could see your cervix, even more pliant than before, dilated and waiting for his seed. 

He chokes on his spaghetti, causing you to laugh as he hits his chest with his closed fist and grumbles in irritation. 

He loved your laugh, he realizes. He thinks he loves you. 

He thinks about this as he pushes his cock into your cunt, the only light coming from your window, it illuminates his chiseled physique, the globes of your ass, the softness of your skin.

Your back arches, his hand presses you further into the mattress, your face smooshes into the pillows. Each crack of his hips against your ass produces a loud clap.

Your cunt drips over his cock, slicking up his pelvis and the pubic hair leading up his stomach.

You looked and felt good underneath him. He enjoys the way you mewled and twitched against him as he went deeper. 

Your head is pulled back, he lifts you by the throat, pressing your back against his chest as he pumps into you from behind. 

Upright on your knees, you press a hand to the back of his head as he kisses down your neck and shoulders. He bites and licks and sucks hard enough to leave bruises.

You blame his lack of experience for the way he draws blood sometimes or the way your body is so sore you could barely get up for work the next day. 

He pushes you over the edge over and over again throughout the night. You were left a whimpering mess and he was still hard. 

“Kal- I can’t-” 

He was on top of you, your body melded between the mattress and his chest. 

“Yes, you can. Be good and take it. “ 

You were stuffed. Literally. You felt it in your pelvis, his cum squirting out and slowly releasing the pressure slowly with each flex of his hips. The edges of your eyes fade black, you close your eyes tightly and feel his body shudder above you. 

His fingers circle over your clit as he pulls you to lay on your side, his cock still pulsing inside of you, releasing more of his seed as he attempts to make you cum. You bite your lip to stop yourself from screaming out, you doubt you had the energy to do so anyway. 

He watches your uterus closely as you come apart, your cervix dilating and allowing his seed further inside of you. 

His palms rub against your hardened nipples as he cups your breasts. He squeezes them as you lay in his arms, your body deep in sleep and in need of rest. He imagines you plumper, his cock hardens inside you and he whines from the back of his throat. 

Your hips would widen, he's sure he would give you big babies, it would help you in the long run. Your breasts would fill up with milk, nipples darkening and widening. 

You’d be a great mother, he sees the way you take care of your cat. As if it were a human baby sometimes. He nuzzles the side of your head with his nose, he groans as he thrusts. Your body shakes with each movement, head lolling to and fro, tiny whimpers escaping you even in your sleep as he has his way with you over and over again until the sun shone from your window. 

…

You wake up with licks to your face. Smelly licks. You wince as you sit up, Luna meows sweetly, breath smelling of her cat food. Any other day she would be begging for your attention, so much so that you would wake up and quickly fill her bowl. 

Clark is rummaging through your closet and now you’re really confused. He usually leaves by now, he glances at you and smiles. His dimples deepen with his grin. 

“Fed her.” 

She licks your hand as you place her on your lap.

“Thanks.”

He responds quickly with an ‘mhm’. You sit up against the headboard watching him silently as he produces a winter coat and snow pants. Things you’ve only worn once or twice. He holds them up. It was summer, you gave him a suspicious look. 

“I want to take you somewhere.” 

The trip to the Arctic was longer than he wanted. Because of your fragile human body, he couldn’t go at his usual speed, unless he wanted to risk you getting sick or worse, he’d tear your body apart. 

You slept in his arms because of the fatigue you felt from the night before. 

He kept you close as the crystalized structure rose from the snow, the earth shook from the force of it, you stood at the door in complete awe. It made him feel proud, to have you so impressed. 

You take in the fortress, head tilting up above to see the intricate crystals making up the ceiling.

“Is this your first mating partner, Kal-El?” 

Your head whips to see several humanoid robots surrounding you both, some coming from the sides and peeking from the hallways as he leads you towards the console in the middle of the room. You chuckle awkwardly at the wording. 

“First?” you ask, almost jokingly. 

“One of many, of course. That is the plan,” it responds dryly. 

He brushes off the robot with a hand, shaking his head and sighing deeply. 

“I told you. We’re not doing that anymore.” 

He chuckles and you chuckle with him, forcing yourself to laugh through the awkward and questionable things said. It must be a misunderstanding on your part, or things aliens joke about. 

He blocks the robots’ view of you, shooing them away before telling them to pull up the message. 

He lifts you by the waist and sits you down in what looks like a medical chair in the middle of the room. 

“I want to share my mission with you. Want you to get to know me better.” 

You felt something at the pit of your stomach twist. The way the robots were looking at you, the strange hologram with a man and a woman all dressed in white. 

The message was sweet. He was looking up at his parents with pride and joy. 

But the longer the message went on, the more unsettled you felt. You stare at the hologram of his parents as they instruct him to practically govern over Earth. You turn to him, he looks down at you with a soft smile. 

He sees the confusion on your face, just like his when the Superman robots were able to decipher the complete message when he was sixteen years old. 

“I’m not-“ he shakes his head and grabs your hands to press against his chest. To show he was being sincere. 

“I’m not going to take over the world.” 

He says it like it was impossible to imagine. He was the strongest being on the planet. It in fact was very possible. 

“I’m not going to build a harem. I have you. You know that.” 

Your heart was beating out of your chest, you could feel the insignia of his suit against your fingertips, the beat of his own heart. He has you? 

“Are those really your parents?” 

He takes a deep breath, looking to the side in irritation. He shakes his head before you could ask another question. As if you were being dense. 

“They’re my real parents.” 

You try to pull your hands away. His hands wouldn’t budge, he steps closer. 

“Do your other parents know about this? About the message?” 

He rolls his eyes. 

“They’re simple. They’re just human.” 

You flinch. The animosity in his tone startled you. 

“Am I simple?” 

He scoffs as if the answer was obvious. 

“Well, yeah.” 

He cups your face. He resists the urge to pinch your cheeks. 

“Kryptonians were far more advanced than humans. I mean look around you.” 

He gave you a look that you would give your cat. As if it didn’t know any better sometimes. That scolding smile when she refuses to get her nails clipped. 

You remember he had found the concept of you owning a cat hilarious. You didn’t really understand. Maybe he thought of you and Luna as equals. In a more literal sense. 

“Kal-“

“You know it’s funny. You’re the only person who calls me Kal-El.” 

You blink. He kisses your cheek. 

“You’re the only person who truly knows me.” 

You get out of the seat and stand a couple of feet away from him. The surprise made him lose his grip. His brows furrow in genuine confusion. 

“I think it’s time for me to go home.” 

He looks distraught. Heartbroken. He sweeps his curls back, speechless by your sudden detestation of his affection. 

“You are home.” 

The look on your face makes his eyes water. Why were you being so cold? He steps closer to you, you don’t take a step back. Good. 

“I thought it was weird too, but it makes sense.” 

You scoff. 

“I’m so much more than anything on this planet. There are wars that kill innocents, there’s people starving every day, ecosystems dying.” 

You start to shake your head, his voice rises in volume at your stubbornness.

“I’m going to help. My future generations are going to help the beings on this planet. Because clearly, they can’t even save themselves!” 

His shout was loud enough to echo. For the first time, you felt a tinge of fear in his presence. He tones down, crossing his arms and pressing his palm to his mouth to take deep breaths in. 

He steps closer to you, you step back. 

“It’s- it’s my duty as a kryptonian- as someone that could do something, to save you all from yourselves.”

“Take me home.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief. The next second your face is pressed against his chest. He holds you tightly against him by your wrists. 

“You could be a part of this too.” 

You tried to pull away but his grip was tight, you felt as if you were going to pop your shoulders off from how hard you attempted to pull away.

“Our kids would be wonderful.” 

You laugh awkwardly, glancing around the room as if someone could help you out of this situation. You shake your head furiously, he steps closer. 

“Imagine how much good could happen with a family like ours.” 

…

Ma Kent was fussing over you incessantly, she didn’t let you lift a finger, just allowing you to hold the plates and utensils, even then, you only held your own plate and fork. The lights were dimmed in the dining room, and you could hear Clark and his father discussing quietly. 

You’d met his adoptive parents a year ago, they were a happy couple that lived on their farm. Clark, as he says is only his human name, which you refused to call him anything else these days, found it necessary to keep up appearances. 

It broke your heart to know that even if they were sweet, caring, and good people, Kal-El would refuse to see them as his parents, not since he believed they were lesser than his biological kin. 

They didn’t even realize he had disowned them. 

You sing happy birthday, he has his hand on your hip as his lips spread into a boyish smile. You stand, leaning against him and rubbing his shoulder. He blew out the candles, you all clapped, and he handed out slices of cake. 

“My baby is having a baby.” 

Martha gleamed with joy, tears threatening to slide down her flushed cheeks. Pa Kent just rubbed her back, smiling sheepishly at the emotion she expressed so outwardly. 

You could tell Clark cared for them, it was so obvious when he cared. Despite his denial, he was still somewhat human. 

The way he kissed his ‘human caretaker’ on the brow, smoothing his hand up and down her back as he announced your pregnancy a couple of months before was proof of that. 

He places a hand on your belly, feeling the firmness of your bump, proof of your child’s life. You look at him, your eyes meeting his before turning towards Ma, gently placing your hand atop hers and squeezing. 

“Clark will be a great father.”

His smile falters slightly. 

Everyone else at the table agreed wholeheartedly.

--------------------

Woah! I genuinely don't think he would have ever gone as far as ruling over Earth and making a Super Harem, but I do believe that as an easily influenced teen boy, the promise of greatness would have some effect on the way he thinks about Humans and Kryptonians. Idk tho lolz

Requests Open!

-Alejandra 💋🐇

[corenmishti]

beware of dog

warnings/tags: 18+, dark themes, NONCON, woc!reader (south asian coded but yk), slight canon divergence, oblivious!reader, manipulation, intimidation, forced intimacy, obsessive behavior, implied stalking, these tags are not exhaustive

wc: 5k

summary: No good deed goes unpunished. And your punishment comes in the form of Clark Kent.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

to the gifmaker, this is a beautiful gif and I am sooo sorry to desecrate ur notifs with a fic like this SLDFJSDLF

forgive me, I am horrendously rusty after not having written anything for...eight months or so omg please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!!

His misery is nearly palpable. It’s the only reason why you hesitate, fingers hooked on the door handle loosely. 

In the eleven minutes it took you to walk from your work to Hamid’s corner store and back, the man has not moved an inch. His elbows remain braced against his knees, and his head is placed in his hands. There’s a slight shaking to his hunched form, but you can only see it if you really concentrate on him. 

You’re almost certain he’s crying. If he’s trying to hide it, he’s a doing a poor job of it. 

You were planning on grabbing your laptop before you left to go home, but now, you take a detour. It would do you good to not be so available to your clients, anyway. 

No one approaches him in the time you take to slowly walk towards him despite how busy the park is at this time. A few onlookers glance at him, but that’s the extent of their care. 

If only your conscience didn’t sound so much like your mom, you would be joining them and going about your day, but alas. 

You take a seat. There is about an eight inch gap between your thigh and his, the maximum amount of distance this park bench will afford you. Already you’re regretting your decision, but you’ve made it this far, too far, to back out. 

He lifts his head from his hands, lightly yet efficiently wiping away his tears. He tries to say something, but his voice catches in his throat before he can utter a syllable. He goes bright red. 

You ignore it. 

The foiled gyro in your hand is almost too warm to the touch. You place it next to him, depositing a napkin on top after a moment of consideration. 

“It’s beef,” you offer when he just looks at it. Your one, lamb, is settled against your lap. You pick at the flimsy foil. “It’s fresh, so you’ll probably want to be careful before you eat it. I’ve burnt my tongue one too many times by being impatient.” 

Hamid had a habit of making you extra whenever you came by after work. Usually, it was an extra order of bread or fries depending on what you felt like that day, but with the gloom hanging over everyone’s head these days, he had felt particularly gracious today. 

The man continues to look at the gyro. He then flicks his stare up to you, contemplative. His eyes are shockingly blue and made bluer by the red rim of his eyes. The glasses don’t do much to hide how he’s cried. 

Though you’d prefer to eat in your apartment, you unwrap your own gyro and take a careful bite. It’s mostly flatbread in your mouth, warm and comforting in all the best ways possible. A lick of steam kisses your upper lip, forcing you to blow on the lamb gently. 

Only then does he peel off the first layer of foil and take a bite. He doesn’t seem to care for your warning, and your tongue throbs in sympathy at the hell he’s putting his own through. 

You let him get through about half of his gyro before you hesitantly ask, “Are you feeling better?” 

He swallows but doesn’t respond immediately. He seems to be taking your question seriously. 

“A little bit,” he says finally. His attention unwittingly drifts to the Jumbotron hanging above the park. On the screen is the video of Superman’s confrontation with Lex Luthor. 

You always hated that smug bastard, so whether Superman’s accusation was right or wrong didn’t matter to you; you were happy to see an instinctual fear lock Lex’s knees for a moment. 

The man’s frown deepens as the replay starts again. You wonder if the supposed truth of Superman’s existence on earth is what’s caused his distress. The wake of the video has left many disillusioned and even more angry. But it’s not anger you see in the tightness of his shoulders nor is it betrayal that lines his eyes with unshed tears.

You don’t know the name of what you see.

“It must be a slow day for the news,” you say, leaning back into the bench. The wood is warm underneath you. “I think this is the fiftieth time I’ve seen that video today alone.” 

It’s not a surprise this footage is still dominating the news but no new ground has been covered nor has there been any official word from Superman himself since the release of it. There’s only so much of a beating even a dead horse can take. 

“It’s not even that damning,” you add almost as an afterthought. 

The one of his parents was certainly more shocking. You should be more concerned with the fact that Superman was sent to rule over earth, but you find yourself stuck on their plea for him to create a harem and populate the earth with other Kryptonians. It makes your stomach turn to think about. 

“You don’t think so?” he asks, disrupting the path your thoughts were taking. 

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Compared to the video his parents left him? Yeah, I think this isn’t that bad. I mean, it’s definitely not helping, but Lex is a—” You stop yourself. You don’t necessarily believe in the conspiracies about Lex Luthor, but you also don’t want to test those theories so you settle with, “There must be a reason Superman thought Lex was behind this smear campaign.”

“You think it’s a smear campaign? Even with that video of his parents?” 

His tone isn’t quite incredulous, but there lies a sliver of doubt underneath the baritone of his voice. 

You make a face. You might be giving more grace than is necessarily warranted, and he’s called you out on it. “Smear campaign probably isn’t the right thing to say considering. But.” And you shrug. “He’s Superman. I think if he was following his parents’ plan, people would’ve found signs of it by now. He does more good than harm and, clearly, that’s been hard to disprove. And honestly? It’s hard to fake that type of sincerity.” 

“Ah.” He sounds pleased. Maybe his earlier despair did have to do with Superman then. “It’s nice to hear people still believe in him.” 

You smile at him. The redness around his eyes has faded, and he looks as if some of the weight on his shoulders has lessened. The world can be a bleak place at times and while you may not understand the fanaticism given to superheroes, you know what it is like to lose faith in something you always thought to be true. It’s a good lesson to learn but knowing its importance doesn’t diminish the destruction left in its wake. 

“I hope he finds his dog, though,” you say, watching the replay once more. 

“Me too,” he says softly. He turns to you, wiping his hand off on his pants. He holds it out, a smile lighting up his face. “Thank you for your kindness. I’m Clark Kent.” 

You give him your name, accepting his hand.  

You don’t think twice about it. 

-

It takes a few days for Superman to clear his name. 

The tabloids are torn between reporting about Lex Luthor’s underhanded ways and Superman’s return as the man the world has always thought him to be but eventually, Lex Luthor wins out. The more reporters dig, the worse the filth they find on LuthorCorp. 

Bagel hanging from your mouth, you accept the newspaper your coworker hands to you. She’s rambling on about a project the two of you need to finish by the end of the day, and you’re only half-listening as you flick through the paper. Some other bombshell about Lex dominates the front page, but you find an interview from Superman hiding behind the first page. 

He thanks all those who placed their trust in him and that he hoped to live up to their expectations. There are a few quippy lines decorating each segment of the interview, but overall, it’s a really lovely piece. You might go as far as to say you’re a little moved by it. 

Superman mentions how in the face of overwhelming kindness, it is hard to think of humanity as anything but beautiful and that is why he works so hard for a better tomorrow each and every day. 

It’s the perfect sort of feel good quote to bring him back to his golden boy status. 

You barely remember it by the end of the day. 

-

Superman interrupts your lunch break. 

He strains as he keeps the newest monster of the week from crushing your apartment building. His back presses against your window. A web of cracks appear underneath his suit, and part of you wants to die. Somehow, your landlord will make this your problem to deal with. 

Superman’s grunt is loud enough for you to hear through the glass, and he manages to force the monster to stagger away, crushing a few trees underneath its clawed feet. It’s not the ugliest monster you’ve come across, but it’s your most hated given the damages you have now personally incurred. Your apartment is purposefully far from the hub of the city for this exact reason and yet, trouble has come to find you all the same. Fuck, you knew you should’ve gone for a lower deductible for your insurance. 

Superman takes a deep breath, shaking off his momentary stupor. Just as he’s about to fly off, he turns his head ever so slightly and catches your eye. 

It’s normal for a citizen like you to watch as he does his job but you can’t help the flare of embarrassment that warms your gut when he sees you staring. You lift your hand and give him a little wave. 

His expression blanks out for a moment, and you curl your fingers into your palm. He watches the motion and then stares at you. 

“Are you okay?” 

You nod. 

A smile spreads across his mouth. “Good.” 

It startles you to find yourself believing he means it. Without meaning to, you smile back. No wonder many found it so hard to believe the slop Lex Luthor had spread about him. 

He turns back to the monster, but before he takes off, it almost seems as if he sneaks another look at you. He’s gone before you can convince yourself you aren’t wrong. 

You shrug. There’s no way a superhero would need to take a second look at you. And with that in mind, you return back to your work, lunch long forgotten.

-

There’s a knock on your window. 

Out of habit, you check your peephole until you realize the sound is coming from your living room. Unease slithers down your back, leaving a wake of nausea as you grab the golf club your brother left behind. It’s heavy, but it offers you no more than skin deep reassurance. If something is knocking against your seventh floor window, a golf club likely won’t do the damage you need. 

You unlock your door and walk slowly towards the entrance of your living room, hoping to take a peek and getting the fuck out of there if need be. 

At your window is Superman. 

He waves, mimicking your earlier one. 

You hurry to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open. “Superman?” you ask tentatively. 

“Hi,” he says simply. 

Your windows are large enough to fit a person through if opened, and he takes advantage of this, stepping over the sill right into your apartment. It’s so ludicrous to see Superman in your living room that you glance back at your kitchen to see the time on the clock. 

10:17pm. So not nearly late enough for this to be some sleep induced hallucination. 

“Is there something you needed…?”

Stupidly, you wonder if he’s about to offer you payment to fix your window.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says. He looks towards your couch and then to you, a hopeful look on his face. 

“You can take a seat,” you say automatically, motioning towards the couch. You must’ve left your manners at the front door. Then his words register. “I’m sorry. Thank me?” 

He’s scanning your living room, wonder in his eyes. He shifts his attention back to you, something soft in his smile. “Without your support, I don’t think I could’ve made it through that pocket dimension.” 

Not a single thought crosses your mind at his words. It’s akin to brain freeze with how you cease to comprehend what’s coming out of his mouth. What the fuck is he talking about? Was Superman personally thanking each citizen now that his image was cleared? How would he even know which citizens were in his corner and which ones weren’t?

You barely use social media as is, and you definitely do not use it to defend Superman. His actions speak louder than any words you could ever say anyway.

“I’m not sure I’m following,” you say slowly. “Are you sure you have the right person?” 

“Of course.” He sounds mildly offended. “I could never forget you.” 

Throughout your conversation, your hold on the golf club has loosened. At his confusion, you wrap your fingers grip the metal tighter than before. Concern snakes itself around your stomach and pulls tight. 

As if sensing your rapidly cooling hospitality, he leans forward, panic widening his eyes. “I’m Clark. Clark Kent.” 

It takes longer than he’d like for you to rack your brain for how you know that name based on how his smile dims as you struggle to connect the man in front of you with the man at the park. You’re pretty sure you’d be able to recognize Superman, and that teary-eyed man at the park perhaps looked like if Superman had been drawn from memory. 

“No, you’re not,” you say flatly. 

His jaw slackens. “You gave me a gyro,” he sputters out. “And told me you still believed in Superman.” 

“I told the guy at the park that. I didn’t tell you that,” you argue, tempted to cross your arms over your chest. 

“Why don’t you—” He cuts himself off, understanding beginning to dawn upon him. He points towards his eyes. “It was my glasses.” 

“Yeah, he had glasses. But even without them, you don’t look like him,” you say, irritated. You can’t clearly picture the man’s face, but you do know it did not resemble the face you’re currently looking at. Even your imagination is not good enough to create a face as beautiful as the one before you. 

“No, I mean my glasses are why you can’t remember me. They make me look different.” He waves his hand dismissively, batting away some imaginary objection. “It’s like a privacy thing.” 

“Your glasses,” you repeat. “I can’t recognize you, because you wore glasses.” 

“They’re Kryptonian,” he says, exasperated. “They make me look a little different to everyone I see.” 

You push your tongue against the back of your teeth. You have no choice but to believe him given Superman of all people is currently sitting on your couch, but it stings your pride a little to acknowledge you’ve been had by a pair of glasses. For it to be this easy to fool the general public, you have to wonder how things haven’t gone worse for the world metahuman wise. 

“Fine, you’re Clark,” you admit, putting the golf club down. You take a seat atop your coffee table, smoothing your hands on your sleep shorts. His eyes trail the movement before crawling up your body to look at you. You tilt your head, chewing on your lip. “You don’t need to thank me. That gyro was free, anyway.” 

The moment you finish speaking, Clark grabs your hand and uses his other hand to brace against the edge of the table. He’s close, so close in fact, that you can see how much your words have upset him. 

You want to back away, but there is nowhere for you to go. 

“Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to—” Clark licks his lips, and helplessly, you look at his mouth. He takes a fortifying breath and lets go of your hand, albeit reluctantly. 

“I was in a bad place,” he admits. “Not only were people beginning to doubt me, but I was beginning to doubt myself, too. I always thought my parents wanted me to do good for this world, to be good, but…”

He focuses back on you. His eyes are unwavering as they look at you. “Then you reached out to me.” A wry smile curls at the edges of his mouth. “Not because you knew that I was Superman. But because all you knew was that I was having a rough day, and you chose to be kind. I appreciate that. More than you could ever know.”

You think you might understand why Superman has never faltered in his mission, his dedication to doing good. If all the heartfelt appreciation he received from children all the way to the elderly felt as warm as you do right now with his praise, you could be convinced to lay your life for the good of humanity. Granted, you were a metahuman, of course. 

You duck your head, biting back your grin. “I’m glad I could be of service then.”

“That’s why I wanted to thank you in person,” he says quietly. “But you didn’t come to the park again.” 

For a moment, his voice pitches in a way that borderlines accusatory. Your earlier anxiety-riddled fear rears its head in your gut, but it’s quickly extinguished when you notice how forlorn he seems. 

You scratch your cheek. The wake of Lex’s underhanded actions and the revitalization of Superman has left you slammed at work. “I’ve been working long hours the past couple of days, so I haven’t had the time to take lunch. Or breaks in general for that matter.” 

“I could take you out to lunch,” he offers immediately. 

You shake your head, holding your hands up. “No it’s fine. It’ll calm down in a few weeks. I just have to bear the storm or whatever.” It’s the one thing your manager has been saying on repeat these past two weeks for fear you and your coworker will make good on your threats and quit. But goddamn, what a storm it has been. 

Clark sits, sucking in his cheek. “Well, I was hoping to take you out for a meal,” he starts steadily. “As thanks.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Clark,” you wave him off. “The fact that you came all this way to thank me is nice enough. I mean, what were the odds that monster would lead you right to my place, right?” 

He coughs suddenly, covering his mouth with his hand. “Yeah, crazy coincidence,” he agrees quickly. Then he recovers. “Or maybe it was fate.” 

You raise your eyebrows. Who knew Superman was such a romantic? 

“Yeah, maybe,” you say dubiously. “But seriously, you thanking me in person is already more than enough. Let’s call it even, yeah?” 

“No,” he says firmly. He’s not smiling. 

His refusal sends a jolt through you. 

“Let me take you out to dinner.” 

“Um.” 

“I want to get to know you,” he continues, wringing his hands together. The dimness of your living room cannot hide the flush that creeps upon his cheeks. 

Oh. 

“Sorry, I’m not really looking for a relationship right now,” you say awkwardly. Blood rushes to your head, giving way for an anxiety-fueled queasiness to burrow in the back of your throat. “You’re very sweet.” The words tumble out of your mouth. “And I’m flattered you’d even think of me that way. I’m just not in the right space to be considering a relationship especially given that you’re…” 

“Superman,” he finishes glumly. 

Silence stretches between the two of you. He sits there, completely still as you look everywhere but at him. 

“Thank you for coming by,” you say weakly as he continues to sit there. He doesn’t acknowledge your words. You wish he’d put you out of your misery, but it seems you must be the change you wish to see. “I can walk you out…?”

He kisses his teeth and gets up. “That would be lovely. Thank you,” he says robotically. 

You falter with him right behind you. The door is the sensible option, but he did come through your window. It will be difficult to explain to your neighbors why Superman is leaving your apartment if any are outside right now. 

“Do you have a preference?” you ask uncertainly, pointing first at your door and then to your cracked open window. 

“Do you have a preference?” he shoots back. He’s sullen, and the downturn of his lips makes your heart twinge.

You take a second to think. “Whichever’s easier for you,” you say with a slight shrug. You’re sure you can figure out a way to explain away Superman’s presence in your apartment if it comes down to it. 

He chooses the window. Your stomach instinctively lurches when he steps out into the open airs, but he manages to keep himself afloat. You bring your outstretched hand back to your side, feeling foolish for attempting to anchor a superhero, and his focus flickers to said hand. His lips thin out into a flat line, but he holds back whatever it is running through his mind. 

“Goodnight,” he says. 

You wave, a perfunctory smile gracing your mouth. The lock on your window has never felt so useless as it has in this moment. “Goodnight.” 

You turn away first, and it is through the reflection your TV screen that you know he does not leave until you are settled in your sheets. 

Resolutions should be year round and so, you add another to your list. 

You are never setting foot in that park again. 

-

You would have been convinced the previous night to be a fever dream, concocted within the deepest recesses of your mind after days of irregular sleep, had a bouquet of flowers not shown up at your door first thing in the morning. 

The note attached to it is innocuous enough. It’s a simple handwritten ‘thinking of you’ nestled between three red lilies. The handwriting is a messy scrawl, but there is a delicacy to the heart he’s drawn at the end of the card. 

He signs it as Clark. 

You don’t have the heart to toss it at the communal trash, so you take the bouquet into your apartment and set it atop the dining table. You’ll worry about what to do with them when you get back from work. Or rather, that was the plan until Clark shows up at your doorstep. 

He says your name, breathier than you think he intends. Without his glasses, he looks vaguely familiar but not placeable. He’s hovering by your door, a takeout bag in hand and his heart in this throat.

At least he’s in front of your door and not your window this time around. You suppose you should be grateful you now have the option to close the door in his face. Though, with his super strength, it’s merely a band-aid solution. 

You’re fully intent on chewing him out and sending him on his way until he turns to face you, and you see a name tag hanging loosely in front of his chest. 

“You actually have a job?” you ask, dumbfounded. 

You always assumed superheroes got some sort of salary from the government. How little were they getting paid for Superman to be working a 9-5? God, the world is so fucked if even superheroes have to pick up a second job to make a living. 

He looks confused for a moment before glancing down at his lanyard. “Oh, yeah. I work as a reporter at the Daily Planet.”

Curiosity has you opening your mouth, but sense has you grinding your questions up with your molars. You give an inch and who knows what he will take from it. 

“Clark,” you say, trying your best to not let your smile come off as annoyed as you are. 

He perks up.

“You are very, very…earnest. But I meant it when I said no.”

“I brought dinner,” he says as if you’ve said nothing past his name. 

You flatten your tongue against your teeth. “Clark,” you warn. 

He ignores you and easily pushes the door open. He manages to herd you back into your own apartment, kicking the door closed behind him with the heel of his dress shoes. 

You can only follow as he makes his way to your kitchen. He unpacks the food, ripping open the utensils with his teeth. You peer over his arm to see what he’s brought, and you’re surprised to see he’s managed to get takeout from Lony’s. It’s a hole in the wall restaurant in Metropolis that’s notorious for posting Instagram stories that they’re sold out by 4pm most days despite their hours listing them as open until 9pm. It’s rare you ever get a chance at their food. 

“Luckily, I was able to get off of work early so I could pick this up,” he says when he sees you examining the takeout bags. 

His smile is so boyish, you almost fall in tandem with him. But you steel yourself and school your expression into something stern. 

“Clark, what are you doing here?”

“Bringing you dinner,” he says easily. “I figured you’ve been so busy lately, why don’t I just bring dinner to you?” 

You take a deep breath. It doesn’t center you, but it does allow you to wrangle your thoughts into cohesion.

“I don’t want a relationship, Clark.”

He tenses. The plastic container in his hands cracks, dripping sauce onto the table. He very carefully sets it down before turning to you, jaw clenched. 

“What are you so afraid of?” he asks, almost snappishly. A lone strand of hair falls in front of his forehead. 

You scrunch up your face. “I’m not afraid of anything. I just don’t want to date. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

He scrutinizes you for a few heartbeats. “I don’t believe that,” he decides. 

His adamance to not take your answer for what it is burrows underneath your skin, dripping irritation into your bloodstream. You press your tongue against the flesh of your bottom lip, scoffing a little. 

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he points out. “So I know you’re lying.” 

“And if I am? What does it matter?” you defend, hand going up to cover your pulse as if that will do anything. Fucking superpowers. 

“Of course it matters!”  

The baritone of his voice fills the room. You flinch. 

“Don’t you feel the connection between the two of us?” he says, quieter now. 

He steps towards you. You take an equal step backwards. Frustration mitigates the hurt that crosses his face, and he takes another couple of steps towards you until you back up against the wall. 

When the chill of the wall touches your skin through the flimsy fabric of your shirt, fear begins quicken your heartbeat. Any sense of bravado you had flees you the nanosecond you understand the position you are in. 

“Clark, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you plea. “Let’s just take a breather, okay?” 

“I like you,” he interrupts, crowding into your space. 

Alarm bells begin ringing in the back of your head. Too late, like always.  “You don’t know me,” you say carefully. 

A myriad of emotions flash across his face. “You’re the one who said I couldn’t fake sincerity.” 

“You can’t,” you agree mildly. It is both a strength and weakness of his. “And I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m saying you don’t know me.” 

“Because you won’t let me get to know you.”

His face is closer now and warmth emanates off of his body. Your skin prickles at the heat. 

You place your palm against his chest. Using the barest hint of strength, you press against him. You know it’s a futile endeavor, full strength or not, but the lack of give frightens you. The back of your neck is damp, a droplet of sweat slipping from your hairline and into your shirt. Your chest is tight, heart pushing against your ribcage as if trying to claw itself out. 

There is a dry patch in the back of your throat. “I think you should go home,” you murmur. Your thoughts scramble to turn this to your favor. Licking your lips and ignoring how he trails the movement, you say, “You know. I’ve had a really long week. I’m not thinking clearly—”

The rest of whatever nonsense coming out of your mouth vanishes as Clark closes the distance and kisses you. It’s not an elegant kiss. He’s relentless, curling a hand behind your back to pull you closer. 

You are only allowed to break away when you bite down on his lip. He doesn’t take offense and merely swipes his tongue over the reddening flesn. Even then, it’s a struggle to not be within in a breath’s distance from Clark as he draws you closer and closer. 

“I wanted to take it slow,” he says pleadingly against your lips. He can’t seem to part from you, kissing you once more as his hand pushes your skirt up to your hips. His guilt is a mirage, easily broken by his eagerness. “I swear to you, I did.” 

Your pulse beats quickly at your throat. When he moves from your mouth and to your neck, you bury a hand in his hair. Your nails scrape against his scalp, earning a breathy groan. 

“Then let’s take it slow,” you say desperately. 

He slowly detaches from you but only by a handful of inches. His fingers, however, stay sliding under the thin fabric of your underwear. His eyes bore into yours. His finger strays closer and closer to your core, and you resist the instinct to clamp your thighs shut. 

“Do you mean it?” he asks, deceptively neutral in intonation. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest so fiercely, you don’t think he’ll be able to tell the difference between the truth and a lie. “I do.”

He laughs, bringing his forehead down to your shoulder. His own shake with the force of his laughter. Then he lifts his head, swallowing down his residual chuckles, and the ease of his expression shifts into something frighteningly disappointed. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!

[se7entyrell]

spider...man?

(clark kent x fem!reader)

Your relationship with Clark told through your crippling fear of spiders, aka four times when Clark is the world's best spider-catcher.

warnings: i guess spiders should be a warning, other than that just fluff, some allusions to sex, w/c 3k

my first time writing for clark ever!

one.

If there's anyone you don't want to embarrass yourself in front of, it's Clark Kent. Built like a Greek God, he's also the kindest man you've ever met, and you can't for the life of you work out why he doesn't have a girlfriend.

Not that it would ever be you.

In the year that you've worked at the Daily Planet, it feels like the universe has been out to get you. The first time you ever met him, you spilled coffee down his front. Claiming the stain was an easy fix, he had refused all offers of you paying for dry-cleaning. But you've never seen him wear that shirt since.

The first case you worked on together was during flu season - your eyes had been red-rimmed and your nose had been blocked the entire time you spent in each other's company. Thankfully, he didn't seem to catch your cold, but it still wasn't exactly the image you wanted him to have of you.

There have been various other mishaps, all with varying degrees of mortification, but you think today might take the cake.

It's late, long past when most of the reporters stay, but you're both still here, pouring over figures and facts for your respective pieces.

You're just about to give up, call it a night, when a movement on your desk stops you. Stilling, you wait for it to happen again, trying to work out what it could possibly be.

When a spider darts out from under your notebook, scuttling across your hand, the shriek is involuntary. Hand flicking, the spider is sent flying behind your laptop, as you leap to your feet.

Clark's by your side at once, making the trip across the office floor in record time.

"What's wrong?" His eyes dart round the room, poised for danger.

"T-there's a spider. In there." It's all you can manage, chest heaving as you point.

Clark's shoulders sag slightly, relief flooding through him. "Oh. Okay. Good."

"It's not good!" You protest, brow furrowing. "It's in there, somewhere, and I don't know where."

Clark nods, before starting to sift through your things. He closes the notebooks, always a stickler for confidentiality, and your heart soars just a little.

"What are you doing?"

He glances up at you like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm finding it so we can catch it and put it outside."

God, you think you might be in love with him.

It takes considerable digging, moving the piles around your desk before it's dislodged at the back. With a grace that only Clark Kent could muster up for the spawn of Satan, it's caught and gently placed out on the roof terrace.

As he closes the patio door behind him, you let out a small laugh, trying to disguise the humiliation coursing through your veins.

"Thank you, for that. I uh, don't do well with spiders, if you can believe it."

His smile is wide, teasing but not malicious. He's laughing with you. "S'okay. I was starting to wonder if you had any faults at all, actually."

"Oh, I have many, many faults," You say. "Don't need to worry about that one." A silence falls, comfortable and warm. He's looking at you, an unreadable expression in his eyes as you try and stop the heat from rising to your cheeks. "I should probably be getting home."

"I'll walk you-"

"You don't have to do that, I don't want to put you out-"

He's grabbing his jacket, ignoring everything. "What if you come across more spiders on the way home? We couldn't have that."

He's looking at you so earnestly that your resolve flies out the window.

"You make a good point," You muse. "Maybe better to be safe than sorry."

He makes everything feel so easy. And when he slips his hand into yours as you stroll through downtown Metropolis, your heart skips a beat. Then two.

two.

You’ve been locked in a dead heat with this spider for almost forty minutes. You’re positive that it must be out to torture you, some kind of cosmic retribution for all of the spider deaths you’ve inadvertently been responsible for over the years.

Currently hiding behind one of the photo frames hanging on your wall, you can’t even tell what size it is. Big, you’d guess, given the length of the spindly legs that peek out every so often.

There’s nothing for it. You’ll need to move the entire frame to get at the spider, and get it out of your apartment. The alternative is allowing this to go unchecked, and losing sight of it's whereabouts altogether.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you try and take a few steps towards the wall, but your legs don't seem to be co-operating.

It's ridiculous.

You've taken on hardened criminals, shady politicians, and literal aliens via your work at the Daily Planet, and you're stumped by a creature no bigger than your fist.

A tiny voice pops into the back of your head. You could call Clark.

It's a thought you immediately discard. You and Clark have been on three dates now, and while it's been wonderful, it's also still new. Really new.

You haven't even slept together yet.

Since finding out about Superman, it’s like Clark is terrified of hurting you. You know his physical strength is off the scale - that’s obvious just from watching the news. But when you’re together, his touches are featherlight - guiding, not possessive. It wasn’t until last night that you got past gentle pecks, ending the night pressed up against your door as Clark kissed you until you couldn’t breathe.

It was the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t imagined more. Inviting him in, leading him to your bed and putting that X-Ray vision to good use. But the last thing you want to do is push. Not when things have been going so well.

He might think that the whole spider thing is just a ploy - a lame excuse to get him over and try to get into his pants. It is almost 2am. You’d think the same if the roles were reversed.

Finally, you give in, reaching for the phone, while your eyes remain glued to the frame on your wall, as if the spider is waiting for you to be distracted to make a move.

There’s an unread message from him already, a picture of the sunset from his commute home. Lips tugging up, you dial his number.

It doesn’t even get through a full ring before he picks up. “Is everything okay?” Worry laces his tone, and you curse yourself. He thinks something bad has happened.

“I’m okay,” You assure him. “Well… I uh, I could be better. I’m having a spider issue-” Saying it aloud makes it seem so much worse than it sounded in your head. Clark spends his days saving the world - using him for this feels almost sacrilegious. “-but I think I’m overreacting, I shouldn’t have woken you up-”

“Don’t be silly,” He murmurs. “Want me to come round?”

“Would that be okay?” You ask, lip between your teeth.

“Course. I’ll be there in a minute.”

You’re still not used to the fact that when Clark says he’ll be somewhere in a minute, he means a literal minute. A knock sounds at your door, and you pull your eyes away just long enough to unlock it.

“Hey, honey,” He begins, before frowning. “Your heartrate is really high.”

You offer him a bashful smile. “I don’t like spiders.”

“Where is the little guy?”

"Firstly - not little. Secondly - over there," You say, embarrassment taking hold. You pride yourself on being capable, someone reliable. If anyone else in the office ever found out about this, you'd never live it down.

"Behind the frame?"

"I tried moving it a little, but it wouldn't come out, and I didn't want to risk breaking anything."

He nods, like that makes perfect sense, like it wasn't crazy to call your maybe-almost-boyfriend over at 2am just to deal with a spider that most people wouldn't have even noticed.

"Open the window, and I'll get him and put him out."

Already incredibly in tune with your personality, he knows you don't even like seeing spiders. You're grateful for the distraction.

While you busy yourself with the latch, he lets out a low whistle. "Wow. That is a big one."

You feel mildly vindicated, at the fact that Clark thinks it's big too. Maybe it wasn't a total overreaction.

Spider gone, he's turning back to you. "You know, when you first called I thought you just wanted an excuse for me to come over."

His hands settle on your waist, and you lean into his touch, brushing your nose against his. "While that's definitely a plus of this whole situation, I'm really just a scaredy-cat."

"Well, I'm happy to oblige." He's kissing you, soft and slow as his arms wrap round you, lifting until you're at his level. Instinctively, your legs wrap round his waist, feeling his tight corded muscles through his trousers.

A few minutes passes, before you detach yourself, resting your forehead against his. "I really like you, Clark."

"I really like you, too."

"No, like... really like you. A lot." Not your most eloquent work, but with the way he's looking at you it's a miracle you can even form words.

"Are you sure you're not just blinded by the spider fear?" He murmurs, pushing a free strand of hair from your forehead.

"Can't a girl like a man and his spider-catching abilities?" You're overcome with uncharacteristic boldness. "Maybe you should stay."

"Yeah?"

You nod, draping your arms across his shoulders. "Only if you want to-"

"I want to," He interjects. "I really want to."

three.

Clark is braced above you, lips trailing along your neck, when you spot it. Angled directly above your heads - if it were to lose grip and fall, it would either land in Clark’s hair, or your face.

Body freezing, your hands stop mid-movement, engagement ring glinting in the moonlight. You’re still not used to being a fiancée. The term seems so foreign. But you like it. You like being Clark’s fiancée.

You like it when little old ladies at the grocery ogle it, and you’re able to preen, pointing him out as he helps someone reach the top shelf. The phrase ‘handsome young man’ is one you hear all the time these days.

You like it when he holds your hands during sex, lacing his fingers through yours as he whispers praise - you’re sure you’ll like it even more when the matching band adorns his own hand.

Most of all, you like that it ties you to him. It’s silly, and you know you’re tied to Clark in far more meaningful ways than a ring, but the hopeless romantic in you loves the entire experience.

“Clark,” You mumble, as his hips slow. You have to bite back a whimper as he stops entirely, buried to the hilt.

“Hm?” He’s barely paying attention, still working at your neck.

“There’s a spider.”

“Can I get it after we finish?” He asks, pulling back slightly, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you.

“It’s right above our heads,” You whisper, voice almost pitiful. He follows your gaze, letting out a sigh when he spots it.

“Nothing kills the mood like that, huh?” There’s a slight teasing to his tone, but he dutifully gets to his feet, moving you over to the side of the bed that’s spider-free, before grabbing his boxers.

You sit, knees up to your chest as you watch him grab an empty cup and hold it to the ceiling. It only takes a minute before he’s depositing it out the window, and padding back through to the bedroom.

“Better?”

“My hero,” You hum, reaching out to pull him down towards you, kissing him deeply. “Thank you.”

"Starting to think that might be why you keep me around."

You shake your head, biting back a smile. "You're pretty good in bed, too."

"Yeah? Care to get back to that, then?" He's lying you back down, elbows resting down each side of you.

"I love you," You murmur, as he kisses you again, lips soft and inviting. "You're a really great spider-man."

"Spider-man?" Clark repeats, arching an eyebrow.

You shrug slightly. "Feels fitting."

four.

It feels like you’ve been pregnant for years. Having not even hit seven months yet, you’re huge, and you’re pretty sure most people assume it must be twins. That one’s a little bit on you, for deciding to have a baby with an extraterrestrial.

Turns out, Kryptonians make big babies. At least, that’s what Clark keeps telling you. Whether it’s true or not, you don’t know - he might just be trying to make you feel better.

He’s so wonderful that you don’t even have it in you to begrudge his genetics. All of his enhancements allow him to be perfectly in tune with both you and the baby, and predict your every need. He was able to tell the sex of the baby months before the official ultrasounds. You had celebrated your little girl at seven weeks, as opposed to the usual sixteen.

He even knew you were pregnant before you did.

Sensing the changes almost straight away, he had waited patiently until you’d noticed a few weeks later, after a late period and some tenderness in your breasts. You had fully been expecting to surprise him with the tiny onesie, embroidered with Daddy. Instead, he had hugged you tightly, and told you softly that he’s known for a month.

She even loves the sound of his voice. An incredibly active baby already, any time Clark lies with his head level to the bump, murmuring softly about his day, and about how excited the two of you are to meet her, she quietens.

One of his many superpowers.

You’re beyond excited for the baby to arrive. While there are obviously some nerves around motherhood, you’re endlessly glad to be doing it with Clark. He’s going to be an incredible father.

Unfortunately, your current situation seems to heighten all of your emotions. Including fear. Which means that you’re utterly incapacitated by the spider on the bathroom wall.

You can’t even call Clark - he’s on important Daily Planet business all day, in and out of meetings. You’d be lucky to catch him during the in-between periods.

It’s worth a try, anyway.

Hands trembling and feet aching, a spider is the last thing you need today.

You: Can you talk?

Clark: Are you both okay?

You: Yeah, just a spider - was hoping for a pep talk to hype myself up to kill it.

Clark: So sorry, honey. This meeting’s going on forever. I already had to slip out for a call to Guy, they won’t let me out again.

Clark: Give me a minute.

You: Don’t worry about it, honestly. It really isn’t that big.

Liar.

You: Love you, will see you tonight x

There are a few minutes of silence, while you try and work out a gameplan. You could try and catch it, using that new-fangled thing that Clark got you for Christmas one year. It had been a nice thought, but you’re rendered so terrified by spiders that you can’t even get close enough to use it most of the time.

Or you could throw stuff at it, hope something sticks and just kills it. But then if you miss you run the risk of angering it. Or losing it entirely.

You hope this kid is more like her dad, and doesn’t mind spiders. Clark can’t be here all the time, and the last thing you need is two people hiding in the corner.

Your phone buzzes again.

Clark: Open the kitchen window

You: Huh? The spider isn’t near the window, it’s in the bathroom

Clark: Just, trust me, okay?

Mildly bewildered, you head into the kitchen, and push the window wide. You’re about to text Clark back, ask what’s going on, when a shape careens through the opening, just narrowly missing you. Krypto lands on the ground, tail wagging happily as he looks up at you, and you let out a laugh.

You know for a fact that Krypto’s living in Antarctica while Kara is away - which means Clark called on him to travel across the planet just so that you don’t have to deal with a spider.

“Hey buddy,” You bend down to pet him, ruffling his ears. “You my spider-man for the day?”

He’s immediately trotting through the house, knocking various stacks of books as he goes. Making it to the bathroom, he pauses, weighing up his options before lunging. In one fell swoop, the spider is gone, crunched between Krypto’s teeth. You’re positive that’s not what Clark told him to do.

Clark’s never killed a spider in his life. But as long as it’s gone, you aren’t complaining.

“Good boy!” You praise, leading him back to the living room. Grabbing at some treats, you pet him, and he curls up beside you on the couch. He’s content to snooze for a bit, while you reply to Clark, your free hand stroking him softly.

You: Thank you <3 Krypto’s an excellent substitute

Clark: Glad he listened for once. See you tonight, sweet girl

Much to your endless relief, Caroline Kent grows to be a fearless child, who doesn’t mind doing her dad’s spider job when he’s otherwise occupied.

You’re subject to much teasing from Clark, then Caroline, and then Joshua. It isn’t until little Alana comes along eight years later that you finally have an ally.

But you wouldn’t change it for the world.

[luveline]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

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

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

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

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

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

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

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

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

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

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

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

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

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

“Why not?” 

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

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

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

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

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

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

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

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

“That smells amazing.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

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

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

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

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

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

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

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

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

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

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

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

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

“Promise?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” 

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

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

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

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

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

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

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

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

“You look good.” 

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

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

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

“You do look good,” he says again. 

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.” 

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

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

“Take me somewhere else.” 

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

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

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

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

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

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

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?” 

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

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

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

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

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

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

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

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

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

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

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

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

“Everyone’s safe.” 

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

“Okay?” 

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

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

[luveline]

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐋𝐚𝐩

Clark stays the night for the first time. fem, 3k. [explicit] 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Are you bringing the briefcase?” 

“What’s your obsession with the case?” Clark asks. 

You shrug, tipping your head back to give him a better view of your eyes, widened in a mock-doe ogling, like he’s the biggest, brightest thing in your universe. It’s not that far from the truth. 

“I like the case,” you confide, bedroom eyes and a fresh coat of lipgloss waiting to be kissed off, ‘cos you know he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything about it. And because it’s nice, so nice, to see the way his face splits into a smile. He’s like sunshine bearing down on you. 

“Then it’s coming with me. Go get your coat, Peitho.” 

“Who’s that one?” you ask. 

“The goddess of persuasion…” —he leans down to breathe your air, just for a bit— “…and seduction,” he finishes, kissing your nose quickly. “Get your coat. Let’s go.” 

You collect your things into your bag and put on your coat. Clark presses a hand to the line of muscle between your shoulders, leading you out of the Daily Planet and toward the tram. You take it down to the station on your block, and Clark convinces you to double back for the greengrocers. Or, he grabs your hand and pulls you along, citing a deep need to find some snow mountain garlic. You make a boy risotto once and he thinks he calls the shots. 

Your love story with Clark isn’t exactly convoluted. He made you coffee and brought you out in the sun to watch ducks in Centennial Park. You’d teased him with delicate outfits and long stretches, had occasionally brought him dinner. And it isn’t a long story, either. It’s been, what, three weeks? Nearly four? Too long to be this nervous, and yet. Clark squeezes your hand as your heart trips for the third time in as many minutes, caught on the sharp cut of his jaw and his messy curls. He doesn’t say anything as you weave between tight aisles looking for the specialty foods, but you get the sense that he knows you’re nervous. 

“I can’t believe you remembered where I got the garlic,” you say conversationally. 

“It’s rare, right? From the Himalayas.” 

“Did I tell you that, too?” 

“Your article, honey,” Clark says, his eyes tracking the jars of preserves and a row of open-basket offerings. “Single clove, golden… ah-ha!” He lets your hand fall to grab a paper bag and the tongs buried within. This basket has a plastic covering over the top that clicks and folds upward, releasing a heavy scent. 

“Careful, Clark, it’s like, a billion dollars per pound.” 

He shakes his head, unworried. “How much do you need for the risotto? Tell me when. And don’t short it.” 

You decide not to short it —you’ll pay. But when you and Clark get to the counter, baggie of garlic, fresh oregano, ginger stems and tangerines dumped unceremoniously onto the counter by the cash register, he bats your hand away with the most aggression he’s ever shown you and offers the clerk his card.  

“I don’t like mean Clark,” you murmur, squinting in the sun as Clark shepherds you back outside. 

“No? You should get used to him.” 

“Didn’t peg you for a bully, Kent.” 

“I’m not.” He swings an arm over your shoulder, careful not to hit you with the groceries (what a loser!). “I could never bully you, you’re too nice. And who will make my dinner, if you’re upset?” 

“So funny.” 

“I know,” he says against your cheek. Your skin warms under a prim kiss. His lips part and the wet of his tongue doesn’t touch you, but you can feel it regardless, the humidity of his breath rolling over your skin. 

“Off!” you demand. 

He grins and takes back his arm. “Off,” he says, looking very much like he’d like to kiss you again. It’s awful how palpable the need is on his face. You ignore it as best as you can, too worried he’ll get you home and kiss you against the door, fumbling blindly for a bed he’s never seen. 

He’s less desperate than you’re making out. In fact, if Clark wants to seduce you is anyone’s guess. He holds your hand down the street to your apartment building, laughs lightly when you tug him behind the staircase toward the back, and holds your handbag while you rummage for your keys without protest. 

He places his case, your bag, and his shoes at the side table on the way in. You try to see your trimmings through his eyes, hand on his arm to balance as you pull off each of your shoes. You like the process of it, your fingers in his muscle, his eyes on your knee as you bring your foot up behind you, and your fingers as you slide them into the back of your shoe to tug it off. You like the sound they make as they topple to the floor, and the way you slip across the floor as Clark gathers you up for a hug right there in the door. His hair makes a sound as it falls around his face, Clark burying his nose in the side of your head. You hold his back. Feel for ridges. Find thick layers of fabric in the way. 

“Wanted to do this all day,” he says. 

If it weren’t so endearing to be wanted, you’d laugh. Clark doesn’t make you guess about his affections. He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met, if only for his honesty. His earnestness. 

You duck your head into the curve of his neck. “Smell nice,” you mumble. 

“Are you tired?” 

“No… You’re… putting the moves on me.” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” His laugh vibrates at your temple. 

“Can you make me dinner?” 

He pulls away from you to hold your face. “Yeah, I can make you dinner.” 

The plan had been Clark would come over and you’d make dinner, considering your expertise. A chef’s column for the biggest news outlet in Metropolis doesn’t come easy. You’re good at what you do. And that risotto had been half the reason Clark fell in love with you, if he’s to be believed. (Though he doesn’t say love.) (The other half a thin, pale skirt.) 

Clark is a quick study. Your cooking lessons have helped him some. It’s nice to see him in your kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at you as he talks, stripping out of his suit jacket and rolling up his perfect white sleeves.

He gets broth up his arms and on his tie. You stand in front of him with the heat of the stove kissing your side and carefully work the knot from his neck. 

“Kiss?” he asks. 

You use his tie to guide him down. 

—

Clark brought his pajamas in the briefcase. 

He made you garlic butter and pesto by hand, plated up your risotto with a kiss. He hoisted your legs into his lap when you’d started to falter during the movie and he’s rubbed them until you’d dozed, and now he’s in the shower, having taken his pajamas and his shower things with him. His shampoo had been macadamia and argan oil. 

And his pyjama pants are blue. 

He rolls into your room with wet hair slicked to his neck and roughly towel dried at the front, blocking the TV with his height, a pair of socks still held in his hands. “I put my clothes in the laundry. Is that okay?” 

You’re hoping you hadn’t left your delicates at the top of the bin. “Yeah, of course it is. I’ll wash them before bed, they’ll be dry again before morning.” 

He shrugs. “I brought slacks for tomorrow.”

“How much fits in that briefcase?” 

“You’d be surprised. Move over?” 

You shuffle to one side of the bed so Clark can sit down beside you. He seems large against your headboard. You trace the curve of his neck to a relaxed jaw. There’s no stubble there when you run over his skin with your fingers, but there’s a teeny-tiny spot of blood under his chin. You wipe at it until it comes off. “I’d kiss it, but I’m worried it’ll get infected.” 

“Kiss me anyway,” he says, lifting his chin. His collar is tacky with water. 

You lift yours in turn to reach, lips pressing with the utmost care to his chin as he wraps an arm behind you. You can’t see the cut, but you worry you’ll hurt him if you aren’t careful, and he feels your hesitation under his hand. 

“It’s okay. You can’t hurt me,” he says, like this is normal to say, like it doesn’t have your heart cradling itself in the heat of your stomach. 

You kiss him again, then his neck, the column of it solid beneath your lips. You wait there with your nose tip digging in, but he doesn’t say anything. 

A small gasp floods from you as he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his arms, on top of his legs, long and lithe and dipping the mattress underneath him. Your face falls flat against his collar, warm to damp, startled but far from unhappy by his sudden show of strength. He closes his arms around you and hugs you. In a moment, his nose rubs itself against your cheek in a nuzzle. It’s animalistic only in the sense that it’s without thought, his nose rubbing into the same spot over and over again. 

He doesn’t moan, but nearly. The sound he lets out is one of relief. Like you’d evaded him all day, and this is a victory. 

“Is this the part where we start telling each other secrets?” he asks.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly. 

“I didn’t know how badly I needed this.” 

You needle your arms behind his back to hold him, too.

“Do you…” 

“What?” he asks. 

“It will sound like I’m flirting, and I am a little, but it’s a genuine question, okay?” 

“Alright,” he says. You can tell he’s not about to laugh at you, which is nice. 

“Do you work out?” 

He smiles against your cheek. “Some. In the morning, when I can. I lift weights.” 

“I know that– I realise it’s a silly question. I don’t think people tend to look like you naturally.” 

“Is this still part of the genuine question?”

“No, this is the flirting.” 

“Oh, gotcha.” He knocks under your chin lightly. 

You look up to let him kiss you. 

He makes another wretched sound, like the beginning of a groan half-smothered by your mouth. Clark parts his lips, turning his head to the side, the taste of him pressed into your tongue as he breathes you in. It is incredibly foreign to be breathed in while you’re kissing, but Clark pulls at your back like he’s worried you’ll move away, feeling and breathing, sudden fingertips tumbling down your back. 

“Where are you going?” he whines. 

“You’re tickling me.”

“On accident. You really are Peitho, you know. She’s cunning and cruel when she wants to be.” 

“Don’t pressure me.” 

“Now that’s not funny, is it?” he asks, grinning as you lean down slowly. 

“Let me feel your heart.”

You press your fingers to his pulse. He lets you count the beats, says, “That’s sixty seconds,” like he’d known you would struggle to time it with your fingers. 

“I think you’re dead at a hundred.” 

“What’s that mean, doc?” he murmurs. 

You stroke his jaw with the flat of your nail. Not teasing —thinking. 

“I think I need to shower, too,” you say. He knows why. His eyes go lax behind his glasses with fondness. “Okay?” you ask, tapping his glasses with your nail gently. “You can clean the smudges off of your glasses while I’m gone. How’d they get this dirty, that’s crazy.” 

He rubs the small of your back with pressure. “I think it might’ve happened when I tried to get my face in your neck. And your ear. And, you know, your head.” 

He sounds delightfully bashful. It begets another kiss. 

You lose time in his lap. Really, you’d stay. But you need a minute in the shower to breathe through your nerves, and Clark is remarkably in touch with feelings, so he kisses you and sits up to encourage you away. “Go on. I’ll be here.” 

“Don’t look through my stuff. Promise?” 

“Sure,” he says, like a liar. 

You come back some twenty minutes later in your nicest pointelle pyjamas, skin slicked with a tiny bit of body oil and lotion atop it that smells of figs, ‘cos it’s the only one Clark’s ever mentioned liking aloud. He doesn’t skimp on compliments and loves to tell you that you smell good, but the fig one, the first time he smelled it, stopped him cold side by side on a couch in the coffee shop by his apartment. “What is that?” he’d asked. 

Your smug smile drops. “Clark,” you breathe. 

He pulls your teddy bear by the back and makes him wave. “Hi, honey.” 

“You found Charlie.” 

“You were hiding him.” 

“He was tastefully placed on my desk.” Where you’d hoped he wouldn’t be seen.

Clark pets Charlie’s downy head. “How could you hide him? He’s lovely. He told me–”

“Charlie didn’t tell you anything, he’s my teddy.” 

“Since you were young?” he asks. 

Charlie’s all worn around the armpits, the fur kissed anxiously from his cheeks. “I’ve always had him, yeah.” 

“I think I’d be remiss not to tell you that you look beautiful,” he says, “and Charlie says the same.” 

“Don’t talk through my teddy.” 

He presses Charlie to his chest like he’s a baby.

“He loves you.”

It turns your heart. You’d been ready to lay back in his lap and have him kiss you dizzy, tucking curls behind his ear to whisper saccharinely into the shell of it, but you’re thinking now that you want to curl up with him and find that box of chocolates he’d given you last week (for looking oh so morose for all of five seconds, apparently) to share. Have him rub your arms as you pretend to watch a movie. 

“Okay. Okay, come and hug me,” you say, leaning against your desk expectantly. 

Clark is up in three seconds flat. 

—

You wake with a start. 

There’s a shape beside you in bed, turned toward you, so close to you that you struggle to see him beyond the dark curls of his hair against your flowered pillow case. 

He has freckles on his shoulders. You hadn’t seen them last night in the dark, or even in the lamplight Clark begged for, just to see you, of course I want to see you, you’re beautiful like this, and they surprise you. There’s a handful of them across the hills of his shoulders. Barely any at all, but enough to kiss. 

He feels your mouth and wakes up quicker than you’d wanted. 

“Shit,” he says, grappling backwards for his glasses on the nightstand. 

“Clark?”

“Sorry.” When he turns back to you, he’s wearing his glasses again. You frown.

“What’s wrong?” 

Your stomach hurts. Like, hurts, the explanation loaded in one fell swoop. He slept with you and he didn’t mean to stay because he hadn’t ever meant to stay–

“No, sorry, nothing is wrong.” Clark clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wake up badly, sometimes.”

“Was it me?” 

“No.” He smiles like you’re the sun, blinking sleep away lazily. His eyelids and mouth are both puffy with it. “No, of course it wasn’t you, come here. I slept well.” 

You’re aware, then, of his missing shirt, the way your thigh slides between his as he pulls you tight to his chest. 

Just like that. 

You press your face to his shoulder, rather than let him see your expression. The night before comes back to you in a heated rush, every soft touch and softer kiss. You shudder under his tracing patterns.

“Can see you better like this,” Clark says, bringing his hand to your cheek to angle you in the sunshine.

You’re too tired to move, but you want to be kissed. Fortunately, your boyfriend is as generous as he is kind, and he promises to do all the hard work. “You can make yourself comfortable, honey,” he murmurs, turning you onto your back with an easy strength.

You cover your mouth with your hand. 

Clark can see your smile regardless. “So pretty,” he says quietly, kissing your chest, glasses slipping down his nose as he cranes his neck further.  “God, you’re perfect like this.” 

“You didn’t kiss me good morning,” you murmur, mostly to tease him. 

“I will.” His hand finds the pulp behind your knee. “I will. I promise.” 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! this was two requests (here and here) put together thank you both<3 

[sceletaflores]

─ ✮⋆˙ 𝑯𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 || 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

MINI NAT’S NOTE: i haven’t stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i can’t sleep. hope y’all love it, mwah!

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, superman’s super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.

"Clark, please—"

Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the way again and again and again.

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark’s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[arty-anon]

via @/jordanleigh.photo on instagram

[ruinix]

I am on my knees!!! MOOOOOSE 🫎🫎🫎

[honeyslibrary]

Native Tongue | Nico Hischier

Pairing; Nico Hischier x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Smut, cursing? (can’t remember lol), fluff, established relationship, edited once

Summary; Reader asks Nico to teach her some Swiss German

Word Count; 4.6k

Authors Note: This is so simple and the smut is more rushed than I’d like but I still love this so much. This was my first time writing for Nico and I’d say I did pretty okay? Translations are from Google so hopefully those aren’t too butchered 🙏🏽 Love you guys!! Accepting requests for Nico pls send if you have any 🩵🩵 -Honey

P.S: Scrolling Pinterest to find pics for the title/cover and oh my God is he beautiful. The brown eyes and dimples combo will do it every time I’m actually giggling at work I want him sooooo badly

The soft glow of a bedside lamp cast shadows across Nico's apartment, the warm light complementing the muted tones of his bedroom. Outside, Newark was alive with its usual evening bustle, but inside, time seemed to slow to a gentle rhythm. It was one of those rare off nights during the season. No game, no travel, just time to breathe.

You had been dating Nico Hischier for just over three weeks now. Everything still carried that new relationship electricity: the flutter in your stomach when he texted, the warmth that spread through your chest when he smiled at you across a room, the way his Swiss accent thickened when he was tired or excited.

Tonight was simple. No fancy dinner reservations or planned activities, just you and him, lying on his bed, shoulders touching, talking about anything that crossed your minds. The conversation flowed easily between you, jumping from childhood memories to favorite movies to plans for the upcoming weekend.

His hand was resting in yours, and you traced the lines of his palm with your fingertips, feeling the calluses that told stories of countless hours gripping a hockey stick. These were the hands that had cradled pucks, won face-offs, and occasionally, thrown punches in defense of teammates. Now, they were relaxed in yours, trusting.

"Does this feel good?" you asked, pressing your thumb into the center of his palm in small, circular motions.

He hummed in contentment. "Very. Where did you learn to do this?"

"I had a friend who was a massage therapist. She taught me a few things." You continued working on his hand, moving to his fingers, gently pulling and stretching each one. "Hockey players need hand massages, right? All that stick handling."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "It's not something we talk about, but yes. Hands, wrists... they take a beating."

"Well, consider this a service to the Devils, then. I'm helping maintain their captain."

His smile was visible even in your peripheral vision. "Very thoughtful of you."

You both fell quiet for a moment, comfortable in the silence. The soft whirr of the heating system provided a gentle backdrop to your thoughts. Outside, a car horn honked, distant and unimportant.

"Can I ask you something?" you said finally, your voice soft in the dimly lit room.

"Anything."

"Would you teach me some Swiss German? Just a few phrases?"

Nico turned his head to look at you, his expression curious. "Really? Why?"

You shrugged, still focused on massaging his hand. "I don't know. It's part of who you are. I want to know all parts of you." You paused, suddenly feeling a bit vulnerable. "Plus, I think it sounds beautiful when you speak it."

He was quiet for a moment, and you worried you'd said something wrong. But when you finally looked at him, his eyes were soft with an emotion you couldn't quite name.

"That's... no one has ever asked me that before." He shifted to face you better. "What would you like to learn?"

You grinned, excited. "Start with the basics? Hello, goodbye, thank you?"

Nico nodded, looking thoughtful. "Alright. So, 'hello' is 'grüezi' in Swiss German."

"Grüezi," you repeated, the unfamiliar word clumsy on your tongue.

His smile widened. "Not bad for a first try. Try again, but it's more like... 'GRÜE-tzi' with emphasis on the first part."

"Grüezi," you attempted again, trying to mimic his pronunciation.

"Better! Now, 'goodbye' can be 'uf widerluege'."

You laughed. "That's a mouthful. Uf... wider..."

"Widerluege," he finished, his voice patient. "It literally means 'until we see each other again'."

"That's actually beautiful. Uf widerluege," you tried, the words feeling foreign but fascinating on your lips.

"And 'thank you' is 'merci vielmal'."

"That sounds part French!"

Nico nodded. "Swiss German borrows from many languages. We're surrounded by different cultures."

"Merci vielmal," you said, feeling proud when his eyes lit up at your decent pronunciation.

"Perfect! You're a natural."

The praise warmed you. "What else can you teach me?"

Nico thought for a moment. "How about... 'I like you'? That's 'Ich mag dich'."

"Ich mag dich," you repeated, looking directly into his eyes as you said it.

Something shifted in his expression, his eyes darkening slightly. "Very good."

"And how would you say 'I really like you'?" you asked, your voice dropping to just above a whisper.

"Ich mag dich würklich sehr," he replied, his voice equally soft.

You repeated the phrase slowly, "Ich mag dich würklich sehr."

His eyes never left yours as you spoke, and you noticed the way his breathing seemed to have quickened slightly. Feeling emboldened, you placed his hand down and shifted to face him fully.

"What about..." you hesitated, "how would you say 'kiss me'?"

The atmosphere in the room changed, charged with unspoken tension. Nico's eyes dropped to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your gaze again.

"Küss mich," he said, his accent thicker than before.

"Küss mich," you whispered.

He didn't move immediately, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. Then, slowly, he leaned in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek as his lips met yours in a soft, questioning kiss.

When he pulled back, his expression was serious, almost lustful. "Say something else," he requested, his voice rougher than before.

"What should I say?"

"Anything," he replied. "Just... in Swiss German."

You cast your mind back to the phrases he'd taught you, feeling a strange power in knowing how much it affected him to hear you speak his native language.

"Grüezi," you said softly, watching his reaction. "Ich mag dich würklich sehr."

His exhale was shaky. "Again," he whispered.

"Küss mich," you repeated, more confidently this time.

He closed the distance between you once more, this kiss deeper, more certain. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you responded eagerly, your own hand coming to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken under your palm.

When you separated, both of you were breathing harder. The look in his eyes was intense, almost vulnerable in its honesty.

"You have no idea what it does to me," he admitted, his voice low, "hearing you speak my language."

"I think I'm getting an idea," you replied with a small smile. "How do you say 'I want you'?"

His eyes darkened further. "Ich will dich."

"Ich will dich," you repeated, maintaining eye contact.

A soft groan escaped him. "Your pronunciation is terrible," he said, but his tone was affectionate, teasing.

"Then teach me," you challenged, shifting closer to him.

"Say it again," he instructed, his hand now resting on your waist.

"Ich will dich."

"The 'ch' is deeper, from the back of your throat," he explained, his fingers drawing small circles on your hip.

You tried again, inadvertently making the same mistake.

He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips despite the intensity in his eyes. "No, listen to me. Ich."

"Ich," you repeated, still not quite getting it right.

"Here," he said, bringing his hand up to touch your throat gently. "You feel it here when you say it correctly."

You tried again, focusing on the sensation under his fingertips.

"Better," he nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Now the whole phrase."

"Ich will dich."

"Perfect," he whispered, and then his lips were on yours again, more urgent this time, his hand sliding from your throat to your hair, fingers tangling in it as he pulled you closer.

You responded in kind, your hand moving up his chest to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, feeling the short hairs there. The kiss deepened, his tongue seeking entrance, which you granted readily, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath. "How do you say 'beautiful'?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Schön," he replied, equally quiet.

"Du bist schön," you attempted, guessing at the structure.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise before crinkling at the corners with his smile. "That's right. You're learning quickly."

"I have a good teacher," you replied, running your fingers lightly through his hair.

He closed his eyes briefly at your touch, then opened them again, his gaze intense. "It's strange," he said softly.

"What is?" you asked, still running your fingers through his hair.

"Hearing someone speak my language... it's like hearing a piece of home." He caught your hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. "Especially someone I care about."

The tenderness in his gesture made your heart flutter. "Even if my pronunciation is terrible?"

"Especially then," he laughed softly. "It's... I don't know how to explain it. When you speak English, you're just you. But when you try to speak Swiss German..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "It's like you're reaching for a part of me that not many people here get to see."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words. "I want to see all parts of you, Nico."

His eyes darkened at that, and he shifted slightly, bringing himself closer to you. "Say it again," he murmured.

"What?"

"Ich will dich," he prompted.

You repeated the phrase, trying your best to match his pronunciation, "Ich will dich."

A small groan escaped him, and he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deeper, more urgent than before. His hand moved to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his tongue sought entrance, which you granted eagerly.

When you broke apart, both breathing heavily, there was an unmistakable hunger in his eyes. "I don't know why it affects me so much," he admitted. "Hearing you speak Swiss German. It just... does something to me."

You smiled, feeling a surge of power at the knowledge. "Then I should probably keep practicing," you said, your tone deliberately innocent even as you shifted closer, eliminating the last bit of space between your bodies.

"Absolutely," he agreed, his hand moving to your waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. "It's important to practice."

"Küss mich," you whispered, remembering the phrase he'd taught you earlier.

He didn't need to be told twice, his lips finding yours again as his hand splayed across your lower back, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the solid strength of him as he held you.

"One more phrase," you breathed when you separated for air. "How do you say 'I want you to touch me'?"

His eyes, already dark with desire, seemed to grow even more intense. "Ich will, dass du mich berührst," he replied, his accent thicker than usual.

You tried to repeat it, stumbling over the unfamiliar sounds, and he smiled, the expression somehow both tender and predatory.

"Close enough," he murmured, and then his hand was moving, tracing a path up your side with deliberate slowness.

"And how do you say 'don't stop'?" you asked, your voice catching as his fingers traced patterns on your skin.

"Hör nicht auf," he told you, watching your face intently.

"Hör nicht auf," you repeated, the words turning into a soft gasp as his touch became more purposeful.

His hand slid higher beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs tantalizingly slow. The warmth of his palm against your skin sent shivers down your spine, each touch igniting something deep within you. His eyes remained fixed on yours, gauging your reactions, seeming to find satisfaction in every small catch of your breath.

"Another phrase?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that you could feel through his chest where it pressed against yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice as his thumb traced lazy circles just below the underwire of your bra.

"How about 'please'?" you managed, your voice slightly unsteady.

His lips quirked into a small smile. "Bitte."

"Bitte," you echoed, the word barely audible.

Something flashed in his eyes. Hunger, affection, and something deeper that made your heart race. "Say it again," he instructed, his hand stilling its movement.

You understood his game immediately. "Bitte," you repeated, more urgently this time.

His smile widened slightly, satisfaction evident in his expression as his hand resumed its exploration, this time venturing higher. His touch was confident but gentle, asking permission without words.

"Yes," you breathed, answering his unspoken question.

And then his mouth was on yours again, hot and demanding, as his hand finally moved to cup your breast over your bra. You arched into his touch, a small moan escaping into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening as his thumb brushed over the fabric covering your nipple.

Your own hands weren't idle, moving to explore the firm planes of his chest through his t-shirt. You could feel the defined muscles beneath the soft cotton, the result of years of athletic training. Feeling emboldened, you tugged at the hem, silently asking for permission to remove it.

Nico broke the kiss long enough to help you, sitting up slightly and pulling the shirt over his head in one fluid motion before tossing it aside. You took a moment to admire him: the broad shoulders, the lean muscle, the scattered freckles across his skin that you'd never noticed before.

"Schön," you said softly, using one of the few words he'd called you that seemed appropriate.

His expression softened at your use of his language. "That's my line," he replied, reaching to touch your face with gentle fingers. "Du bist wunderschön."

"What does that mean?" you asked, leaning into his touch.

"You are beautiful," he translated, his eyes never leaving yours.

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten with emotion. You leaned forward to press your lips to his collarbone, then moved higher to the sensitive spot just beneath his ear that you'd discovered during your earlier make-out sessions. He inhaled sharply, his hand moving to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

"Your turn," he murmured, tugging lightly at the bottom of your shirt.

You nodded, allowing him to help you remove it. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your newly exposed skin, but they were quickly replaced by warmth as Nico's hands moved to your waist, drawing you closer again.

His kisses became more insistent, trailing from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck. You tilted your head to give him better access, sighing with pleasure as he found a particularly sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder.

"How do you say 'more'?" you asked breathlessly.

"Meh," he replied against your skin, the word followed by a gentle nip that made you gasp.

"Meh," you repeated, and felt him smile against your neck before he continued his exploration, his mouth moving lower to the swell of your breasts above your bra.

His hands found the clasp of your bra, but he paused, looking up to meet your eyes. "Is this okay?" he asked, suddenly serious.

You appreciated his care, his constant checking in. It was one of the things that had drawn you to him, his consideration, his respect, his unwillingness to assume.

"Yes," you nodded, adding with a small smile, "Ja."

He unhooked your bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down your arms and setting it aside. There was reverence in his gaze as he looked at you, his hands coming up to cup your breasts with gentle pressure.

"Beautiful," he whispered, this time in English.

You felt a flush spread across your chest and up to your cheeks, but there was no embarrassment in it, only warmth at the naked admiration in his eyes. He lowered his head, replacing one of his hands with his mouth, and you arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

His tongue circled your nipple before taking it between his lips, the gentle suction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your hand moved to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, encouraging him.

"Nico," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.

He hummed in response, the vibration adding another layer to the sensation. His free hand wasn't idle, moving to give your other breast equal attention, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in rhythm with his mouth.

The dual stimulation was intoxicating, but you wanted more. Your hands moved down his back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath warm skin as he moved. You traced the ridge of his spine, then moved lower, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

He lifted his head from your breast, eyes dark with desire as they met yours. "Tell me what you want," he said, his voice rough.

You considered using one of the Swiss German phrases he'd taught you, but in this moment, you wanted complete clarity. "I want to feel you," you said simply. "All of you."

His expression grew serious, though the hunger in his eyes didn't diminish. "Are you sure? We don't have to rush anything."

The care in his question made your heart swell. Three weeks wasn't a very long time, but in those weeks, you'd spent nearly every free moment that he had together. You'd talked for hours, shared meals, watched games, exchanged stories about your lives. There had been countless kisses, increasingly heated make-out sessions, but you'd both been content to take things slowly. Until now.

"I'm sure," you nodded, reaching up to touch his face. "I want this. I want you."

He turned his head to press a kiss to your palm, the gesture unexpectedly tender amidst the heat of the moment. "I want you too," he replied, his accent thicker than usual with emotion. "But we go at your pace, okay? You tell me if you want to stop, anytime."

"I will," you promised.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, then leaned down to capture your lips again. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, more deliberate. His hands moved to your waist, then lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He looked at you again, a silent question, and you nodded.

With careful movements, he unbuttoned your jeans and helped you shimmy out of them, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes traveled over your body with appreciation, but there was also something protective in his gaze.

"Your turn," you said, reaching for the drawstring of his sweatpants.

He helped you, pushing them down and kicking them off. Now both of you were down to your underwear, the thin fabrics the only barrier between you. You could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh, and the knowledge that you affected him so strongly was intoxicating.

His hand moved to your hip, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "May I?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Please," you nodded, adding with a small smile, "Bitte."

The corner of his mouth quirked up at your use of Swiss German. Slowly, maintaining eye contact, he slid your underwear down your legs, his touch leaving trails of fire on your skin. Once they were removed, he took a moment just to look at you, his expression a mix of desire and something that looked remarkably like awe.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, shaking his head slightly as if in disbelief. "I don't know what I did to deserve this."

"You're just you," you replied simply, reaching for him. "That's more than enough."

He came willingly into your arms, his body covering yours, the weight of him a delicious pressure. You could feel every inch where your skin touched his, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs tangled together. His hand moved between your bodies, fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, then lower, seeking permission in your eyes before venturing further.

You nodded, your breath catching as his fingers found your core, exploring with gentle curiosity. He watched your face intently, learning what made your breath hitch, what made your back arch, what drew sounds of pleasure from your throat.

"Küss mich," you whispered, remembering the phrase he'd taught you earlier.

His eyes darkened at your use of his language, and he leaned down to comply, his kiss hungry and deep as his fingers continued their skilled movements. You were lost in sensation, the world narrowing to just this, his touch, his taste, the weight of him above you.

When he pulled back from the kiss, his eyes were serious. "Do you want to continue?" he asked, his voice rough with restraint.

"Yes," you nodded without hesitation. "Do you have...?"

"Protection? Yes," he confirmed, reaching toward the nightstand drawer.

You took the opportunity to help him remove his boxers, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of him fully naked. He was beautiful. All lean muscle and smooth skin, his body a testament to years of athletic discipline.

He retrieved a condom from the drawer, and you watched as he rolled it on with practiced movements. Then he was hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms on either side of your head, his eyes searching yours.

"Are you sure?" he asked one more time, his voice gentle.

The care in his question made your heart swell. "I'm sure," you nodded, reaching up to touch his face. "Ich will dich," you added, using the phrase he'd taught you earlier.

A groan escaped him at your words, and he leaned down to kiss you deeply as he positioned himself. "Tell me if you need me to stop," he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he began to push forward, entering you with carefully slow. The sensation was intense, and you focused on your breathing, on relaxing, on the feeling of him gradually filling you.

When he was fully seated, he paused, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing as uneven as your own. "Okay?" he asked, concern evident in his voice despite the strain of holding still.

"More than okay," you assured him, shifting your hips slightly to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. "You can move."

He started slowly, with gentle, measured thrusts that allowed both of you to adjust to the sensation. His eyes never left yours, watching for any sign of discomfort, but all he would find was pleasure building with each movement.

Gradually, as your body relaxed and welcomed him, his pace increased. Your hands moved to his back, feeling the play of muscles as he moved above you, within you. The room filled with the sounds of your combined breathing, occasional moans, and the rustle of sheets.

"Okay?" he asked again, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control.

"Yes," you gasped, arching to meet his thrusts. "Don't stop—Hör nicht auf."

His rhythm faltered momentarily at your use of Swiss German, a groan escaping him. "You're killing me," he muttered, but there was affection in his tone beneath the desire.

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly stars exploded behind your eyelids as he hit a spot deep within you that sent pleasure coursing through your veins. "There," you breathed, "right there."

Understanding immediately, he maintained the angle, his thrusts becoming more purposeful. One of his hands moved between your bodies, finding the bundle of nerves at your center, circling with just the right pressure.

The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pleasure building rapidly within you. You could feel yourself teetering on the edge, every muscle tightening in anticipation.

"Nico," you gasped, feeling the tension coiling tighter.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice strained but reassuring. "Let go. I want to see you."

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his hips and fingers, pushed you over the edge. Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body arching against his as you cried out his name. He worked you through it, his movements slowing but not stopping, prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible.

As you came down from your high, you became aware of his still-rigid length inside you, of the tension in his muscles as he held himself in check. You reached up to touch his face, bringing his eyes to meet yours.

"Your turn," you said softly, clenching around him.

A groan tore from his throat, his control visibly slipping. "Are you sure? I can—"

"I want to feel you," you cut him off, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. "Let go."

Something in your eyes must have convinced him, because with a shuddering breath, he began to move again, his rhythm more urgent now. You watched his face, fascinated by the play of emotions: pleasure, concentration, and something deeper that made your heart race.

His movements became more erratic, his breathing harsh, and you knew he was close. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him down so that your bodies were pressed together, chest to chest.

"Ich will dich," you whispered in his ear, remembering how strongly he'd reacted to you speaking his language earlier.

The effect was immediate. He groaned, deep and guttural, his hips jerking against yours as he found his release. You held him through it, hands stroking his back, murmuring encouragement as he shuddered above you.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved, content to stay connected, his weight a pleasant pressure, his breath warm against your neck. Finally, he shifted, carefully separating from you and moving to dispose of the condom in the bathroom.

When he returned, he immediately gathered you back into his arms, pulling the rumpled sheets over both of your cooling bodies. You settled against his chest, listening to the gradually slowing beat of his heart, feeling utterly content.

"Are you okay?" he asked after a while, his voice soft in the dim room.

You nodded against his chest. "More than okay."

His hand moved to stroke your hair, gentle and soothing. "That was..." he seemed to search for the right word.

"Amazing?" you supplied, tilting your head to look at him.

He smiled, the expression soft and genuine. "Amazing," he agreed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. "But I meant what happened between us. It's not just physical for me."

The vulnerability in his admission made your heart swell. "It's not just physical for me either," you assured him, reaching up to touch his face. "I really care about you, Nico."

His eyes softened at your words. "I care about you too," he replied, his accent thicker with emotion. "Very much."

You settled back against his chest, feeling his arms tighten around you. Outside, Newark continued its evening bustle, car horns honking and sirens wailing in the distance. But in here, in the soft glow of Edison bulbs, there was just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and newfound intimacy.

"Teach me one more phrase," you murmured, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

"What would you like to know?" he asked, his voice rumbling beneath your ear.

You thought for a moment. "How do you say 'stay with me'?"

He was quiet for a beat, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "Blieb bi mir."

You repeated it, looking up to meet his eyes as you did. "Blieb bi mir."

His expression was tender as he looked down at you. "As long as you'll have me," he promised, pulling you closer.

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[lee-laurent]

Stay, It's Early - Luke Hughes

Summary: "Tess and Luke fucked!"

content: underage drinking, casual sex/situationship, slight angst, implied smut but no explicit smut, slow burn

wc: 7.2k

notes: new fic!! you guys voted for luke on the poll, so here you go!! either another luke fic or a quinn fic next :) hope you enjoyyyy

Tess Walsh was thirteen the first time she got invited to the Hughes lake house.

She wasn't there by choice, not really. She was tagging along, the only girl, the youngest by a year, the kid sister who got to come because her parents were close with the Hugheses and her brother had just joined the USNTDP. Ben Walsh was sixteen, which was a big deal in her world, and had somehow become inseparable from Jack Hughes, Trevor Zegas, and Cole Caufield seemingly overnight.

Tess wasn't part of the plan. She was an afterthought. But she packed like it mattered. Lip gloss that she only wore on special occasions, denim shorts that she thought made her look older, a stack of books she wouldn't read. The second they pulled into the driveway and she saw him-- Jack, in sandals, sunburnt, grinning with a hockey stick in hand--her stomach did a little flip.

He was the hottest boy she'd ever seen in real life. And for the next seven days, her one goal was to make him fall in love with her.

She tried everything. Sat near him at the bonfire, asked if he needed help when they carried stuff to the boat, even offered him the last popsicle like it was a normal thing that kids did. But Jack never noticed. Not really. He was nice, he was always nice, but he looked at her the same way he looked at the cooler or the bug spray. Something that was just there.

The rest of the boys didn't pay much attention to her either. They were busy, wrestling in the grass, talking shit, jumping off the docks to see who made the best splash. She couldn't keep up. When they played cards, she wasn't invited. When they took out the boat, there "wasn't room."

So she wandered.

And that's when she found Luke.

He was just a year older than her, though at the time it felt like a canyon. He was long-legged and lanky, quiet in a way the other guys weren't. When Jack was loud and electric, Luke moved in a way that made it seem like he didn't want to be noticed.

Tess found him sitting cross-legged on the dock one afternoon, flipping through a book of hockey trivia and eating Goldfish straight from the bag.

She hovered awkwardly nearby until he looked up and said, "You can sit, if you want."

So she did.

They didn't talk much, mostly just tossed crackers at seagulls. But he didn't ignore her. And he didn't treat her like a little kid, either. They played a card game later that night while the rest of the group was watching a movie too loud inside. He taught her how to shuffle right. She beat him once. He said it was luck.

The first summer ended quietly. She went home sunburned and smug, having not won Jack's heart but secretly satisfied that she hadn't spent the entire week alone.

She didn't expect the next summer to be any different.

And it wasn't. It kept going. Every year, the same week. Same lake. Same house.

The boys got older, taller, louder. She did too.

By fifteen, her crush on Jack had died the natural death most delusions suffer, slowly and with minor humiliation. She'd caught him making out with some girl on the boathouse steps and spent the rest of the night pretending to be violently interested in marshmallows. The next morning, she tore out the page in her diary where she'd drawn a heart around his name and never looked back.

But even after the crush dissolved, Tess kept coming.

Because somewhere between year one and year three, this thing, the group, the lake, the ritual, became hers too.

The parents still came, at first. Hers and the Hugheses, piling in groceries and yelling about applying sunscreen. The days were long, the nights were tame. She and Ben would share a bunk room. The boys would sneak snacks upstairs like they were being rebellious.

Then, eventually, it changed.

The parents stopped coming with.

Jack and Quinn bought a house down the road--bigger, cleaner, stocked with liquor and bad decisions. They had real money. Real lives. But every summer, they ended up at the same place.

And so did she.

Luke was always there.

They never texted. Never hung out during the year. But every summer, without fail, Tess would find herself next to him. On the dock, in the kitchen, in a shared silence that neither of them minded.

Sometimes they played cards. Sometimes they went for a swim. Sometimes they just sat together at the firepit while everyone else talked over them.

It was never more than that. They didn't flirt. They didn't get flirty.

But they were comfortable together.

Ben used to tease her about it when they were younger. "Your boyfriend's waiting on the dock again." And she'd roll her eyes like it was the dumbest joke ever told.

Luke never reacted to it.

She figured that meant it didn't matter.

Now, Tess was twenty.

Ben, Jack, Trevor, Quinn, Luke, and Cole were all in the NHL. Different teams, different cities. They posted pictures with new teammates, had lives that moved fast and loud and far from anything Tess wanted to touch. But every summer, no matter where the season ended, they all came back. To the lake. To each other.

And Tess did too. Not because she was explicitly invited, but because it was still just what happened. She showed up with Ben, or sometimes they drove separately. Threw her bag in the same room. Knew which speaker worked the best. No one ever questioned it. She was just there. She belonged.

She was still the only girl most of the time. Still the one who packed extra sunscreen, remembered the bottle opener, kept the cooler from being all beer and no water. She wasn't anyone's girlfriend. She wasn't a guest.

She was just Tess.

And Luke was still Luke.

They still never crossed that invisible line. They didn't hang out outside of the summer. They didn't text or FaceTime late at night. But something had changed. Slightly. Barely noticable.

Tess noticed his eyes more. The way his voice sounded when he was tired. The way her stomach jumped a little when his fingers brushed hers as he passed her a drink.

It was nothing.

It meant... nothing.

~~

The car rumbled as Jack pulled into the driveway, the driveway of the house he and Quinn had purchased once all the NHL cheques started coming in. The place was rough around the edges, pine needles everywhere, beer caps in the grass from last year's party, but it was theirs.

It felt like summer.

Ben unbuckled in the passenger seat and grabbed the keys to open the trunk. "I swear to God, Jack, if you didn't bring enough ice again--"

"Relax, Trevor's got two more bags."

"That's not enough."

Jack glanced back at Tess through the rearview mirror, grinning. "Your brother's still a control freak, by the way."

Tess smirked and pushed her sunglasses up. "And you're still reckless. It's nice to see nothing's changed."

It was going to be like every summer before... right?

~~

The party had started before the sun went down, which meant by the time darkness actually settled over the lake, it was already loud and crowded, spilling out from the back deck into the yard.

Tess stood barefoot on the edge of the porch, a cold can of cider sweating in her hand, watching as more cars pulled into the front like the invite list never actually ended. She didn't even recognize half the people. Some were definitely teammates, a few were girlfriends, and the rest looked like townies that Jack and Trevor had collected during an earlier beer run.

Someone had a speaker with better bass than the one wired into the house. The playlist seemed to be all frat-party classics with basslines she could feel in her chest and choruses being half-screamed. Bodies moved like background noise. Solo cups were everywhere. Someone was trying to light a joint with a tiki torch.

It was chaos.

Tess took a sip, ran a hand through her hair, and leaned against the railing, eyes scanning for Ben. Or maybe Jack. Or maybe--

Luke.

He was by the coolers, bent over to grab another beer, his t-shirt stretched across his back and riding up slightly at the waist. He stood up, turned, and caught her eye. Nothing dramatic. No smile. Just a look, like he'd been waiting for her to look first.

And somehow, she always did.

Later, the pong table came out.

"Alright, let's go," Jack called out, already racking cups with the expert precision of someone who treated drinking games like real competition.

Tess found herself easily pulled in, drink in hand, cheeks warm from the alcohol and the heat and the string lights overhead. Ben was on a team with Cole. Trevor had claimed some girl from town as his partner and was already showing off like it was the national championship.

"Tess," Jack said, nodding toward the open side of the table. "You up?"

Before she could answer, Luke appeared beside her, already sipping his beer.

"I've got her," he said casually.

Something about the way he said it, like he always did, settled right into her stomach.

Tess peered up at him. "Sure you can keep up?"

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "I've carried worse."

"Rude."

"You love it."

She rolled her eyes, stepping up to the table as he moved in beside her. Their hips brushed and he didn't shift away.

They were good together. Annoyingly good. Tess had never played better, sinking cup after cup, fueled by adrenaline, laughter, and Luke's low murmurs next to her every time she lined up a shot.

"Go left," he said once, his hand on the small of her back, his mouth close to her ear.

She did and she sunk the ball, grinning from ear to ear.

And when she jumped up in celebration, he caught her waist, hands warm, fingers sliding just slightly beneath the hem of her tank top as she laughed, breathless, flushed, proud.

She didn't move right away and neither did he.

It didn't feel like a moment then. Just part of the game, part of the night, but something about it stuck.

They won three rounds straight, and talked shit the entire time. Tess couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed that hard with him or noticed how often he looked at her when she wasn't looking.

It got later, the sky got darker and the drinks got stronger.

The backyard thinned out in waves, people disappearing in the dark or stumbling down to the dock, music fading as phones died or got dropped or drowned out. The party didn't stop, not exactly. It just shifted, got sweatier, looser, lit by string lights and adrenaline.

Tess was standing in the kitchen when Luke found her again. She was reaching for a bottle of water she wasn't actually going to drink, her skin warm from beer and body heat, her pulse beating in her throat.

Luke cleaned on the counter behind her. Close. The kind of close you only noticed when you realized you didn't want to step away.

"You good?" he asked, voice low, eyes scanning her face like he already knew her answer.

She nodded. "You?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah."

They stood there for a second. The air thick between them.

It wasn't like she'd planned on it. Wasn't like he asked. It just--

"Come up with me," he said, quietly, evenly. Not a line, just an offer.

Tess looked up at him, heart beating even harder, like her body had decided before her brain could.

She didn't say anything, just followed him up the stairs.

~~

His room was a mess. Not dirty, just scattered. A hoodie on his chair, phone charge falling out of the socket, suitcase only halfway unpacked. It smelled like cologne and lake water and something Tess could only describe as Luke.

He didn't turn the light on.

The door clicked shut behind them, and then there was nothing but breath and movement.

Tess didn't think at all, she just moved. Hands on his shoulders, lips on his mouth, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt like it was something she'd done about a million times before.

He kissed like he'd wanted to for a while. Slow, then not. Deep, then messy. His hands were firm on her waist, sliding under her shirt, and pulling her against him with so much certainty it made her head spin more than the alcohol.

They didn't really speak. Didn't ask questions, didn't hesitate.

Shirt. Shorts. Bra. Gone.

Her back hit the bed and he followed. Their bodies moved like they were drunk on each other, like the last few years of their lives had been leading here and they just hadn't realized.

It wasn't soft or rough. It was just real-- urgent, wrapped in years of proximity and tension filled summers spent pretending there wasn't anything there.

And when it was over, she lay there for a second, heart still racing, chest rising and falling, fingers brushing against his as they both stared at the ceiling.

He didn't say anything and neither did she.

It was just the sound of music still faintly playing through the floorboards and the buzz of knowing that something that couldn't be taken back had just happened.

~~

Tess woke up the sound of the sliding door downstairs opening.

The breeze pushed through the cracked window, cool against her bare shoulder. Outside, waves lapped against the dock, but inside everything felt still.

Except for her heartbeat.

It thudded low and fast as she adjusted to unfamiliar surroundings, blinking against the bright slice of light cutting through the curtains. Her head was killing her. Her body ached. Not in a bad way, not like a hangover, but in a way that felt far too intimate to describe.

It took her a good five seconds to register where she was.

Two more to register why.

The freckled back facing her was the final confirmation

Luke was still asleep, turned away from her, one arm tucked under the pillow, his shoulder rising and falling with each slow breath he took. His hair was a mess. The blanket was only half covering him, slipping low across his waist.

Tess sat up slowly, holding the edge of the sheet to her chest like it would protect her from the fact that her world had just changed.

Shit.

Her clothes were on the floor. Her bra draped over a chair. Her phone was face-down by the nightstand like it had been dropped mid-mistake.

She moved as quietly as she could, heart in her throat as she slipped her shirt back on and stepped into her shorts. Every movement felt too loud. Every second felt like it was going to wake him up.

And of course -- of fucking course-- it did.

Luke stirred, groaning into the pillow, voice rough with sleep.

"Noooo, T," he mumbled, eyes still closed. "Stay... s'early..."

It didn't sound like a request. It sounded like something his half-asleep brain said on instinct, something that didn't register as real.

Tess froze for half a beat. Long enough to feel it hit. Then she grabbed her phone and slipped out the door.

The kitchen was empty when she went down. Someone had started a pot of coffee but abandoned it halfway through. The air still smelled like the night before, beer, smoke, lake water, something sweet and stale. The fridge hummed like it was trying it's hardest to stay cool.

Tess poured herself a glass of water, even though her stomach was too twisted to drink it. She kept her eyes down, focused on the sink, on the tile, on anything except the fact that she had just slept with Luke Hughes.

She didn't know what that made them. What did it make her?

~~

The rest of the house trickled awake slowly, staggered showers, groans, and sunglasses indoors. The usual post-party mess. Jack found his speaker still playing some song on loop and muttered something about brain damage. Trevor walked through the kitchen shirtless and stole a piece of toast from someone else's plate. Cole handed Tess a Tylenol and a banana like it was some sort of peace offering.

Ben looked suspiciously well-rested.

And Luke...

Luke was just quiet.

He came down last, hoodie pulled over his head, hair wet like he'd already showered. He didn't look at her. Not right away. He said hi to Jack. He fist-bumped Cole. He grabbed a coffee and leaned against the counter like it was any other day.

But it wasn't.

And Tess could feel it.

They were both playing it too cool. Both avoiding eye contact. Both pretending the air wasn't charged with something new.

And maybe no one had said anything yet. But that didn't mean they weren't noticing.

They went out on the boat around noon.

Classic lake day, load up the cooler, pile on some sunscreen, and fight over who had to sit in the middle. It was sunny, hot, and the water looked perfect. The guys were loud again, back to normal... at least on the surface.

But not for Tess.

She didn't sit near Luke. She didn't even glance at him when they boarded.

Instead, she wedged herself between Jack and Ben near the front, laughing at something Jack said, playing with the frayed edge of her towel. She wasn't trying to prove anything, But she couldn't help the way she leaned in when Jack cracked another joke. Or how she smiled too hard at her brother, like she wasn't spiralling out of control in her mind.

Luke sat near the back.

Didn't talk much.

He laughed when someone sprayed him with lake water, flipped Trevor off when he made a comment about the way he was holding his beer, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He watched Tess when she wasn't looking, or maybe she was but pretended not to be.

And when she threw her head back and laughed at something Jack said, something stupid and not even that funny, Luke looked away.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

Enough that Jack and Ben noticed.

They didn't say anything. Not yet.

But Tess caught the way Ben looked between her and Luke when they were climbing off the boat. The way Jack raise an eyebrow when she said she was tired and disappeared inside early.

The energy was off.

Everyone could feel it. But no one had figured out why.

~~

The grill hissed with the sound of burgers cooking on the hot coals. There was a half-eaten watermelon on the table, slices of tomato on paper plates, and a long string of plastic cups with some sort of concoction in them.

The music was chiller now, giving way to lazy conversation and the sound of the bottle opener clinking against the side of the cooler. It felt like tradition. Like what evenings at the lake house were supposed to feel like.

Tess sat on the edge of the picnic table, drinking a seltzer she hadn't even asked for. Luke was close by--too close and somehow not closer enough-- leaning back a deck chair, ankles crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

They hadn't said more than ten words to each other all day. And yet, they kept finding themselves in the same orbit.

She fucking hated it.

She hated that she couldn't stop thinking about his hands, his mouth, the way he'd whispered her name. She hated that she was analyzing nothing-- a quick glance, a sip of his beer, the way he adjusted his sweatshirt.

She hated that he wasn't really looking at her.

"Hey," Quinn called out, lifting the lid on the grill. "Tess, Luke-- can you guys grab the blue cooler from the basement? The heavy one. It's full of drinks, I don't think it should be carried alone."

That would've been fine.

Normally.

Except...

"I got it," Tess stood up quickly.

"No, I'll--" Luke started at the same time.

"I mean, I can just--"

"It's fine, I've got it--"

They froze, mid-step, mid-sentence.

The group went weirdly still. Like the conversation had justed sucked the oxygen out of the air.

Even the grill sizzle felt louder than it should've.

Trevor was halfway through eating a chip and stopped mid-chew.

Cole looked up from his phone.

And Jack just squinted, a slow grin on his face.

"What was that?" he asked, pointing between the two of them.

Tess let out a breath and turned toward the house. "Nothing. I'll go."

"I can help--" Luke offered, still trying to sound casual, but his voice cracked slightly on the word help, and Tess felt it in her spine.

"Seriously, I've got it," she said.

Jack was still watching. "Why're you guys being so weird?"

Tess didn't answer. Neither did Luke.

"Okay, no, what is this?" Jack said, standing up like he needed a better angle. "That was weird, right? That wasn't just me?"

Trevor nodded slowly, eyes narrowed. "It was weird."

"Uncomfortable weird."

"Like sexual tension weird," Trevor added.

Tess stopped walking.

Luke cleared his throat. "That's not--"

"Oh my God," Jack said, eyes wide. "Did you guys fuck or something?"

Tess blinked. "What? No."

Luke shook his head. "Jesus, Jack."

"I'm justy saying!" He held up both hands, backing away like he'd just launched a grenade. "It would explain, like, everything. The boat. The kitchen this morning. The... cooler thing."

"No," Tess said, sharper this time. "We didn't."

Luke echoed a beat later. "Yeah. No."

They didn't look at each other. They didn't need to.

Jack laughed again. "Relax. I was joking. Holy shit. You two are acting like I accused you of a fucking crime."

"Coulda fooled me," Cole muttered, not even trying to be subtle.

Jack kept going, because that's what Jack does. "Can you guys even imagine if Luke and Tess fucked?"

"Jack," Ben warned lowly.

"I'm serious!" he laughed harder. "Like, picture it. Luke and Tess. That'd be wild, right?"

Trevor nodded. "We'd never recover as a group."

"There'd be rules. An NDA. Emergency separation protocols."

Tess clenched her jaw, but didn't say anything. She just turned, walked toward the house, and let the screen door slam behind her without a word.

The floor creaked under her feet as she moved down the hallway, breath caught in her throat. She didn't even care about the cooler. She just didn't want to be out there anymore.

No Jack laughing.

No NDA jokes.

No Luke being awkward.

She sighed, leaning against the bathroom counter, fingers gripping the side so tightly, her knuckles were white.

Outside, the laughter had thinned.

Ben shot Jack a look that could've melted skin.

"Nice going, dipshit."

Jack frowned. "What? It was a joke."

"You're not funny."

"She said they didn't--"

"Yeah, and you don't know how to shut the fuck up."

Jack looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't.

Luke was still standing there, hands in his pockets, silent.

Trevor cleared his throat. "So... when's the food gonna be ready?"

~~

She couldn't sleep.

Her sheets were twisted around her legs, the pillow was too hard, and her tank top was clinging to her back like it was glued there. The room was too hot. Unbearably hot. The kind of heat that made your skin itch, made all your thoughts louder, made everything feel ten times worse.

The small fan in the corner of the room buzzed but was failing miserably. She'd cracked the window open, hoping from some breeze from the lake, but all it brought was humidty and the sound of crickets. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

"You're fine," she mumbled.

That was the lie she kept trying to tell herself.

She was fine. This was fine. Everything was fine.

Except it was far from it.

Her skin felt too tight. Her thoughts were looping, Jack's voice from earlier playing on repeat: "Can you imagine if Luke and Tess fucked?"

And worse: the way everyone laughed. The way Luke wouldn't look at her. The way no one really thought it was true.

Her phone screen lit up when she tapped it. 1:04 AM.

She sighed, tossed it back onto the nightstand, and ran her fingers through her braid that was frizzy and half undone from moving around.

Then she sat up.

She didn't think, just moved.

The hallway was dark and every floorboard that squeaked felt ten times louder than it did during the day. Tess walked slowly, barely breathing. Just past Jack's room, then Ben's, then Quinn's.

She stopped outside Luke's door and knocked twice, softly.

She didn't even know what she was doing. Didn't have a plan, didn't want one either.

And when the door didn't open right away, she told herself it was a sign. A warning that said Go back to bed. Sleep it off. You'll be fine.

She turned slightly, ready to head back to her room. Then it opened.

Luke stood in the doorway. Shirtless, hair pushed back like he'd just rolled over. Eyes sleepy, but alert.

They didn't speak, they didn't have to. He stepped back and she stepped in, the door shutting behind her.

She kissed him like she was angry. Like her mind was spinning and kissing him was the only thing she could do to make it stop.

He kissed her back immediately, not caring why she was there, just happy she was.

Hands found skin. Clothes hit the floor. Tess didn't care that she looked like a mess or that her hair was sticking up in all directions. Luke didn't ask nor did he pause.

This was faster than the first time. Desperate in a way that was scarily close to being emotional, but only if you looked at it for too long. So neither of them did.

His mouth was on her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone. Her fingers scraped down his back, over the ridges of his spine. She pulled him closer, as close as humanly possible.

And when it was over, when their breathing finally slowed, when her body stopped trembling, when his hand fell limp beside her on the bed, Tess didn't let herself stay.

She sat up and found her clothes. Her hair was damp with sweat, her skin too, but she didn't look at him. Just slipped everything back on and stood quietly, her back to him the entire time.

Luke was watching her, she could feel it.

But still neither of them spoke.

She opened the door and stepped into the dark of the hallway like nothing had happened.

Behind her, Luke exhaled a long, slow breath through his nose.

He ran a hand over his face, shifted onto his back, and stared at the ceiling like it held all the answers. Then he rolled over, pulled the sheet over his hip, and let the weight of his exhaustion pull him under.

~~

It was supposed to just be another day on the water.

At least that was the plan: warm sun, cold drinks, bodies stretched out on towels, lake water that cooled you off in a perfect way. One of those golden afternoons that made summer feel endless.

But everything was off.

Tess felt it in her chest the moment she stepped foot on the boat. The sky was clear, the music was low, the beer was cold... but the space between her and luke was still thick with this tension neither of them wanted to discuss.

They stil weren't talking.

She had said "morning" when they crossed paths in the hallway and he'd nodded, but that was it. They hadn't looked at each other since.

Now, out on the water, Tess sat between Jack and Ben at the bow, sunglasses on, jaw tight, pretend the sun was the reason she wasn't talking. Luke was at the other end of the boat, legs stretched out, talking to Trevor about something Tess couldn't hear and probably didn't want to.

He looked completely fine. Relaxed.

Like he hadn't pulled her shirt over her head last night, pressed his mouth to her throat, whispered her name a thousand times over.

She tried not to look at him. She tried really, really hard.

"Alright, let's go," Trevor said, standing up and clapping his hands. "Time to take a swim. It's too fucking hot."

Cole nodded, kicking off his sandals. "Last one in has to take out the trash tonight!"

Jack was already pulling his shirt over his head. "You're the one who left like four empty White Claws in the bottom of the cooler. You're already on trash duty, bro."

Tess didn't move. She wasn't ready to swim, especially with that many eyes on her.

Trevor turned to Luke. "You in or what?"

Luke shrugged, set his drink down, and reached for the hem of his shirt like it was nothing.

And then... chaos.

The moment his shirt came off, the energy shifted.

The guys didn't even attempt to play it cool.

"OH MY GOD," Jack shouted first, loud and dramatic, pointing like he'd just spotted the Loch Ness monster.

Trevor's eyes were wide. "No fucking way."

"Yo--Luke," Cole barked. "What the hell happened to your back?"

Tess froze.

Luke stood there, shirt in his hand, calm as ever, but the red marks were impossible to miss.

Three long, arching scratches carved into the skin between his shoulder blades. One trailing toward his ribs and one that was faintly bruiesd.

They weren't from a fall or a tree branch. They were from her. And everyone knew it. Everyone saw it.

Jack covered his mouth like he was trying not to laugh. "We fucking knew it."

Trevor pointed at Tess. "Knew it! I said it yesterday!"

Cole looked stunned. "Dude. Dude. Luke."

Luke didn't say anything, just smirked.

A slow, cocky half-smile that said "yeah, you're right" without needing a word.

Tess felt the heat crawl up the back of her neck before she could even react.

Her skin was on fire. Her brain short-circuited. Her stomach turned as every guy on the boat looked at her with the same expression--disbelief, amusement, and the worst of all... curiosity.

Jack was grinning like a fucking maniac. "So you're not denying it now?"

Luke just cocked an eyebrow.

"I KNEW IT," Trevor yelled. "That's why they were acting all weird yesterday! And why she wouldn't even look at you at the bbq!"

Cole leaned back against his seat like he was watching a movie. "I feel like we've uncovered something we weren't supposed to see. Like Area 51."

Tess didn't say a word. She couldn't. She stared straight ahead, face bright red, lips pressed together so tightly it hurt. She didn't look at Luke, didn't look at anyone.

If she pretended hard enough, maybe it wasn't happening.

Jack leaned toward Luke like a kid asking about his older brother's crush. "Okay but how did it happen? Was it the pong game? Was it--"

"Jack." Ben's voice cut through, sharp.

Everyone paused.

Ben was staring at the water, jaw tight. Not saying anything else. Just shaking his head slightly like he was trying to physically rattle the thoughts from his skull.

Then finally...

"Ew. That's my fucking sister."

Jack blinked. "Oh. Shit. Right."

Trevor held up his hands. "Yeah. My bad. Respectfully."

Cole nodded. "Respectfully."

Luke scratched the back of his neck, still smirking, still very much not sorry.

Jack elbowed Ben gently. "Hey, at least it's Luke. Coulda been worse."

Ben shot him a look that said say one more word and I'll throw you off this boat.

Jack nodded. "Right, shutting up."

The boat rocked gently in the silence that followed. Luke sat back down. Tess still hadn't moved. The scratches were still there. Undeniable. And so was everything else they weren't talking about.

~~

Trevor and Jack were still out on the dock laughing about god-knows-what and there was music playing in the living room. Tess was standing in the hallway upstairs, a half-finished glass of water in hand, wearing one of Ben's old t-shirts and trying not to replay the events of the day over and over again in her mind.

The scratche. The boat. The guys losing it. Luke's stupid smug face. Her silence.

She'd avoided everyone the second they got back to the shore. Took a long shower and didn't come down for dinner. She let the weight of the last two days press heavy against her chest and she didn't know if it was embarrassment making her sweat or the heat.

She was just about to head to bed when she heard it.

"T."

Ben's voice. She turned and he was cleaning against the wall near her room, arms crossed, hair wet from a shower, socks mismatched like always.

Tess cocked a brow. "What."

He didn't answer right away, just looked at her like he was trying to figure out how to even begin.

"Okay," she said slowly. "You're being weird. Stop."

Ben pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "I'm not mad."

Tess blinked. "Okay... cool?"

"I just need to know," he said lowly. "Is he messing with you?"

That stopped her.

She stared at him, completely stunned.

Then let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Seriously?"

"I mean it, Tess."

"You think someone would only hook up with me if it was a joke?" Her voice cracked slightly, hurt underneath. "God. Your ego is fucking insane."

Ben flinched. Just barely, but it was there.

Tess shook her head. "You really think I'm that easy to mess with? That I don't know what I'm doing?"

"That's not what I said."

"Yeah, but it's what you meant."

Silence. The hallway felt colder or maybe just heavier.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling.

"Look," he said. "It's not that I don't think you can handle yourself. I know you can. I do. But I've known Luke since he was like fourteen. And guys, especially hockey guys, don't always think before they do shit. I just..."

He trailed off.

Tess leaned against the wall, the glass in her hand sweating. She hadn't even taken a sip.

"I just don't want you to get your feelings hurt."

Her chest felt tight, because that part was real. That was her brother. Too many pucks to the head, their mom always said. All heart, no filter.

Tess sighed. "I'm not an idiot, Ben."

"I didn't say you were."

"And I'm not in love with him, if that's what you're worried about."

Ben made a face. "Jesus, don't say it like that."

"I'm just saying--"

"Don't say anything," he cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm trying really hard not to picture any of it and you're making it worse."

She cracked a smile, despite herself.

Ben groaned. "I'm literally going to drown myself in the lake."

"Tell Trevor to hold your ankles. He'll do it."

Ben snorted. "He'd charge money for that."

They were quiet for a second. Then softer...

"Are you okay?"

Tess looked at him. Not like the guy who used to throw her in the pool fully clothed or steal her fries or make fun of her for crying during The Notebook.

Just... Ben.

And in spite of everything, the embarrassment, the mess, the aching confusion in her chest, she nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm okay."

Ben looked at her for another beat, like he was checking. Then he stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, tight and fast, like he was trying not to make it a thing.

"You better be," he mumbled.

Tess rolled her eyes. "Okay, you can let go now. You're sweating on me."

"Don't act like you're not loving this moment."

"I'll throw you off the boat tomorrow."

"Respectfully?"

"Respectfully."

~~

Tess stood in the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, staring at the door in front of her. Luke's door. It wasn't the first time she'd stood there, not even the second. But this time felt different.

He still hadn't said anything to her, even after the boat. He hadn't spared her a look at dinner either.

And still, she was standing there.

Not because she wanted sex. Not even because she really wanted him. She just wanted to know. She was so fucking tired of not knowing.

She knocked once and then opened the door.

Luke was sitting on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, hoodie on with the hood up, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly, but he stopped halfway when the door opened.

He looked up as she entered, no reaction.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey."

She stood there, looking at him for a few seconds before deciding to speak her mind.

"I need to ask you something."

Luke shifted, lowering his phone. "Okay."

Tess walked closer, sat on the edge of the bed, far enough to breathe, but close enough to feel a little uneasy.

She looked down at her hands. "Is this just... being horny?"

He blinked. "What?"

"This," she gestured vaguely between them. "Is it just... being horny? The summer? Being stuck in the same house for too long?"

Luke didn't answer right away.

She went on. "Are we bored? Or lonely? Or is this--"

"Something?" he offered quietly.

Tess nodded. "Yeah. Something."

Luke leaned forward, eyes on the floor.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "Maybe it's all of that."

Tess exhaled slowly. "Feels like I should know, but I don't."

"Me neither."

"When did it get weird?"

Luke gave her a small smile. "You mean when it did it just stop being a normal summer?"

"Yeah."

He thought for a second. "I think I always kind of noticed you. But not like... that. Not until last year. Maybe the year before."

"Seriously?"

"You were always just Ben's little sister," he said, almost apologetically. "Then you weren't."

Tess leaned back on her hands. "Jack was my first crush, you know."

Luke snorted. "No shit. You followed him around like a lost dog."

"I was thirteen."

"You were obsessed."

She shoved his knee gently. "Shut up."

Luke's smiled lingered.

"I used to think you were annoying," she said. "Like, irritating little-brother energy."

"Thanks."

"But now..." Tess trailed off. "Now I think I'm screwed."

Luke looked at her. Really looked at her.

"Yeah," he said. "Me too."

She laughed once, quietly, surprised by how tired she felt all of a sudden. Like the weight of pretending had finally taken it's toll on her body.

Luke reached out and gently touched her knee.

It wasn't a move. He wasn't trying to start anything. It was just comforting. And maybe that's what made it different.

She lay back on the bed eventually, not in a rush.

He shifted beside her, pulled off his hoodie, and turned down the lamp until the room went dim and soft. Tess curled into his side, one arm tucked under her head.

"Is this a mistake?" she asked, barely a whisper.

"Probably."

She turned her head, meeting his eyes.

"But you don't want me to leave, do you?"

He didn't answer.

She moved closer and his arm slid under her neck. Her hand settled on his chest and slowly, her breathing evened out.

Sleep came easier than she expected.

Luke stayed awake a little longer. He looked down at her--her face calm, lips parted, lashes dark against her cheeks--and sighed.

Because he was so fucked.

~~

Newark was colder than Tess had expected. It wasn't even winter yet, just late November, but the air bit through her coat as she walked out of the arena. She pulled her scarf tighter, phone buzzing in hand as she walked past waves of Devils fans in black and red merch, all filing out of the building.

The game had been good, fast, full of chirps and shoulder checks. Ben's team had lost by one, but it was close, and no one had dropped the gloves, so it didn't qualify as a complete disaster.

Tess had spent most of the night in the family section, hood up, hat down, trying not to think too hard about who was on the ice. Ben, obiously. But also Luke.

Luke, 43. Luke, who had two assists and chewed so much on his mouth guard Tess thought it was going to fall out onto the ice.

Now, the crowd was thinning. And her phone buzzed again.

Lukey: Meet me by the players' lot. Black BMW SUV. Five minutes

Tess smiled to herself and headed back toward the arena.'

The car door opened as soon as she reached it. Luke was in the driver's seat, damp hair curling at the ends, post-game flush still on his face.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You looked good tonight," she said casually, buckling in.

Luke smirked. "You stalking me now?"

"You sent me your location."

He shrugged. "You found the car. Still counts."

Tess smiled. "Thought you were gone lose your mouth guard tonight. You chew on it like a fucking dog."

"You noticed?"

"Yeah."

Luke laughed, low and tired. "Stalker."

"Whatever."

They didn't go anywhere fancy. Just circled once, went through a drive-thru, and headed to her hotel without really discussing it. By the time they reached the room, Tess had kicked off her boots, dropped her bag, and was already tugging off her scarf while Luke stood in the doorway like he wasn't sure if he could let himself in.

She turned to him.

"You gonna stand there all night or...?"

That was all it took.

Her lips were on his, her hands under his Devils hoodie, his fingers brushing her jaw. Making up for months of not seeing each other in meer seconds.

They made it to the bed eventually, Tess settling into the fluffy hotel pillows. She laughed into his mouth as he tried to say something cocky, but she cut him off with a kiss before he could finish.

"Still think this is just a summer thing?" she whispered, biting gently at his bottom lip.

"Shut up," he mumbled.

After, they didn't rush to get dressed. Didn't rush to separate.

Tess lay on her stomach, the sheet half-draped over her hips, cheek pressed into the pillow. Luke was beside her, tracing slow, lazy shapes on her bare back with his fingertips--circles, lines, a crooked heart.

Her eyes were closed. Not asleep, just still.

"Hey," he murmured.

"Mm?"

"You gonna be here tomorrow?"

She didn't answer right away.

Then, "No, I'm flying home in the morning."

He nodded, even though she couldn't see it.

"Come to bed," she said softly.

He shifted under the covers, pulling her close, one arm slung over her waist. Their legs tangled, her hand finding his out of instinct.

~~

Luke rolled carefully, one arm bracing himself as he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for his shirt on the floor.

Tess blinked awake behind him, hair mussed, eyes still heavy.

She watched him in the morning light, broad back, sleep-creased skin, fading marks from her nails still visible if you knew where to look.

He moved to stand--

"Noooo," she mumbled, voice sleepy. "Lu... stay."

He froze. Turned.

She pulled the blanket higher, one eye barely open. "S'early..."

Luke stared at her, lips parted, heartbeat in his throat.

Because he knew what that was.

His line. From the first morning. The one he hadn't really meant to say.

Tess buried her face in the pillow. "Don't look at me like that."

He smiled, shaking his head.

And laid back down beside her.

[honeyslibrary]

Sunshine | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, fluff, overuse of '—' probably (I can't help myself I'm sorry😞), edited once! 

Request; 'can you do one about luke where like they are long distance since he moved to NJ and they finally get to spend the summer together after being apart the whole season’

Word Count; 7.8k

Authors Note: Thanks so much for the request, friend!! This was pretty fun to write, and I hope you like it!!. I won't spoil anything in the author's note, but let's just say this is kind of a self insert, aka something I occasionally fantasize about. Any thoughts + reblogs are appreciated!! Love you guys!! -Honey

The scent of fryer oil clung to your clothes as you pirouetted between tables, delivering plates with a flourish that wasn't part of your usual workday choreography. You caught yourself humming between orders, your smile wide enough to make your cheeks ache by mid-shift. Every time the door chimed, your heart performed a little somersault before settling back when it wasn't him, even though you knew perfectly well Luke wouldn't be walking through the restaurant's doors tonight.

"Earth to crazy girl," Mia teased, bumping your hip with hers as she passed with a tray of drinks. "Table six has been trying to get your attention while you've been daydreaming about hockey boy." 

"I wasn't—" you started to protest, but the knowing smirks from your coworkers silenced you. Marcus, wiping down the counter, made exaggerated kissing noises. 

"Two months," you reminded them, feeling warmth creep up your neck. "You'd be excited too."

"Oh, we know," Mia laughed. "You've only mentioned it every fifteen minutes since you clocked in." 

You'd originally planned to join his parents at the airport, had even begged your manager for the night off, but Friday nights were non-negotiable at Lakeside Grill. The bitter disappointment had faded to resigned acceptance, tempered by the knowledge that in just a few hours, the distance that had stretched between Michigan and New Jersey would finally collapse. 

When you finally shed your name tag and push through the back door into the crisp April air, the clock on your phone reads 11:32 PM. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unlocked your car, the exhaustion from your double shift evaporating at the prospect of seeing Luke. You slid into the driver's seat and immediately called, pressing the phone to your ear as it rang. 

You'd texted him obsessively throughout the day. First when their plane departed Newark, again when they landed in Detroit, and several times after that with increasingly transparent excuses. 

"Hey, you," Luke answered, his voice a warm rumble that made your stomach flip. In the background, you could hear the familiar chaos of his summer home. Dishes clinking, Jack's laugh, what sounded like ESPN playing on the TV. 

"I just finished up work," you said, trying to keep the breathless anticipation from your voice as you navigated out of the parking lot. "I'm on my way over." 

There was a pause, some shuffling on his end. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped a notch lower. "How about you just come over tomorrow. It's late." Your hand froze on the gearshift. A car behind you honked as the exit to the main road remained clear but your vehicle didn't move. 

You waved an apologetic hand and pulled out, trying to process his words. "You don't want to see me?" The question slipped out before you could soften it, vulnerability naked in your voice. The red traffic light ahead bathed your dashboard in crimson, matching the flush of embarrassment warming your face. 

Luke's chuckle filtered through the speakers, but it sounded strained. "Course I do, don't be silly." A pause. "It's been torture, honestly." The light changed to green, its glow illuminating the empty intersection as you accelerated through. 

Something felt off. The Luke who had FaceTimed you just yesterday had been counting down the hours until you'd be together again. "Then why?" You didn't bother hiding the confusion or the hint of hurt that crept into your tone. The late-night streets of your small Michigan town stretched empty before you, streetlights creating pools of yellow that your car passed through rhythmically. 

"It's late, sunshine. I don't want you making the drive over." His voice was gentle but firm, the tone he used when his mind was made up about something. 

Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "It's only half an hour." Even that was generous at this hour, with the freeways clear and most of the town asleep, the drive to the lake house where he spent his summers would be closer to twenty minutes. You'd made the journey so many times you could navigate it half-asleep, following the winding roads until they opened up to the glittering expanse of water and the cape cod style house that his brothers had bought after making it to the NHL. 

The property had quickly become your second home over the past two years. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the soft rush of air from your car heater and what sounded like Luke moving to another room, the background noise fading. 

He let out a small sigh, that particular sigh you'd come to recognize, the one that signaled the conversation was effectively over. "I'll see you tomorrow, I promise. I'll come and scoop you around eleven?" 

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying the chapped skin there as disappointment settled heavy in your chest. Two months of falling asleep to texts instead of his heartbeat, of watching his games on a screen rather than from the stands, and now another night alone when he was just a short drive away. "Fine," you finally conceded, the word coming out more clipped than intended. You softened your tone, not wanting your reunion to start with tension. "I miss you, that's all." 

"Miss you more," he replied, and despite your disappointment, the familiar phrase made your heart constrict. "See you tomorrow, okay?" 

As you hung up and turned your car toward your apartment instead of the lake, questions swirled beneath your resignation. In two years together, through multiple separations due to his hockey schedule, Luke had never once not wanted to see you immediately when he got home. Something wasn't adding up, but perhaps it was just exhaustion clouding your judgment. Tomorrow would bring clarity, you told yourself, even as a nagging unease settled beside the anticipation that had carried you through your shift.

Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams a fragmented mix of anticipation and unease. You didn't set an alarm, allowing yourself to sleep however long your body wanted. Once awake, you reached for your phone with eyes still half-closed, only to jolt fully awake at the notification glowing on your screen.

Lukey [8:12 AM]: Good morning, baby. Wear your favorite sundress today. 

You blinked at the message, sleep evaporating as your thumbs moved quickly across the keyboard. 

You [9:34 AM]: Good morning to you too. Why the specific request?

The reply came almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting for you to wake up.

Lukey [9:35 AM]: Don't worry about it :)

You [9:35 AM]: What are you up to?

Lukey [9:36 AM]: If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? See you at 11 ❤️ 

Curiosity thoroughly piqued, you tossed aside your comforter and padded to the bathroom, suddenly grateful for the deep conditioning treatment you'd given your hair last night. The disappointment of not seeing him had translated into a lengthy self-care ritual. Face mask, hair treatment, a leisurely shower, a coincidence that now seemed to be luck. 

Standing before your closet an hour later, freshly showered and made up with more care than your usual weekend routine, your fingers skimmed past hangers until they found the familiar fabric. The pastel yellow sundress had been an impulse purchase last summer, right before a family barbecue, the first one that Luke attended with you.

You still remembered the way Luke's eyes had lingered when you'd first worn it, how he'd whispered "You look like sunshine." when your cousins were out of earshot, thus birthing the familiar term of endearment. The dress flowed around your knees as you twirled once before the mirror, the delicate floral pattern catching the morning light. You paired it with simple sandals and minimal jewelry, just some small dangly earrings and a necklace Luke had given you last Christmas. The familiar weight of the pendant against your collarbone was comforting, a tangible reminder of promises whispered across pillows and state lines. 

At precisely 10:57 AM, a knock sounded at your apartment door. Your heart somersaulted in your chest as you crossed the living room, taking one steadying breath before turning the handle. And there he was. Luke filled the doorframe, taller than you remembered somehow, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning light from the hallway windows. His curly hair was shorter than when you'd last seen him, the fresh cut accentuating the sharp angle of his jaw. But his eyes, those warm green eyes that crinkled at the corners, were exactly as you remembered, now widening slightly as they took you in.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. Two months of FaceTime calls and late-night texts crystallized into this single point of reconnection, the air between you charged with everything unsaid. "Hi," you breathed finally, the single syllable barely audible. 

Luke's face broke into that crooked smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Hi yourself, sunshine." And then the space between you disappeared as he stepped forward, one arm circling your waist while his other hand cradled the back of your head.

The kiss was gentle at first, a reacquaintance, before deepening into something that spoke of lonely nights and patient waiting. When you finally pulled apart, you noticed the faint circles under his eyes that the phone camera had never quite captured. "You look tired," you murmured, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. 

"Worth it," he said simply, stealing another quick kiss before adding, "I've missed this face." 

You smiled against his lips. "Just my face?" 

His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating where your bodies pressed together. "Among other things." His gaze dropped to your dress, appreciation evident in his expression. "You look beautiful." 

"Like I'd forget your not-so-subtle favorite," you teased, stepping back to give him a proper view with a small twirl. 

Luke caught your hand mid-spin, interlacing his fingers with yours. "Ready to go? I've got plans for us." 

"Is that why you wouldn't let me come over last night? Secret preparations?" The question was light, but curiosity still nagged. 

A flicker of something, hesitation perhaps, crossed his face before his smile returned. "Something like that. Come on, chariot awaits." 

His Ford Bronco sat in your apartment complex's parking lot, freshly washed by the looks of it. Luke opened the passenger door with an exaggerated bow that made you laugh before sliding into the driver's seat beside you. "So where are we—" 

"Nope," he interrupted, turning the key in the ignition. "No questions. Just trust me?" 

You settled back against the leather seat, watching his profile as he navigated through the Saturday afternoon traffic. The familiar contours of his face, the way he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the radio, the scent of his cologne filling the enclosed space, all of it felt like coming home after a long journey. 

Twenty minutes later, Luke turned onto a familiar tree-lined street, and your heart gave a little leap of recognition as Marigold's distinctive blue awning came into view. "You remembered," you said softly as he parked, eyes fixed on the cozy brunch spot where you'd had your first official date two years ago. 

Luke's expression softened. "Course I did." 

Inside, the hostess led you to a corner table by the window. The same table, you realized with a start, where you'd sat that first morning, nervous and trying not to show it. The restaurant hadn't changed much: still the same exposed brick walls covered in local artwork, still the hanging plants creating pockets of privacy between tables, still the mouthwatering smell of their famous lemon-ricotta pancakes permeating the air.

"I took a chance they'd have an opening," Luke admitted as you settled into your seats. "Called them last week from Jersey."

"You did?" His smile turned sheepish. 

"Yeah." He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "But brunch isn't the only surprise." 

From his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box, sliding it across the table toward you. Your breath caught in your throat as your fingers hovered over it. "Luke..." 

"It's not a ring," he clarified quickly, a flush creeping up his neck. With trembling fingers, you opened the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, its chain fine and shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the window. And there, dangling from the center, was a perfectly crafted silver lily, small but intricately detailed, your favorite flower. "Happy belated anniversary," Luke said softly, watching your face. "I know the flowers I sent weren't much—"

"They were perfect," you interrupted, remembering how the unexpected delivery had brightened your apartment on that otherwise ordinary Tuesday in March, your actual anniversary.

"But I wanted to give you something more permanent," he continued. "Something you could have with you even when I'm not." Tears pricked behind your eyes as you lifted the bracelet from its velvet nest. 

"It's beautiful." Luke took it gently from your hands, motioning for your wrist. 

As he fastened the clasp, his fingers lingered against your pulse point. "I had it custom made at a small shop in Grand Rapids. The jeweler thought I was crazy with how specific I was about the lily." 

You turned your wrist, watching the charm catch the light. "Thank you," you whispered, emotion making your voice thick. "I love it. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied, the simple declaration filling the space between you with everything that two months apart had left unsaid.

The words hung in the air between you, warm and familiar and heavier in person than through a phone screen. A comfortable silence settled as the waitress approached with steaming mugs of coffee, giving you both a moment to collect yourselves. 

"So," Luke said after taking a sip from his mug, "tell me everything I missed. And don't say 'nothing' because I know how that brain of yours works." 

You laughed, stirring cream into your coffee. "Well, Mia at work has been relentless with the teasing. You should have heard her last night when I kept checking my phone between orders."

"I hope you set her straight about how incredibly cool your boyfriend is," he grinned, leaning forward on his elbows. 

"Oh absolutely. I told them all about your exciting life of hotel rooms and ice baths." 

Luke clutches his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. What about the glamorous team plane rides? The thrilling post-game interviews where I say the same five phrases in different orders?"

The laughter that bubbled up from your chest felt like releasing a breath you'd been holding for two months. This, the easy banter, the way his eyes never left your face even as he reached for his water glass, this was what FaceTime couldn't replicate. 

Your orders arrived with impeccable timing: lemon-ricotta pancakes for you (just as you'd had on your first date) and the breakfast skillet loaded with everything for him. Luke immediately cut a piece of his pancake, raised an eyebrow in silent question, and you nodded, opening your mouth to accept the offered bite. "Still as good as you remember?" he asked, watching your reaction intently.

You closed your eyes briefly, savoring the perfect balance of savory and sweet. "Better."

The conversation flowed as naturally as it always had, filling each other in on the details that text messages couldn't capture. The way his new teammate Brett had adopted a stray cat that now terrorized him and his wife, how you started going on morning walks while listening to old funk albums, his ongoing battle with the dry cleaner that keeps giving him the wrong suits. 

As you shared the last bite of pancake, Luke checked his watch with what seemed like exaggerated casualness. "Got somewhere to be?" you teased, dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

"Actually," he said, signaling for the check, "we do have somewhere to be. If you're up for another surprise."

"Another one? You're spoiling me, Hughes." 

His smile turned mischievous. "Day's just gettin' started, sunshine."

Back in the Bronco, Luke turned up the radio, your favorite station already programmed in, and headed toward the highway instead of back toward your apartment or the lake house. "Going to give me a hint?" you asked, watching the familiar landmarks of your town give way to the interstate.

"Not a chance," he replied, reaching over to lace his fingers through yours. "But you might want to grab your sunglasses from the glove compartment. It's supposed to be bright today."

A little over an hour later, your curiosity peaked as Luke guided the Bronco off the highway and followed signs toward Detroit. Your mind raced through possibilities. A museum? A concert? Shopping? Nothing felt quite right for the secretive smile playing at the corners of his mouth. When he finally turned into a massive parking lot and you caught sight of the distinctive entrance sign, your jaw dropped. "The Detroit Zoo?" you exclaimed, straightening in your seat. "Luke, how did you—"

He parked the car, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Know that you've been wanting to come here? Particularly to see the new penguin exhibit that opened while I was gone?" He tapped his temple. "I pay attention."

"But I never mentioned—" You paused, realization dawning. "You stalked my Facebook."

"Maybe," he admits, reaching into the backseat for a small backpack you hadn't noticed before. "You shared it about a month ago, commenting about how you hadn't been to the zoo since you were a kid. I might have done some planning right then and there."

Warmth spread through your chest at the thought of him, tired after practice or a game, scrolling through his feed and filing away this small detail about you. Not just remembering it, but building it into today's reunion. "You never cease to amaze me," you said softly. 

Luke leaned across the center console, brushing his lips against yours. "That's the plan, sunshine. Keep you on your toes for the next sixty years or so." 

The zoo was bustling with weekend visitors, families with strollers and couples walking hand-in-hand beneath the canopy of spring trees. Luke purchased tickets at the entrance booth, waving away your offer to split the cost with a firm "Anniversary, remember?"

"Our anniversary was in March," you reminded him, accepting the map he handed you.

"Which makes this our belated celebration," he countered, pointing to a spot on the map. "Penguins first? Or do you want to wander and find them later?"

You studied the map, noting the penguin habitat was on the far side of the zoo. "Let's save them for later. Build up the anticipation."

The day unfolded like something from a dream, the kind where everything aligns just right. Luke kept his arm around your waist as you wandered from exhibit to exhibit, stopping to watch the tigers lounging in the sun and the otters tumbling playfully in their pool. He listened attentively as you shared random animal facts you'd accumulated over the years, never once making you feel self-conscious about your enthusiasm.

"Did you know giraffes have the same number of vertebrae in their necks as humans do?" you asked as you watched one gracefully bend to drink. "Just seven, but theirs are way longer."

"I did not know that," he said, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Tell me another one." 

By the time you reached the polar bears, the clouds had given way to the bright sun that glinted off the water in their enclosure. Luke guided you to a shaded bench nearby, unzipping the backpack to reveal two bottles of water and a container of sliced fruit. "You thought of everything," you marveled, gratefully accepting the water.

"Mom helped," he admitted, offering you a strawberry. "She packed this this morning while I was picking up your bracelet." You glanced down at your wrist, where the silver lily caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves above. 

"So that's why you didn't want me coming over last night." 

A flicker of something, the same hesitation you'd noticed earlier, crossed his face before he nodded. "Had to keep the surprise intact." 

You studied him for a moment, noting the way his eyes didn't quite meet yours. "Luke Warren, are you hiding something else from me?" 

He popped a grape into his mouth, taking his time chewing before answering. "What if I am?"

"Then I'd say you're being very mysterious for someone who usually can't keep a secret to save his life." You bumped your shoulder against his. "Remember when you tried to surprise me for my birthday last year and ended up telling me the plan three days early because you were too excited?" 

Luke laughed, the sound echoing in the open air. "That was different. This is... bigger." 

"Bigger than my birthday?" 

Instead of answering, he stood, offering his hand. "Come on, I think it's time we found those penguins." 

The Polk Penguin Conservation Center was everything the article had promised, a stunning 326,000-gallon aquatic habitat where deep-diving penguins swam with breathtaking speed past the glass viewing areas. You stood transfixed as they rocketed through the water, their bodies sleek bullets of black and white. "They look like they're flying underwater," you mumble, pressing a hand against the cool glass. 

Luke stood behind you, his arms encircling your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. "Worth the wait?" 

"Absolutely," you breathed as a particularly bold penguin swooped close to the glass before darting away in a flurry of bubbles. You could have stayed watching them for hours, but eventually the growing crowd prompted you to move along, making your way through the rest of the habitat. As you emerged back into the sunlight, Luke checked his phone, typing something quickly before pocketing it again. 

"Everything okay?" you asked. 

"Yes," he assured you, taking your hand again. "Just checking in with the parents. Dad wanted to know if we'll be back for dinner." 

"Will we?" 

Luke smiled, the secretive edge returning. "That depends on you, actually. But first, I have one more stop in mind." He led you along the winding paths until you reached the zoo's central garden, a beautiful space with flowering bushes and a small pond where koi fish swam lazily beneath lily pads. A musician was playing guitar on a nearby bench, the gentle melody floating through the air. Luke drops his backpack. "Dance with me?" Luke asked, extending his hand with a formal bow. 

You glanced around at the other zoo visitors, some watching the musician, others passing by on their way to the next exhibit. "Here? Now?" 

"Here. Now." His eyes held yours, unwavering. "Don't leave me hangin'." 

Placing your hand in his, you let him pull you close, his arm wrapping securely around your waist as you began to sway to the gentle rhythm of the guitar. The yellow fabric of your sundress fluttered around your knees, catching the afternoon breeze. A comfortable silence fell between the two of you as you held each other following the chords. 

"I used to imagine this," he murmured against your hair. "During away games. When I couldn't sleep in hotel rooms. I'd close my eyes and remember how it feels to hold you like this." 

Your throat tightened with emotion. "Me too. Except I'd wear your old Devils hoodie and pretend it still smelled like you." 

Luke pulled back just enough to look at your face, his expression softening. "I'm sorry about last night. I should have just told you to come over. Would have saved us both a lonely night."

"It was worth it for all this," you assured him, gesturing to the beautiful garden around you. "Perfect day." 

"Not quite perfect yet," he said, something shifting in his tone. 

Before you could question him, he stepped back slightly, still holding your hands in his. The musician, you noticed with sudden clarity, had switched to a slower, more deliberate melody that sounded strangely familiar. Luke was lowering himself to one knee on the brick pathway, and the world around you seemed to freeze in place. 

"Luke," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. 

"I told you earlier that the bracelet wasn't a ring," he said, voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "But I never said there wasn't a ring." From his pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box, different from the one that had held the bracelet, this one midnight blue instead of black. Around you, other zoo visitors had begun to notice, a small crowd forming at a respectful distance. 

"I had this whole speech planned," Luke continued, looking up at you with those eyes that had captivated you from the very first day. "About how these past two years have been the best of my life. About how even when we're apart, I feel connected to you in ways I can't explain. About how I want to build a life with you that's as beautiful and unexpected as finding you was in the first place." 

He opened the box to reveal a ring that caught the sunlight, sending prisms of light dancing across your dress—a solitaire diamond on a delicate band, simple yet stunning. 

"But standing here now, looking at you in that gorgeous dress with those eyes that see right through me, all I can think to say is this: I love you. More than hockey, more than anything. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you." His voice caught slightly. "I know we're both young, and we don't even live in the same state half the year, but none of that matters to me. When you know, you know. And I've known since that first summer that you're the one I want to build my life with. Will you marry me?" 

Time seemed suspended as you looked down at him: the boy who had become a man before your eyes, who sent you souvenirs from every state he traveled, who beat the Tetris levels you couldn't, who loved you more than you ever thought possible. "Yes," you whispered, then louder, "Yes, Luke. Of course, yes." 

His face broke into that brilliant smile you loved so much as he slid the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. The small crowd that had gathered broke into applause as he stood and pulled you into his arms, lifting you slightly off your feet in his enthusiasm. When he set you down, he pressed his lips against yours eagerly, rushed passion and genuine happiness flittering between mouths before allowing you to examine the ring, now sitting perfectly below the delicate lily bracelet on your wrist. "So this was the plan all along." 

Luke laughed, pressing his forehead against yours. "Quinn and Jack were helping me set up. I had candles and flowers all over the lake house, planning to propose there. But I changed my mind last minute." 

"This was perfect." you said softly. Your lips form a pout, catching his lips delicately, before he pulls away.

"Everyone's waiting at the lake house. My parents, your parents, Quinn, Jack, they're all there for dinner. If you're up for it." 

You smiled, shaking your head in amazement. "You really did think of everything." 

"I had many months to plan," he reminded you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "And now I have a lifetime of loving you to look forward to." 

As you walked hand-in-hand toward the zoo exit, the afternoon sun warm on your shoulders and the weight of the ring still new and thrilling on your finger, you couldn't help but think of how truly blessed you were. "Ready to go tell everyone?" Luke asked as you reached the parking lot, his Bronco waiting like a chariot to carry you to the next chapter. 

"Ready," you confirmed, squeezing his hand as the future unfurled before you, as bright and promising as the yellow dress you wore and the boy who loved you. 

The drive back to the lake house felt surreal. You kept stealing glances at your left hand, where the diamond caught the late afternoon light streaming through the windshield. Luke caught you looking for the third time and smiled, squeezing your knee gently. "Happy?" he asked, eyes flicking between you and the road.

"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up," you admit. "That I'll be back in my apartment, and you'll still be in New Jersey, and this whole perfect day will have been a dream." 

Luke's hand moved from your knee to capture yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. "Not a dream, sunshine. Though I'm pretty sure I've dreamt about this exact moment more times than I can count." 

As the highway gave way to the familiar winding roads that led to the lake, a mix of excitement and nervousness fluttered in your stomach. "So everyone already knows? That you were proposing today?" 

"Well, they knew the plan," Luke amended with a hint of mischief in his voice. "But they don't know your answer yet." 

"You weren't sure I'd say yes?" You raised an eyebrow, unable to keep the smile from your face.

Luke's cheeks flushed slightly. "I was... cautiously optimistic." He turned onto the tree-lined private road that led to the property. "But Jack kept teasing me about having a backup plan. As if I could ever have a backup plan for you." 

The familiar house came into view, its large windows reflecting the golden afternoon light off the lake beyond. In the circular driveway sat your parents' familiar sedan, parked alongside another car and what you recognized as Jack's truck. Your heart performed a little somersault at the realization that they had all gathered here, waiting for this moment. Luke parked the Bronco and turned to face you fully. "Ready to get ambushed?" 

"As I'll ever be," you replied, leaning across the console to press a quick kiss to his lips. He caught you before you could pull away, deepening the kiss with a newfound urgency that made your head spin. 

When he finally broke away, his eyes were darker, more intense. "Just wanted one more moment where it's just us," he explained softly. 

Hand in hand, you approached the front door. You smoothed down your sundress with your free hand, suddenly acutely aware of the day's adventures in your slightly windblown hair and sun-kissed cheeks. The door swung open before Luke could even touch the handle, revealing Jack, his smirk eerily similar to Luke's own. 

"Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms. "Look what the cat dragged in." His eyes dropped pointedly to where your hands remained intertwined, then to the ring now adorning your finger. His smile widened impossibly further. "Guess baby brother didn't chicken out after all." 

"Shut up, Jack," Luke said good-naturedly, shouldering past him into the house. The familiar scent of something pasta, rich with garlic and herbs, made your stomach growl despite the late brunch. 

"They're here!" Jack called out, unnecessarily loud given the fact that everyone was already gathered. 

There was a flurry of movement as people emerged from the kitchen and living room area. Your mother appeared first, her eyes immediately finding yours with a question in them that was answered by your beaming smile. Behind her came your father, trying and failing to look casual despite the slight redness around his eyes that suggested he might have been more emotional about this day than he was letting on. Ellen appeared next, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face lighting up as she took in the scene. Quinn followed, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, clearly in the middle of recording the moment. 

"Well?" Ellen prompted, looking between you and Luke with barely contained excitement. "Do we have news to celebrate?" 

Luke turned to you, his eyes soft with an unspoken invitation for you to share. The weight of everyone's gaze felt momentarily overwhelming until you lifted your left hand, the ring catching the light streaming through the windows. "We're engaged," you announced, your voice strong despite the emotion making your heart race. 

The room erupted in cheers. Your mother was the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight embrace that smelled of her familiar perfume. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart," she whispered against your hair, her voice thick with emotion. Over her shoulder, you caught sight of your father shaking Luke's hand before pulling him into a quick, firm hug. The sight of the two most important men in your life embracing sent a fresh wave of emotion through you. 

"Let me see, let me see!" Ellen exclaimed, gently extracting you from your mother's arms to examine the ring. "Oh, Luke, you did good. It's absolutely perfect." 

"Just like her," Luke said, the simple statement causing a fresh round of happy tears to spring to your eyes. Quinn approached next, phone now pocketed as he wrapped you in a bear hug that lifted you slightly off your feet. 

"Welcome to the family, officially," he said, setting you down with a grin. "Though we've considered you a Hughes since Luke first brought you home with those puppy dog eyes two years ago." 

"I did not have puppy dog eyes," Luke protested, though his expression as he watched you being welcomed by his family suggested otherwise. 

Jack slung an arm around Luke's shoulders. "You still have puppy dog eyes" He turned to you with a wink, teasing. "Life with no chance of parole for you, eh?" 

"Jack," Ellen chided, though her smile remained firmly in place. 

Your father cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. He was not typically a man of many words, preferring to express himself through actions rather than speeches. But now he raised the glass of what appeared to be whiskey that Jim had just handed him. "To Luke and his impeccable taste," he began, his voice gruff with emotion. "And to my daughter, who has never looked happier than she does right now. May this be just the beginning of a lifetime of joy for you both." 

"Hear, hear," Jim echoed around the room as glasses were clinked together. Luke found his way back to your side, his arm sliding naturally around your waist as if it belonged there. Which, you supposed, it did. 

"Dinner's almost ready," Ellen announced. "The boys have been grilling all afternoon, and I've got about six side dishes that need final touches." She turned to you with a warm smile. "But first, I think these two need a moment to breathe. Why don't you two get some air?"

Luke shot his mother a grateful look before guiding you toward the back of the house. As you slipped out the sliding glass doors onto the expansive deck, you heard the animated chatter resume behind you—your mother already deep in conversation with Ellen, no doubt discussing wedding details you hadn't even begun to consider.

The late afternoon sun hung low over the lake, casting long golden reflections across the rippling surface. The wooden dock extended from the grassy backyard into the water, bobbing gently with the mild waves. It was your favorite spot at the lake house, where you and Luke had spent countless hours talking, swimming, or simply sitting in comfortable silence.

"You okay?" Luke asked as you reached the end of the dock, both of you slipping off your shoes to dangle your feet in the cool water. "I know it's a lot all at once."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, watching a pair of ducks paddle by in the distance. "I'm really good," you assured him. "Just processing that this is real. That you're really here, and we're really engaged, and our families are inside already planning our wedding probably."

Luke chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest where you were pressed against him. "Mom's had a Pinterest board for at least a year. I caught her looking at it over Christmas."

"You're kidding."

"Dead serious. Quinn ratted her out." He kissed the top of your head. "But we don't have to decide anything right away. We can take our time, do this however we want."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding. The two of you sat on there, on the end of the dock, your head resting on his shoulder, for a few minutes, watching the sun setting along the water.

Soon enough, the sliding door opened, and Jack's voice carried across the yard. "Lovebirds! Mom says dinner's ready, and Dad's threatening to start without you!"

Luke stood first, offering you a hand up that you gladly accepted. Before you could head back toward the house, he tugged you gently into his arms, one hand cupping your cheek with impossible tenderness.

"Thank you," he murmured, his eyes searching yours.

"For saying yes?" you teased lightly.

He shook his head, expression serious despite the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "For making every homecoming feel like this. Like no matter where hockey takes me, I have something infinitely more valuable to come back to."

Your heart swelled as you rose onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his. "Always," you promised.

The word hung between you, as golden and full of promise as the sunset beginning to paint the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. It was a promise neither of you made lightly, to be each other's constant in a world of variables, to be home for each other no matter the distance.

Hand in hand, you walked back toward the house where your families waited, the yellow sundress swishing around your knees and the evening breeze carrying the scent of grilled steak and the subtle promise of summer. The weight of the ring on your finger still felt new and thrilling, but the feeling that bloomed in your chest as Luke held the door open for you, that feeling was as familiar and essential as breathing.

Inside, the dining table had been set with Ellen's best dishes, bottles of champagne chilling in ice buckets at either end. As you took your seat beside Luke, surrounded by the people who had shaped both of your lives, the conversation and laughter flowing as naturally as the lake waters outside, you couldn't help but think that for all of Luke's careful planning and perfect surprises today, this moment of belonging, outside of his proposal, was the next best gift.

Jim raised his glass once everyone was seated, his expression uncharacteristically emotional. "To the future Mr. and Mrs. Hughes," he toasted, his voice steady despite the moisture gathering in his eyes. "May your love story continue to be written with the same beauty with which it began."

As glasses clinked and smiles were exchanged across the table, Luke's hand found yours beneath the tablecloth, his thumb brushing over the ring he'd placed there just hours ago, an unspoken reminder that this was just the beginning.

"I love you," Luke whispered for your ears alone.

You squeezed his hand in response, knowing that whatever the future held, whatever cities hockey might take him to, whatever challenges might arise, the foundation you'd built together over the past two years was strong enough to weather any storm.

"Love you, too," you echoed softly.

Dinner stretched languidly into the evening, multiple courses interspersed with stories and laughter that left your cheeks aching. Your father, usually reserved, had warmed up after his second glass of wine, regaling everyone with embarrassing childhood stories that made you hide your face in Luke's shoulder. Luke's arm had remained draped across the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing against your shoulder in a gesture so casually intimate it made your heart flutter even after two years together.

"Remember when she insisted on wearing her tutu to soccer practice?" your mother chimed in, eyes twinkling with mischief. "The coach didn't know what to do with her."

"In my defense," you protested, "I was five, and I thought tutus were appropriate for all athletic activities."

"Not much has changed," Luke teased, earning himself a playful jab to the ribs. "What? You still have strong opinions about athletic wear."

"Says the man who refuses to wear anything but black compression shorts under his gear for 'luck,'" Quinn interjected, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

The conversation flowed easily between hockey stories, childhood memories, and tentative wedding ideas that Ellen couldn't help but slip into the conversation. Jim had opened a second bottle of champagne somewhere between dessert and coffee, insisting that such an occasion warranted proper celebration.

As the clock on the mantel chimed ten, your father stifled a yawn. "I hate to be the one to break up the party," he said apologetically, "but some of us don't have the stamina of you young folks anymore. Early meeting tomorrow."

"Yeah," your mother agreed, though her reluctance was evident in her voice. "It's a bit of a drive back."

Ellen nodded, beginning to gather some of the dessert plates. "We're gonna get going too, actually."

"You're leaving?" Luke asked, surprise evident in his voice as he looked between his parents.

Jim exchanged a knowing glance with Ellen before clearing his throat. "Thought we'd give you two some privacy to celebrate properly."

"We're out too," Quinn nods, already standing and shooting Luke a barely concealed wink. 

"That's right," Jack added, his expression all innocence despite the mischief dancing in his eyes. "Wouldn't want to be a third and fourth wheel on your engagement night."

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you realized what they were doing, orchestrating an obvious exit to leave you and Luke alone in the lake house. Luke's arm tightened around your shoulders, his own face slightly flushed.

"You don't have to—" you began, but Ellen waved away your protest.

"Nonsense, sweetheart. You two deserve some time alone after being apart for so long. Besides," she added with a gentle smile, "It seems only right that you should have it to yourselves tonight."

The next fifteen minutes were a flurry of hugs, promises to call tomorrow, and last-minute wedding suggestions that you nodded along to without fully processing. Your mother hugged you especially tight at the door.

"I always knew he was the one," she whispered against your ear. "From the first time you brought him home. The way he looked at you, like you were everything."

Emotion tightened your throat as you squeezed her back. "I love you, Mom."

"Love you too, sweetheart." She pulled back, dabbing at the corner of her eye. "Enjoy your night, we'll talk details soon."

You and Luke stood on the porch, waving as both families piled into their respective cars. Quinn shot Luke a thumbs up from the passenger seat of Jack's truck, and Jack made a gesture that Luke quickly responded to with an obscene hand signal of his own, hidden from the parents' view.

"Brothers," Luke muttered, despite the smile playing on his lips

With final waves, both cars pulled away down the private road, headlights sweeping across the front of the house before disappearing around the bend. You stood in the doorway watching until the red taillights vanished around the bend, Luke's arm secure around your waist.

"Alone at last," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I think that's the fastest I've ever seen my family clear out of here."

You laughed, leaning into his embrace. "They weren't exactly subtle about it."

"Subtlety isn't really a Hughes family trait," he admitted with a grin, leading you back inside and closing the door behind you. "But I can't say I'm complaining."

The house felt different now. Quieter, more intimate, the spaces that had been filled with laughter and conversation now containing only the two of you. The dining room table still held the remnants of your celebration dinner, champagne glasses with lipstick marks and cake crumbs telling the story of the evening's festivities.

"Should we clean up?" you asked, though the thought of mundane chores seemed at odds with the electric anticipation humming beneath your skin.

Luke shook his head, taking your hand. "Tomorrow. I have something to show you first."

Curiosity piqued, you allowed him to lead you through the familiar path up the wooden staircase. When you reached the door to his bedroom at the end of the hall, he paused, turning to face you with an expression that mingled nervousness and excitement.

"Close your eyes," he instructed softly.

You did as he asked, heart fluttering with anticipation. You heard the door creak open, felt Luke's hands gentle on your shoulders as he guided you forward into the room. The subtle scent of roses reached you before he spoke again.

"Okay. You can look now."

When you opened your eyes, a soft gasp escaped your lips. The room was transformed from the familiar space you remembered. Dozens of candles in various sizes were arranged across every surface, unlit but ready to cast their warm glow. Rose petals in deep crimson created a path from the doorway to the bed, where they were scattered across the navy comforter in a striking contrast. The curtains had been drawn back to reveal the panoramic view of the moonlit lake, silver light dancing across the gentle waves.

"Luke," you breathed, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "When did you—"

"I had help," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "Jack and Quinn set this up while we were at the Zoo. It was supposed to be part of my original proposal plan, but...ya know." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I still wanted the night to be special."

You crossed to him, rising on tiptoes to cup his face in your hands. "It's perfect," you whispered, emotion making your voice catch. "All of it."

With careful movements, he pulled away, and reached for the bedside table, retrieving a lighter to begin illuminating the candles. One by one, small flames sprang to life around the room, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that made the rose petals seem to shimmer. When the last candle was lit, Luke dimmed the overhead light, leaving only the dancing flames and moonlight to illuminate the space.

"There," he said, turning back to you with such tenderness in his eyes it made your breath catch. "Now it's perfect."

You moved toward him, drawn like a magnet to his warmth, his solidity, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the fresh rose petals and lake air drifting through the partially open window.

"I missed you." you whispered, reaching up to trace the strong line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble. "Two months is too long."

Luke caught your hand, turning it to press a kiss to your palm. "I'll quit the NHL," he murmured against your skin, "just wanna be with you."

"Oh wow," Your eyes widened with amusement. "I think Devils fans would kill me."

"We can go off the grid." A teasing smile on his lips as he drew you closer. "Survive off of my ELC money."

Your fingers traced the neckline of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric as you threw your head back with a laugh. "Whatever would we do with all that time alone?" you asked, your voice deliberately innocent despite the heat building between you.

Luke's eyes darkened as his hands slid from your waist to your hips, drawing you impossibly closer. "I have a few ideas," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low register that always made your stomach flip. "Starting with properly celebrating our engagement."

You can find the 18+ extended cut of this fic, (5k+ words of smut), on my Patreon, or via the direct link: HERE

[ruinix]

Could you make a Quinn X Reader, where the reader is deaf and communicates by sign language? How would Quinn be about it?

Hello, lovely. I tried my best writing this. Please do note that I am not deaf or hard-of-hearing. I unfortunately don’t know any sign languages, even the one in my country. [I tried learning but it didn’t stick. I lack people to converse with it]. Simply, I hope this doesn’t offend anyone. If people do, I can take this down… 😔

Spoken Gestures

TW/CW: Deaf!Reader, 18+ MDNI, Smut, Slight description of a past injury (blood and stitches), Choking (is it choking? Yes, ask Quinn, he’s the receiver. 😏 😏 😏), Oral sex (fem receiving), Unprotected Sex (use protections, silly), Just Quinn in love and horny over here

Count: 3532 words | Masterlist

You’re washing the dishes by hand early in the morning. Quinn yawns, sneakily getting himself a glass of orange juice. At that moment, you slam a cup down. He startles, jumping, almost spilling on himself.

He instantly faces you, his eyes zeroing in your hand, making sure you aren’t hurt if the cup breaks. Thankfully, you’re fine. The cup didn’t break. If you had, it won’t be the first time that you’ll break something when you unknowingly slam it. It’s not your fault. You simply can’t hear it.

Plus, it’s not like you do it all the time. You just occasionally put down some things harshly. Honestly, Quinn does that too.

On one side, breaking glassware—or anything at all—isn’t a big deal, because Quinn can always buy replacements. On the other, the possibility of you getting hurt during or after the process is his major concern. He doesn’t want another repeat of you getting a laceration across your palm like before. No. He can’t bear it. Even if it didn’t leave a scar, it burns through his memory. Forever haunting him.

Grounding himself, he focuses on the fact that you’re not hurt right not. He exhales a sigh of relief.

‘You’re okay’, he repeats in his head.

Slowly, he approaches you, taking the oven mitt on the counter, he uses it to lightly fan at you.

The gust of wind makes you turn towards him, smiling your kind grin. You dry your hands on a towel, then you sign, “Hi, Quinn.”

The sight of his signed name always makes his heart flutter, skipping a beat as it races in his chest. You’ve given that name to him and he will forever cherish it. It makes him feel so connected with you, especially when he knows yours. He signs it while he says, “My Love.”

A flush paints your cheeks when you watch both his hands and his lips. For a moment, you turn your face away, covering it with your hands as a soft ‘hmmm’ escapes you.

Yeah, you do that sometimes. Like you’re brimming with so much giddiness at the simple sight of him calling you your name and his endearment for you. It makes Quinn want to do it again and again and again.

He comes closer, gently putting his hands around your wrists, pulling down from your face. You look at him with wide eyes, your cheeks still so red. His thumbs trace circles on your skin of your inner wrists before tracing over your palms, feeling your delicate skin.

The laceration didn’t scar—thank fuck—but for Quinn, he swears he can still feel its existence. He can never forget how hot the blood rushing from the gash before he pressed a towel on it, how his heart slammed in his chest like battering ram from your panicked sounds as you cried until you two got to the hospital. It truly haunts him. He doesn’t want it to happen again.

He runs his thumbs over your palms once more, then he lets go.

“Be careful. You are slamming the glassware,” he says while signing it, just like how you taught him.

Your head tilts to the side. “I did?”

“Yes, please be careful. You might get hurt again.” He sighs, rubbing his chest as an ache bloom right there. “Why are you even doing the dishes? We have a dishwasher.”

“For a few cups and plates?” You sign exasperatedly, lecturing him about saving water and energy, explaining how you find it therapeutic to wash them.

Your gestures start small then turn bigger when you suddenly go into a tangent about electric energy, electric cars, and then crocheting beanies. How you get to that subject is a mystery to Quinn.

He can only blink as he tries to keep up. There are a few signs he fails to understand but by context clues, he gets it.

He makes a mental note to ask for your help. He needs to understand everything you say. It’s not good if he still heavily relies on clues when he’s been learning sign for quite a while now. It’s hard learning sign. No. Not that. It’s more of he’s still very new to it despite the whole year of learning it.  

He still finds himself going word-for-word. He doesn’t realize it until he replays the gestures in his mind and realizes he could’ve done another sign. Sometimes you sign so quickly that he cannot catch it. Like right now. You’re getting so fast that he’s getting overwhelmed instead of understanding. It makes his eyes sting as tears build up from his slight panic.

He brings up his hand, making you pause. Slowly he takes your hands, a silent plea for help, because he truly needs it. He can’t keep up.

“Sorry,”he mutters, enunciating the word.

You step closer, gripping his hands back as tightly as he does. You shake your head. Quinn understands the look in your eyes, because he knows you so well. They say, “No need to apologize. Do you want me to repeat it?”

To that, he nods. You both take a seat on the stools by the counter. The dishes are long forgotten as you repeat everything slower. It’s a wonder how you manage to remember everything you’ve said. Still, you carried every bit of emotions—though all over the place—like you had. Your gestures are bigger as they were.

Quinn finds himself relaxing when he can understand you.

You’ve been utterly patient with him. So warm. You’re perfectly the reason why he does his best in his sign language classes which he keeps as a secret. There will be a time in the future when you don’t need to repeat yourself because he’ll understand everything no matter how fast you speak. A time when he doesn’t need to sneak to his classes because he’s done with them. A time when he won’t be so clumsy with his signs. He just hopes it comes sooner.

He wants to talk to you so much every day. He wants his words to be seen by you. You lip-reading him is not enough when he has limbs to speak with you. He needs to learn so when—not if—you two have children, he’ll teach them too.

“I want to crochet a sweater for you.” Your eyes are twinkling with excitement. You ask, “Will you wear it after I finish it?”

It’s such a wonder how washing the dishes came to crocheting, but Quinn’s here for it.

“Yes,” he says breathlessly as your fingers traces the veins on his hand, feeling up his forearms and back to his hand. When your eyes come back up his face, he mutters, “Thank you for repeating what you said.”

“No problem, Quinn. You always repeat what you say for me too.”

Your words make him wonder. Does he? He never notices if he repeats himself. His memories are more locked onto him making you go over what you’ve said. Maybe he does. He doesn’t mind it if he does. He’ll continue doing it, because you’re so important to him.

He notes the grin on your face, showing your pretty teeth, the corners of your eyes crinkling. He loves how expressive you are. Always communicating with him. Your face and your body.

When you’re happy, your eyes basically beam like stars in the skies of a rural area where they can be seen without the pollution in the air. When you’re so excited, you are basically jumping while you gesture with lightness and just pure joy, which he can feel. 

When you’re sad or disheartened, your shoulders will slump, and your signs will be a lot smaller. When you’re angry or pissed, your ears would turn so red, your eyebrows extremely furrowed, and your signs would be so choppy and wild. You would either face him or turn away so you wouldn’t see him retort. Luckily, he doesn’t get you angry at him frequently. He tries not to.

He loves your sounds. They’re indiscernible, coming out when you’re getting into the conversation so much. He doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t think that he should at all. It’s just you. It’s another way of how you communicate. Sometimes you try to speak his name. The slightest sound of Q. Quinn takes that. The sound basically ingrained in his soul.

You’re trying to say his name.

His. Name.

Nothing’s better than that.

On that note, he always gets annoyed when people throw glances when you sign and let out those noises in public. He doesn’t mind curious or confused glances, but he loathes those who judge or scoffs. They should mind their fucking business. Every time he gets pissed, you will give his forehead a chop, reprimanding him. When he doesn’t ease, you will walk away because you’re so done with his antics, and he has no other choice but to stalk after you like a lost puppy, trying to get you to look at him for minutes until you finally do.

He can’t help it. He gets protective over you, even when you don’t need him to. You told him many times, but he really, really, really can’t help it.

He needs you to be comfortable. Anywhere. Everywhere.

That includes your—and his—home.

It’s really casual changes. Really. Like the doorbell that’s connected to lights he installed in every room, so you’ll know if there’s someone at the door when he’s not home. Like the flashing alarm for fire, smoke, carbon monoxide, so that you’ll always be safe like him in case of emergency. Like the speakers that have good bass, so you’ll enjoy your music. Like the TV with a permanently on closed captions—along the subscription programs that should always automatically play with them—so that you’ll have fun with your shows. Like the little nook he prepared for your reading or crafting or working or whatever you want to do. Little things. Casual things. Just for you.

If you two were to move to a bigger place, he can’t wait to do it all over again. He’s making a home for you. It has to be perfect.

When you first got together, Quinn did a ton of research on having a relationship with a person with hearing disability. That was why for your second date, he asked how you wanted him to approach you. Honestly, he feels so fucking proud when you stared at him with surprise and your jaw open, because you didn’t expect that. Then you smiled so widely that it made him fall so deeply in love with you on the second date. It’s surreal.

Quinn still didn’t know sign back then, so you conversed with your notebook or your phone. You explained about flicking the lights on and off, lightly fanning at you, doing a bigger wave when he’s in your peripherals, and even stomping on the wooden floor. He’s been doing those things and still to this day, he feels so amazing whenever you greet him with that beautiful smile.

“Hmm,” you hum, bringing him back to reality. “Where did you go?”

“Just here,” he scoots closer, putting a thigh between yours so he can get even closer. “What are your plans today?”

He shudders when your hand comes up to rest over his neck while he speaks, his hands stopping immediately mid sign. He sees the way your eyes dart from lips to his eyes, your slow and seductive blinks over your eyes with your pupils blowing out, your breaths that come out deeper like pants. The corner of his lips comes up, a chuckle escaping him which makes you preen and visibly crave for more.

“No plans,” you sign with so much longing in your eyes, “Your voice rumbles.”

“Does it?” He presses your hand firmer against his throat. He groans when you take that as invitation—thank fuck—and squeezes perfectly against his carotid arteries, controlling his blood circulation to his head. He moans, eyes rolling up for a second. “Fuck, yes.”

He’s so fucking hard. Another squeeze, and he’s making a fucking mess in his briefs. When your other hand runs down his chest, down to his crotch, he groans which makes you moan. Fuck, you sound so good. Feel so good.

He gives both of you a few more minutes to take each of your touches in, before he drags you back to your shared bedroom. He immediately kisses you, his tongue immediately seeking comfort against yours. He pushes you on the bed, crawling over you, panting as you spread your legs so readily for him. Yet, he still hooks his knee under your thigh, spreading further.

When your hand slips under his shirt, he quickly removes it, helping off yours, until both of you are naked. He grinds his aching cock against your wet slit, rubbing on your clit over and over again. Damn it. He’s already so fucking close. He’s not even inside of you yet.

Your whines are tiny as you breathe them out. He wants to sink into your pussy so bad but the way you tug at his hair, your touch around his throat before it snakes to his shoulder to push him down, he knows what you need.

 So he kisses your lips, your jaw, your delicate neck. He sucks on your skin hard enough to leave his marks. He licks his way down to your wonderful tits that fit so well in his hands. He licks the underside of your breast before sucking your pert nipple.

One after another.

Oh the way you sigh. The way your fingers slip into his hair, your nails scratching his scalp so wonderfully. You look like a Goddess looking down at him, urging him to do your bidding. So he lightly nip at your buds, groaning when you moan and whine, making sure to press his front against yours to let you feel all the noises he makes. He needs you to know how much you affect him.

When your hips lift, begging for friction, he pushes them down, but he starts kissing his way down, down, and down. Pressing a light kiss on each of your hip, he hooks his hands over your thighs and lifts and settles between. He watches your arousal drip from your pussy.

Taking deep inhales, he takes in your scent. It’s so heady, making him all dizzy, his eyesight blurring as he leans closer, greedily taking in every hint of you. Then he licks from your entrance to your throbbing clit. He doesn’t stop when your thighs squeeze around his head, when your delicate fingers tug his hair. He laves at your cunt like it’s his last chance to consume you. You tastes so exquisite, and when he blows over your clit, you hips buck off, threatening to suffocate him. He doesn’t care if he does.

He continues eating you out, fucking you with his tongue and his fingers. He moans into your heat, letting you feel the vibrations from every sound he makes. By the time your pussy walls convulse around his tongue, you are screaming. The sound of you being undone by him is music to his ears.

Giving your clit one last suck, he crawls over you, kissing your lips, ensuring that you can taste yourself on his tongue. Your sharp inhale only ignites the fire in him as your hands hook over his shoulder, pulling him closer and closer, bearing his weight on you. His cock slides against your sensitized pussy, making you both moan into each other’s lips.

Fuck.

He needs you.

He pulls away, not wanting to crush you with his weight for so long, only for your hand to wrap around his neck, pressing once more on his pulse points. Its thud, thud, thud is so loud, so strong.

Can you feel it?

Can you feel how his heart race for you? How it only beats for you? How every space, every atom, every cell running through it is yours?

Can you?

Do you?

You overwhelm his senses the right way. His head swims with nothing else but your feel, your touch, your smell, your sight. Maybe it’s just him being light-headed from your hand. Maybe. No. It’s just that. He—

You give him a squeeze, pulling him out of his head. He sees the worry in your eyes before it turns to relief. You smile, pressing a soft peck on his nose. An intelligible grumble escapes him, before he goes all out. He showers you with kisses. On the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your eyebrows, your cheeks, your temples, your forehead, your chin. He just can’t get enough of you.

When you give his throat another squeeze, he groans, resting his forehead against yours. “Gonna come if you don’t stop,” Quinn gasps, rubbing his length on your slicked folds, shuddering when your thumbs trace over his chin, over his lips. “Harder, my Love.”

He watches your lips mimic his word like you’re tasting it, savoring the two syllables. A small smile dances on your lips, pressing one thumb over his lower lip keep pressing your thumb over his lower lip. Quinn grunts, kissing it, saying his name like a plea, as you choke him harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses both in his head and out loud, never afraid to be vocal. He knows you can feel every rumble of a word that escapes him. He knows how much you like it.

He grinds harder into your pussy. He’s so hyperfocus on the feel of your pussy, of your hands around his throat, of your warm breath on his skin, of your pussy walls as it hugs him so perfectly when he finally slides in, that he doesn’t care how much lightheaded he’s getting.

The only thing important for him now is for you to come around him and for him to come deep inside you.

He wants that so fucking bad. You always let him come deep inside you, always let him lick your cum-filled pussy right after, always let him get his fill even if you get too overstimulated.

Fuck.

He needs that.

“Q,” you cry out, fueling his thrusts.

You said his name. His name.

“Again, please. Please,” he pleads.

Your mewls and moans are music to his soul that wants nothing but to be one with you, his Love. His nickname with your whimpering sounds amazing, alluring as you say it again. Just for him. Oh, he loves hearing his name on your tongue. He kisses you as he angles his thrusts to hit that specific spot that has you screaming into his lips, has your hips bucking up to meet his brutal thrusts, has your nails digging into the skin of his neck.

The pain just amplifies the pleasure Quinn is feeling.

He needs more, so he bites into your lower lip.

The action is responded with a tighter grip around his throat, as your pussy convulses. You’re coming so hard, wet pussy walls clamping around him, your thighs shaking, your back arching off the bed, your lips parting with your silent and breathy scream.

The next thing Quinn knows is him slamming deep as he spills and paints your walls white with his cum.

And he fucking faints.

Just for a second because you immediately slap him awake.

“Ow,” he groans. “What the fuck, my Love?”

You chuckle as if you two didn’t just get the best fucking orgasm—every orgasm is the best with you—of your lives. Your hand gently rubs along his neck, making him hiss from the slight pain from the nail marks you’ve left. He shifts, gasping as your pussy clenches around his softening cock. Shamelessly, he starts getting hard again like his body is cursing him from trying to rest when he’s still seated inside you.

“You’re heavy,” you tease, keeping him in place with your shaking leg. “I love your weight on me.”

Quinn lets out a choking sound, burying his head into your neck, making sure he’s not fully crushing you. You can’t just say things like that.

Now, he’s really, really hard again.

It hurts being so hard after coming. Did you know that?

When your fingers gently tap the shell of his ear, a little signal that you want him to look at you, he does. He parts from your neck after he places a kiss right on your pulse. He meets your beautiful gaze, lips parting at how ethereal you look all fucked by him. Your hair is sticking to your skin that glistens with sweat. Your cheeks are flushed and red. You’re so pretty.

“Let’s stay like this for a moment,” you request to which Quinn nods.

He easily shifts your position on your sides. His cock is still in your pussy. Both of you spend minutes just staring into each other’s eyes, your hands on each other’s chest, feeling each other’s racing heartbeats.

Quinn can hear his own.

He swears he can hear yours as it beats under his palm.

He hears both for the two of you.

That’s enough for him.