Been reading about how Clark would get rough when he’s upset or angry…. I have a counteroffer. Clark gets mean when you guys are good, solid.
Clark Kent x Female Reader
MDNI
It was a lazy Sunday. You made breakfast in bed; he paid for take-out for lunch and you’d gone to the cinema down the block to see the one you both wanted to see. It had all been slow, casual, domestic. You threw popcorn at each other, picked it up, made out and cuddled. When you got back home, you took a shower together. No sex, just the relaxed smiles of two people of who had done this so many times. Clark was just as thorough washing your hair as you’d be, you washed his back with the loofah he liked. He stayed back shaving in the bathroom while you lathered and dressed, when he came out you were laid out in bed, with your phone in hand giggling at something. But you were enticing, delicious, covered by one of his shirts and the smallest piece of fabric he’d seen on you, panties lost between your butt cheeks, the red lace doing a poor job at covering the plump lips that protected his pride and joy. It would be impossible to resist you. He kept his hand holding your waist tightly to keep you in the position, hips to the side, back on the bed. His hand immediately got lost between those thighs, teasing you about the choice of garments.
“You did this on purpose, right? Knew what it did to me. Bad, bad girl. Need to teach you a lesson.”
“C’mon, gonna dress like that? Take it like you want it.” He ordered while his hand pulled the panties between your folds, ran over between your ass and pulled, making the thin strip press against your clit. You mewled, it was hot, it was good, you loved when Clark got meaner. But it wasn’t enough. He knew that. Once you were dripping and whining, he pulled the shirt off you in a blur and fucked you with his fingers, baiting you, telling you to stay still and slapping your clit when you couldn’t, the sting traveling through you in the perfect mixture of pain and delight.
He kept you on edge for what felt like ages, wouldn’t let you cum until he felt you had enough. Then he ripped off the flimsy, soaked, borderline ruined fabric of your underwear, placed you on all fours and thrust into you in one swift, harsh movement that took the air out of your lungs. Clark fucked fast, intense, each time he plunged it rearranged something in your insides. He kept his right hand on your ass cheek, slaps heavy whenever you got quiet- he wanted you loud, letting him know what he was doing to you. He made you beg for release, beg for a break on your abused skin. He was ruthless, mean. He was so sure of how good you two were, how solid and real and in love. He had nothing to prove; he had you to his disposal. His hand never He took you in every position imaginable, one arm over your collarbones holding tight as he fucked into you and you hung off him. He'd bring it up and press against your throat every so often, playing with your breathing like he wasn't a boy scout. Clark pinned you to the wall and bounced you on his hips like it was a simple exercise he'd do at the gym, your knees where imprinted onto your chest from holding them against them, the angle juicy and loud. He held onto your hair and pulled it to guide your red, slobbery mouth away from him when you took him into your mouth, vulgar statements leaving his mouth whenever you whined as he guided your head like a doll.
"That's what you wanted, huh? Some cock in your throat?"
"Perfect hole, gosh. You're just made for me, aren't ya? Made for me to take."
"Gonna paint your face white, hun. You'll smell me for days."
When you two were mad, hurt, pissed- Clark never took it out on you. If it led to you in bed, he'd take you like it was the first fucking time, and he needed to show you love. You had snapped at each other at a work event; the fight was snowballing since the morning when you were a little too catty about his farm boy manners. It kept brewing into tension everyone could feel, Clark waved the white flag at the dinner, but you doubled down. You pushed him away from you like he was nothing. Ignored him like he was some crazed fan begging for your attention. He was hurt, he was embarrassed, he was mad. Mad at your childish behaviour. You were being a brat; you needed to be taught a lesson.
The lesson wasn't Clark edging you until you sang his name into the stars and his hands left bruises that would stay for weeks-no, it was something much different. His teeth clenched, he made love to you with the sweetest touch, missionary, sweet, slow and intimate. The lights were off, but you could still see into those ridiculous, guilt inducing blue eyes that were telling you what he was feeling.
"That's how you treat the man who loves you?"
It worked, you whimpered 'sorry's' because you were, you were going to apologize either way. But Clark deciding to fuck you so sweet was feeling you with just as much guilt as every inch of his dick. You were being mean to this man. Who got mad, looked at you like his blood was boiling, gripped his jacket as you walked home like it was his only outlet to not snap at you in the middle of the street. But when it was time to let you have it, to treat you like you were treating him, he wouldn't dare. No, he talking to you in prayers in sync with his hips. He wasn't desperate, no, he was undoing you with perfect ease. You'd talk about it in the morning, have a serious adult conversation- but this was a perfect resolution. He still told you what he meant.
"You know how it makes me feel to feel that I don't have you? You're my girl."
"See how I'm taking you? I love you so much, honey. Don't be like that."
"Gonna give you all my love, whether you want it or not. You'll feel me for days."
"You're mine, right? Tell me you love me."
He only came when you told him you loved him, with a broken groan that only meant relief and you stayed stuck together like your bodies were apologizing.
all credit goes entirely to the writers, i did not write any of these. if you enjoyed a fic, show the author some love with by a comment, reblog, or both ! please read all author warnings before reading & proceed at your own discretion
in which you're a flustered mess around theo nott and he absolutely adores it
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 🦢🕯️ | angelfic
in which theodore nott will do anything to get you to go out with him, but you’re just as stubborn rejecting him
⟡ 𝐈 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘 🦢🏹🕯️
you haven’t seen theo seen he supposedly left you to join the other side. now that he’s back and has revealed his true intentions to you, you’re finding it hard to be forgiving
⟡ 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 🦢
⟡ 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑 🦢 | @ahqkas
smoking had never interested you before but when the local dealer catches your eye, you might get the experience of a professional
⟡ 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 🦢🏹 | @bunny-1111
The one thing that drives Theo literally crazy is when you call him "my husband"
⟡ 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐒 🦢 | @cherrixpie
maybe it was stupid trying to make theodore nott jealous by going to the yule ball with mattheo. maybe.
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 🦢 | desireav
where theodore is grumpy and quiet and when the slytherin’s take note of how he always gives reader forehead kisses, they’re rather shocked
⟡ 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎 🦢🕯️ | @govnder
after a long, exhausting day at work, all theodore truly longed for was your presence—your warmth, your voice. but when he arrived home, he received far more than that
⟡ 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘 🦢
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 🦢🏛️
⟡ 𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 🦢
⟡ 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈 🦢🕯️ | @illbegottenfaith
as part of a social visit, you spend a fortnight at an English politician's estate with his god-awful son
⟡ 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 🦢
as the two of you stumble into bed after a Valentine's dinner date, theo realises it's not fair how much he loves you
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 🦢
⟡ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅𝐅 🦢
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 🦢
you drive yourself up the wall trying to figure out who your best friend is taking to your year's farewell dinner
⟡ 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋, 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 🦢 | @iris-qt
⟡ 𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 🦢
⟡ 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘 🦢🕯️
⟡ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈'𝐌 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 🦢 | @ldrfanatic
theo finds himself crushing on hogwarts' resident ball of sunshine hufflepuff but tries to force himself to stay away
⟡ 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍 🦢
is it possible that the entire time you've been dating theo, you've somehow not noticed that he's only this sweet with you?
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 🏹🏛️ | @leeny-leens
December rolls around and Theodore threatens to drown into the yawning abyss of his own mind, but not on your watch. Time to bring some light into the dark, even at risk of blinding him just a little.
⟡ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 🦢 | @lexamiele
Hogwarts students aren't exactly known for minding their own business. Thankfully, you and Theo speak a language they don't.
theo’s not above a little suffering if it means you’ll kiss it better. bruises fade, but your lips on his? worth every second of pain
⟡ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 🦢 | @malfoysanctuary
Theo always acts like it’s an inconvenience. The way his sweaters disappear into the abyss of your wardrobe, but when you walk into a crowded room wearing something that still carries his scent, his patience stretches thin, because everyone can see what he already knows. You’re his, and you always will be
⟡ 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍 🦢 | @midnight-menac3
Theodore Nott leaves subtle traces of himself in your path until the quiet tension between you becomes impossible to ignore in the shadows of Hogwarts
⟡ 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 🦢 | @nottendo (sinsandlemonade)
⟡ 𝐋𝐀 𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐂𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀 🦢 | @/nottendo (moscatosin)
⟡ 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 🦢🕯️
⟡ 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 🦢 | @nottsangel
your academic rival Theo smells you in his Amortentia
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 🦢 | @nyxienight
⟡ 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 🦢 | @obsessedwithceleste
Ft. Enzo being bad at potions, the Ravenclaw common room door, and more than one accidental love confession
⟡ 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 🦢🕯️ | @prythiansprincess
a night out with the boys goes awry when draco concocts a nightmare combination of tequila and potions, causing a disastrous turn of events in which theo nott finally spills his deepest, darkest secret
after a minor spat, theodore finds what he thinks is your animagus form sulking in the courtyard and spends an entire hour apologizing to it — only to discover he’s been emotionally unloading on derek avery’s cat. at least theo’s humiliation proves one thing: he really would do anything to earn your forgiveness (even buy the fancy salmon treats).
⟡ 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍, 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐌𝐄 (𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔) 🦢
you’re supposed to be studying, but theo’s glasses keep sliding down his nose and now you’re hopelessly in love and very, very distracted
⟡ 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅, 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐒 🦢
you didn’t plan on being jealous—until daphne got too comfortable with theodore
⟡ 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 🦢🏛️
theodore shows up bruised and bloodied from yet another fight, and you patch him up with a scolding, a kiss, and a heart that won’t stop falling.
⟡ 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 🦢 | @theodorenmyth
Theodore Nott is determined to ask you to the Yule Ball—but subtle hints, awkward near-confessions, and endless sabotage from his chaotic Slytherin friends turn it into a full-blown disaster. You, curled up in his stolen sweater and completely oblivious, might just be the one thing holding him together… or pushing him over the edge
⟡ 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 🦢 | @theosweetie
⟡ 𝐊𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀 🦢 | @wordsarelife
karma is the way you wear his jersey, making sure his team will lose the game
⟡ 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐋 🦢 | @writingsbychlo
theo decides to quit smoking, but doesn’t realize that his decision would affect his girlfriend, too
⟡ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑'𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 🦢 | @xitcantlast
Theo swears he doesn't care about the countdown, the party, or any of the noise. Until he realizes he cares very much about one thing: kissing you when the clock strikes midnight.
summary: you haven’t seen theo seen he supposedly left you to join the other side. now that he’s back and has revealed his true intentions to you, you’re finding it hard to be forgiving.
warnings: swearing, kissing, tiniest bit of angst, very unedited. not much else other than a whole load of waffle… my bad
author’s note: this is a sort of fix-it fic… kinda. yes I am very much stealing the essence (you could say) from marauders fics because I prefer writing those and yes it’s basically this drabble recycled and yes grimmauld place is still the order headquarters well into the war just don’t question my timeline and you’ll be fine ok ty enjoy xoxo
12 Grimmauld place feels unsettling at the best of times, what with the portrait of Walburga Black hurling insults at you every time her curtain slips open and the row of shrunken house-elf heads mounted on the wall. The Order of the Phoenix holding hushed up meetings in the dining room while you and your friends are forced to stay upstairs isn’t anything new or surprising, but the last few days feel different.
Instead of Mrs Weasley telling members of the Order to whisper when you, her kids and Harry and Hermione are in the room, she flaps about ordering them to stop talking altogether. At first you think you’re imagining it when her eyes flick over to you every time, until you bring it up to Ginny and Hermione.
“You’re not imagining it,” Hermione mutters as she shuts the door of the bedroom and casts a quick Muffliato charm before settling cross legged on the bed opposite you and Ginny. “I overheard Mrs Weasley and Tonks in the kitchen this morning, talking about how the Order is arranging transport for some Death Eater spies to come back here.”
You gasp, pretending to be scandalised. “You mean you were evesdropping. That’s not very prefect-y of you.” Ginny snorts at Hermione’s indignant glare and you can’t help cracking a smile at the way her cheeks have slightly reddened. “Sorry, sorry, you know I’m kidding. But what’s that got to do with her looking at me like I’ve gone through a personal tragedy?”
“Your ex-boyfriend did leave you to go join the Death Eaters,” Ginny points out. Hermione gapes at her, but Ginny merely throws her hands up in exasperation. “Well, he did! No point beating around the bush!”
A lump rises in your throat at the mention of Theodore. Truth be told, you’ve tried not to think about what happened since the last time you spoke about him. ‘Spoke’ being a strong word since it was mostly crying and sniffling and blowing your nose into tissue after tissue in Ginny’s room at the Burrow. Mrs Weasley had made your favourite dinner that night and brought you up a hot chocolate to make you feel better. And it really had- so much so that you refused to speak about him since.
You’re more angry than you are sad now, which makes you nod at Ginny’s words. “You’re right. He’s an arsehole, there’s no point in tip-toeing around it for my sake.” Hermione frowns a little, worry clear as day on her face, but you don’t stop talking. “Besides, we’re on opposite sides and this is a war happening. Not some silly, childish break-up. He chose to be a Death Eater and if we have to fight him, so be it.”
Hermione and Ginny stay quiet for a few seconds and watch you breathe heavily. Thankfully, before either of them can speak, Harry and Ron come bursting into the room.
“They’ve only gone and brought Death Eaters into the bloody building!” Ron shakes his head.
Harry snorts at Ron’s dramatics. “Ex-Death Eaters. Apparently. Still a bit dodgy, in fairness.”
“I thought they were spies,” you say, unable to help your curiosity as you stand up. Ginny and Hermione follow you out of the room as you all peak over the bannister to try and get a glimpse of the action downstairs. Annoyingly, there only seem to be a couple of dishevelled looking Order members milling around.
“Maybe Mrs Weasley and Tonks got it mixed up, or maybe they aren’t privy to what’s going on…” Hermione frowns, deep in thought. “I don’t think anyone but Dumbledore knows what’s actually going on.”
Harry makes an irritated sound. “What’s new?”
“Oh, by the way, Mum sent us up to get you lot for dinner,” Ron says absentmindedly as he tries to get a good look over your shoulder at whatever is happening in the hall downstairs. “Mind you, that was before all the Death Eater business so she’ll probably send us right back up.”
The five of you quickly shuffle downstairs to get to the dining room and while your stomach is growling loud enough to forget any thoughts of Order business, Ron and Harry linger in the hall a little in an attempt to get some answers. You don’t doubt Harry will get some, being the Chosen One and all.
You nudge and elbow your way into the dining room where you’re happily surprised to see a messy-haired Tonks yawning over a bowl of soup. She smiles sleepily when she spots the three of you.
“Hi, girls,” she mumbles through a yawn. “Merlin, I’m exhausted. I keep falling asleep in my soup. Good thing it’s mushroom.” She points to her newly platinum blonde hair that matches the contents of her bowl.
“Why’re you so tired?” Hermione asks as she ladles some soup into bowls for you, Ginny and herself. Her voice is quiet as not to attract attention from Mrs Weasley with her questioning. “Is it to do with tonight’s, uh, Order business?”
“Yep.”
Tonks looks as though she’s about to drift off and Ginny seems to jump at the opportunity to gather information.
“So, what are their names?” She gets straight to the point, glaring at you when you choke on your soup a little, not expecting her to be so blunt.
You and Hermione stop eating and wait with bated breath for Tonks to refuse to answer. She merely yawns again, before talking. “You’ll meet them soon enough.”
“Meet them?” you ask, unable to help yourself. “Aren’t they… uh, you know… dangerous?”
“Dumbledore doesn’t seem to think so,” Tonks says, shrugging. You grow a little frustrated at this, since Dumbledore isn’t exactly known for having straightforward plans. While you know his intentions are good, someone he thinks is safe could very well be the opposite. While you ponder this, Tonks’ next words quickly turn your irritation into shock. “The others were understandably quite wary, what with one of them being You-Know-Who’s son and everything, but…”
You feel a ringing in your ear and every word coming from Tonks may as well be directed to her mushroom soup because you aren’t listening anymore. You-Know-Who’s son. You haven’t seen Mattheo since term ended, and even then it was only from a distance. You hadn’t spoken to him since Theo revealed his Dark Mark to you and you’d since avoided his entire friend group like the plague. If Mattheo is in the building, you can only hope and pray that Theodore isn’t with him.
Vaguely aware of someone shaking you by the shoulder, you snap out of your thoughts. “Who else is with Mattheo?” you ask Tonks, your voice sounding rough to your own ears. She blinks through her sleepiness, slightly startled awake by your unwavering eye contact. “Voldemort’s son. Who’s with him? What do they look like?”
You’re so focused on getting an answer from Tonks, and Hermione and Ginny are clearly on the same page as you now since they’re both silent and waiting for a response, that none of you notice Mrs Weasley entering the dining room.
“Tonks, is he blonde or-?”
“Enough!” Mrs Weasley interrupts you hastily, making everyone jump. She sounds panicked, but the look she throws Tonks is stern, like a warning to keep silent. When she turns back to you however, her eyes soften and her voice is gentle, albeit with a hint of annoyance. “I asked Dumbledore not to bring them here while everyone was awake. I didn’t want you all upset again, dear. Look, you can have your dinner upstairs, I’ll bring it up to you!”
You’re grateful for her concern, but it’s a little hard to feel anything other than the pit in your stomach since she’s just confirmed what you were dreading.
Ginny speaks up first, angry on your behalf. “Mum, she deserves to know if that awful git is in the same house as her! I say she ought to go and deck him in the face.”
“Ginny!” Hermione looks at her in exasperation as Mrs Weasley gasps, horrified. “That sort of attitude isn’t going to help anyone.”
“You’re right,” you mumble, getting up from your seat.
Hermione lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”
“I should go and deck him in the face.”
Hermione’s sputtering falls to deaf ears as you abruptly leave your seat to go out into the hall, the scraping of chairs behind you indicating that everyone is following closely.
Realistically, you have no plans to actually hit Theodore. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever successfully landed a punch before in your life. This doesn’t stop you charging into the hallway and elbowing your way through the huddle of Order members to get to the door they seem to be crowded around.
Kingsley Shacklebolt is the last of them to stumble out of your way, clearly too surprised by your sudden presence to continue guarding the door. You raise a shaky hand to the doorknob and hesitate for a second, suddenly nervous. Kingsley takes this moment to snap out of his surprise and redirects his attentions to what you’re about to do next.
“My dear, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to-”
“Kingsley, do you have any idea why I’m standing here?” you say curtly, cutting him off.
He throws a quick glance at Mrs Weasley, almost as if it’s by reflex. Clearly she’s told more people than Dumbledore to keep word of Theodore far from you. “I, uhm, I may have heard a thing or two…”
“Right, so are you going to stop me entering this room, then?” you ask boldly. Your voice catches slightly on the end of your sentence and Kingsley falters a little.
“Well, really I should-“ he begins, eyes darting to your own slightly teary ones. He sighs. “No, I’m not. Just try not to hex the boy.”
He steps out of your way and you finally barge into room, the door swinging open as you stay lingering near the entrance. The room is just as dingy as the rest of the house, lit up by some candles dotted around the room
You first see Professor McGonagall getting up abruptly from her chair where she was previously sat next to a standing Dumbledore. He merely peers at you over his half moon spectacles and raises his eyebrows.
You suddenly feel a little silly, and rude for barging in like that. “Sorry, Professor Dumbledore, I-“
You stop talking when see movement on the other side of the room from the corner of your eye. Just as Tonks had said, Mattheo Riddle, son of Lord Voldemort is standing right there, flanked by Lorenzo Berkshire… and Theodore. Your mouth goes dry.
As soon as you catch his eye, he smiles broadly at you. You don’t return the gesture, taking his appearance in instead. He’s thinner than the last time you saw him. No visible injuries, but he’s definitely seen better days. His dirty blonde hair is overgrown and unruly as it falls into his eyes which, despite brightening up at your presence, are tired.
You keep your expression as impassive as you can, slightly angry with yourself at the twinge of concern you feel. It was all well and good interrupting whatever meeting was happening in here before you came in, but now that you’re here… you have no idea what to do or say.
Theo’s smile falters when you continue to stand there with clenched fists and a stony face and you’re tempted to just run out of the room when Dumbledore clears his throat.
“Well,” your Headmaster says pleasantly, as though you were all engaged in polite conversation rather than a strained silence. “This reunion was certainly a little earlier than anticipated, but I suppose that can’t be helped. I think we ought to give Mr Nott and Miss Y/L/N a moment alone.”
“Uh, can’t we stay in here too?” Lorenzo asks with a nervous chuckle, eyes darting to the watchful crowd standing right outside the door. You can’t blame him for wary, being an ex-Death Eater in a house full of Order members.
Mattheo nods, throwing an arm around Theodore’s shoulder, ignoring the glare he receives. “Yeah. These two won’t mind a bit of company. Right?” he asks you cheerfully. You blink at him.
“Relax, Berkshire,” Professor McGonagall says, rolling her eyes at the way Lorenzo has inched further into the room. She snaps her fingers to get them moving out the door. “Nobody is going to hex you, you silly boy.”
“Can’t say the same for Theo,” Mattheo mutters as he walks past you and follows everyone out, shutting the door.
You don’t really have any choice but to look at Theo now. He tries a smile again, despite the fact you’re not returning it and he takes a step towards you.
You immediately step back.
Theo flinches ever so slightly, his eyes unable to hide that he’s hurt.
Good, you think viciously.
Sighing, he looks at you imploringly like he wants to say something, but can’t find the words. “You’re angry with me,” he settles on muttering, his voice quiet in the dark room.
You let out a derisive laugh. “Angry? You worked that out, huh? Death-Eater’s didn’t completely addle your brain then, did they?”
“Darling, please let me explain,” Theo pleads, taking another few steps towards you.
Rather than stepping back, you whip out your wand and point it right at him. He doesn’t back away, merely raising his hands in surrender and arching an eyebrow as if to ask you if you’re serious. This angers you further.
“Do not call me darling,” you hiss, raising your wand further. Theo doesn’t react, as though he knows you’d never actually use magic to hurt him. Your hand trembles with the weight of the realisation that no, you wouldn’t hurt him. That you’ve actually been more worried that becoming a Death Eater would get him hurt than him betraying you. He left you with nothing but a cold goodbye and you still can’t help caring.
Feeling stupid, and a little bit pathetic, you drop your hand to your side and allow him to continue standing before you as he lowers his hands. You grit your teeth and cross your arms. “Explain.”
Theo lets out a relieved breath. “I never wanted to leave you,” he says, and you immediately roll your eyes. “I- no, look at me. I didn’t.”
“That doesn’t explain the fact that you did,” you deadpan, turning away to leave. Theo quickly reaches out to grasp both of your arms and gently turns you towards him.
You stiffen at the first physical contact you’ve had with him in months, your body betraying you and erupting goosebumps all over your arms in spite of your anger.
“I lied about it to protect you,” he whispers, peering at you through the strands of hair that are stubbornly falling into his eyes from weeks of neglect. Theo looks slightly pained and you recognise his expression to mean that he’s desperately trying to phrase his next words correctly. His eyes flick over to your right arm. No. To his left wrist, where you know his Dark Mark to be. “You can ask Dumbledore if you don’t believe me… Me and the others only ever took the Mark so we’d be able to spy on The D- on him.”
The relief hits you like a freight train and lightens your heavy chest all in one go. You hadn’t just felt betrayed by your boyfriend leaving you all those months ago. You had felt dread at the possibility of him joining a Pureblood supremacist’s cult. Dread at the idea that the views he’d shared with you were all lies and that he was a completely difference person to the one you loved.
Despite the relief, the sting of the breakup still lingers with you.
“That meant you had to be a prick when you left me?” you ask, voice shaking against your will. His eyes soften.
“Yes,” he says weakly. “How else could I have left you without worrying that… that he could use you against me if he found me out? I never wanted to take the Mark and it killed me when I saw the look on your face.”
Your scowl, trying your best to distract Theodore from the fact that your vision has gone blurry from the tears welling up in your eyes. By the look on his face, you doubt you’re doing a very good job. “Do you really think I would have cared about a fucking tattoo, if you had just told me the truth?”
“No, I know,” Theo sighs, absentmindedly drawing closer to you. “I’ll explain anything you want, but the work we did was too close to The Dark Lord to risk telling anyone about at the time. Dumbledore made me, Mattheo and Enzo swear not to say anything. It was safer that way.”
“Did you make an Unbreakable Vow?” you whisper, stiller than ever.
Theo furrows his brows. “No, but-”
You pull away from him abruptly and back away to the door, ignoring the way his hands reach out in an attempt to hold your arms again. “Then I hope the information you got for Dumbledore was worth it.”
You don’t look back at him, nor do you check to see if anyone is in the hallway as you run upstairs and into your room, slamming the door shut as you lean against it, breathing heavily. You stay there for a while, reeling from your anger and irritation at the fact you still have to stay in this bloody house while Theodore’s in it.
The next few days are confusing to say the least. Theo doesn’t seem to have any plans to avoid you, but he respects your space.
Sort of.
He isn’t badgering you every second of the day, but somehow whichever room you’re in, he finds himself in as well. Whenever you try and reach for something, even if it’s not on a particularly high shelf, or particularly far away, Theo beats you to it, ever the gentleman.
It’s starting to unnerve you a little.
One particular afternoon, you walk into the kitchen hoping to make a cup of tea in peace. At the table sits Theo, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. When he spots you, he sits up straighter and you dawdle stupidly at the entrance.
Before you can snap out of it and remember what you came in here for, Theo gets up and walks over to the mugs. “Tea?” he asks politely, and, you think, a little hopefully.
“Will you make it and let me drink it alone?” you ask bluntly.
“I’ll make it and sit with you in silence,” he offers, undeterred despite your coldness.
Narrowing your eyes, you glance at the clock and sigh. It’s too early in the morning to put off having your tea, so you allow it. “Fine. Milk and-”
“Two sugars,” he cuts you off with an annoyingly smug smile. “I remember.”
You poke your cheek with your tongue, but stay silent as he turns his attentions to the kettle. Theo’s face quickly falls when he realises he has no idea how to use it. Your impassive expression almost cracks and you have to bite back a laugh as he examines the thing. Walking over to the counter, you drag the kettle so that it’s closer to you. And so you don’t have to be as close to Theo, but that’s besides the point.
“It’s already filled with water, you just need to flip the switch so it starts boiling,” you explain, pointing to the little part. Theo places his cigarette in between his lips as he furrows his brows, clearly skeptical of the muggle contraption. You suppose you can’t blame him since you, Hermione and Harry have had to explain the kettle to countless members of the Order since it was introduced to the house a few months ago.
You still don’t know where the plug socket is and considering the fact that Grimmauld Place has never inhabited muggles, you aren’t going to bother asking.
When Theo flicks the switch and sees the light turn red, a satisfied smile graces his lips where the cigarette still hangs. You look away from his mouth very quickly and go to sit down. Unable to leave without making things awkward, you decide the only thing to do is watch Theo make two cups of tea. He doesn’t need instruction since he knows exactly how you like it, but something catches in your throat when he uses a green mug. Your favourite colour.
The only sound in the kitchen is the clink of the spoon swirling in the cups and Theo soon brings both cups over with an incredibly concentrated frown to make sure there’s no spillages as he sets one down on the table. The other he hands to you himself and you have to clench your jaw when you grab it, your own hands brushing against his, which he doesn’t seem to be in a rush to move away.
“Thanks,” you mutter, trying to use the burning heat of the mug against your skin to distract from the fact that you have tingles.
“S’alright,” he replies, a barely restrained grin on his face. You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of the mug as you sip your tea.
Damn, you think to yourself. Why is it always so good when he makes it?
The two of you settle into a surprisingly comfortable silence as you drink your tea and he smokes. The puffs are very carefully directed away from you, but you can’t help wrinkling your nose out of habit. Back when you were still together, you were always firm about him cutting down and now you have to restrain yourself from reaching over and plucking the cigarette out of his lips to throw it away like you used to do with ease. He never objected.
Theo notices your looks all the same, and it’s almost like he’s reading your thoughts. He raises a brow, almost daring you to remove the cigarette yourself. “You want me to stop?”
“I don’t care,” you say in an attempt to sound nonchalant. Shrugging, you try your hardest not to react to his obvious bait, but it’s like a bloody reflex. “It’s your lungs on the line, not mine. If you want to lose five years off your life, then by all means, go ahead. I really couldn’t care-”
“As you wish,” he interrupts you, grinning like an idiot again. The next thing you know, he’s putting out the cigarette, and sipping his tea instead. He doesn’t even like tea.
“I didn’t say you had to stop,” you grumble, slightly pleased nonetheless.
He merely hums, taking a gulp of his tea. You accidentally let out a snort of laughter when he grimaces at the taste. Theo’s lips quirk up in amusement when you laugh, unrestrained and it’s only when you catch him staring at you that you quickly stop.
The smug expression on his face quickly returns as though he knows you’re finding it hard to be fully angry at him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you snap, drawing your knees up on your chair towards your chin. “You look stupid. And your hair is too long.”
Theo huffs out a surprised laugh. “My hair is too long?” he asks incredulously, reaching up to tug a piece down so it reaches the bottom of his nose. “Hm, you’re right. You cut it pretty good that one time. Would you do it again for me?”
“Mrs Weasley is better at it,” you say, chin jutting out stubbornly. “I’m sure she’d be delighted if you just ask.”
“The way she looks at me, I’d be lucky to get away with my head still attached to my body,” he drawls, wholly unimpressed by your suggestion. “Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I’m not done being angry with you yet,” you reply simply, draining the contents of your mug. “Trust me when I say you don’t want me anywhere near your head with a pair of scissors either.”
Theo nods slowly, a smile gracing his lips— strange, since you just threatened physical violence. “So, what I’m hearing is that you’re not going to be angry with me forever.”
“I- Well, I didn’t mean-” you stutter pointlessly, cutting yourself off with a sigh. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early for this, leave me alone.”
“That was the first cigarette I’ve had since before I left,” Theo says quietly, searching your face for a reaction, almost nervously.
You aren’t quite sure how to respond to this random piece of information and you find yourself floundering. “Uhm. Okay, good. That’s… Yeah, that’s great for you and your lungs, well done. Saves money too. They were actually, uh, saying on the news the other day that the average amount people spend on-”
“Darling, as much as I appreciate it, that’s not what I’m getting at,” he interrupts, the ghost of a smirk at his lips. You scowl at him for letting you go on for so long and motion for him to get to the bloody point. “Every time I brought a cigarette to my lips, I remembered you weren’t going to be there to nag me about it. It just feels pointless now.”
You stare at him. “Nice to know that my nagging was what you remembered me by.”
“That’s not-” Theo cuts himself off with a laugh that sounds halfway to a groan. “Merlin, you’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
You open your mouth to respond, but before you can get a word out, Harry walks in which you find odd considering it’s so early in the morning and him and Ron are usually only out of bed when Mrs Weasley yells them down for breakfast.
“Morning,” he says through a yawn. The greeting is directed at you, but he sends an expectant look at Theo right after. “Time to leave, Nott.
“Leave for where?” you ask before you can help yourself. You realise with a start that Harry and Theo are dressed and ready while you’re still in your pyjamas. “Where do you have to go?”
“Horcrux hunting,” Harry says flippantly, as though he’s just announced he’s going fishing. Hermione had filled you in on the information Theo and the others had ascertained from their time with Voldemort, but you didn’t even consider them or Harry would actually be going with the Order to find them. “Nott and the others know more than we do, so they’re coming with.”
You level a look at Theo, who seems to be pointedly avoiding eye contact with you. “Thanks for sharing that tiny tidbit of information, by the way,” you mutter sourly.
He winces, getting up slowly from his chair. “It, uh, didn’t seem that important. It’s only a quick little task anyway. We’ll be back before you know it.”
“I’m not stupid,” you scoff, standing up so you can attempt to look a little more dignified as you confront Theo. Harry, on the other hand, looks as though he regrets his decision to enter the kitchen in the first place. Despite this, you hadn’t missed the way he furrowed his brows when Theo spoke. “Even if Harry wasn’t looking at you like you were speaking gibberish, I would know that you’re lying. It’s a Horcrux you’re leaving to get. Not the weekly food shop.”
Harry snickers at this, though quickly turns it into a cough when Theo sends him a withering glare. Sighing, you decide to ignore him for the moment and turn to Harry instead
“Be safe,” you say, gentler than before. “And don’t be a hero, just try and get out of there safely.”
“Pfft,” Harry waves you off, a sarcastic tone entering his voice. “When have you known me to do that?”
You roll your eyes, cracking a smile as he walks away, supposedly to find the rest of the group.
“Don’t I get a ‘be safe’ as well?” Theo tries for a casual, joking voice. A hint of irritation seeps through it though. You shift on your feet a little awkwardly, slightly flustered at his obvious jealousy.
“Uhm, okay. Bye,” you say stiffly, fiddling with the loose string of your cardigan sleeve so you have something to do with your hands other than ball them up at your sides. Theo seems to be satisfied with the curt response, or more likely your lack of insults, and he nods, turning away to leave. As you watch him walk away, a familiar sense of anxiety bubbles up in your stomach and you blurt out the only thing you can think of. “Don’t die!”
He slowly turns around, very clearly holding back a grin. You think you might thump the boy. “Will you forgive me if I come back alive?”
“Well,” you huff, crossing your arms. As petty as it may be, you’ve always found it hard to loosen a grudge. You settle for a shrug instead. “Come back alive first and then I’ll see.”
Theo takes two steps forward and closes the short distance that was previously allowing you to keep a cool- well, cool-ish, head. He keeps both arms behind his back, however, as he dips his head down slightly.
“My sweet, stubborn girl,” Theo says in a low voice. His proximity flounders you for a moment and you don’t even protest that no, you’re not his anything. The way your breathing turns shallow would be contradicting that greatly though. “I’ll try my best. And if I don’t come back alive, I promise you can yell at my ghost.”
You scowl, and this time you actually do thump him on the arm. “You’re not funny, you idiot. Now, go. I can already hear Mattheo irritating the patience out of Harry.”
Theo gives you a little two-fingered salute and a wink before he walks away again, leaving you alone with a funny feeling in settling in your stomach.
You aren’t the only one who sits anxiously in the living room waiting for the group to return with the infamous Horcrux. Ron has eaten his way through three bowls of cereal and rapidly makes a start on his fourth while Hermione tries to distract herself with reading a book that she hasn’t noticed is upside down.
After another hour goes by, Ginny, who was previously pacing up and down the stairs, sighs and turns Hermione’s book the right way up which startles her, causing her to give up altogether.
You sit cross-legged and completely still, other than switching your legs every time one of them goes numb. Eventually, you get so sick of watching Mrs Weasley mop over the same spot on the floor for the fifth time that you jump up from your seat, causing her to start and knock over the bucket of dirty mop water all over the floor.
“Oh, dear,” she mutters, waving her wand and siphoning all the water up in a second.
“Sorry, Mrs Weasley,” you say, wincing. “I’m just a little stressed since it’s been ages already-”
You get cut off by Hermione gasping at the sound of the front door opening along with voices. She grips your arm tightly. “They’re back!”
Barely registering the pain of her nails digging into the skin of your arm, you waste no time in running into the hall with the others to greet everyone at the door. You can’t help the relieved smile on your face when you do a quick head count and find everyone present.
As you get closer, you see how exhausted they look. Not to mention the fact they’re dripping water all over the rug. Harry stands at the front of the group looking like he might collapse if he stands any longer and Hermione and Ron pick up on this as they rush over to help him inside.
As they stumble him across the hall, you stop craning your neck as Theo comes into view. The relief you previously felt leaves you faster than your body knows how to deal with and you have to force yourself to breathe when you take in the state of him.
At first glance he doesn’t look particularly worse than the rest. They all have a vaguely haunted look in their eyes along with a sickly pallor like they haven’t seen the sun in days.
But the way Mattheo and Lorenzo are holding him up brings attention to the fact that all of his weight is being put on one leg. The other, to your horror, has a deep, bloody gash trailing down his thigh and onto his calf. The sight of blood steadily dripping onto the floor below has you frozen, almost mesmerised in a terrible way, and it’s not until Dumbledore speaks that you snap out of it and to attention.
“Miss Y/L/N, if you could please fetch Madam Pomfrey for me,” Dumbledore asks, his voice a lot calmer than you feel. You nod, turning away quickly before Theo can see the panic which is probably clear as day on your face.
It takes a scary second to find Madam Pomfrey, but as soon as you do, she gets down to business preparing her supplies in the living room which is as far as Theo seems to be able to make it.
He lays on the sofa, breathing shallowly as Madam Pomfrey crouches down beside him to begin assessing the wound. Peering at it closely, she looks up at Dumbledore sharply. “Inferi?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replies solemnly and you let out a choked sort of whimper.
“Merlin,” Ron whispers, looking like he might be sick. Whether that’s because Madam Pomfrey is cleaning Theo’s leg, or because of the mention of Inferi, you aren’t sure. “What the hell were you guys doing?”
“All will be explained, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore reassures him, looking over his spectacles. “However, I must insist that for now we allow dear Madam Pomfrey to tend to Mr Nott’s injuries.”
“Will you be able to heal him?” Mattheo asks, swallowing hard. The concern in his voice for his best friend has your heart clenching and you look to Madam Pomfrey just as earnestly for an answer.
“Yes, I dare say I can,” Madam Pomfrey says grimly, but she pulls out a couple little bottle of potions from her bag with a frown. “That doesn’t mean it won’t be extremely painful, unfortunately.”
“Can’t imagine what pain feels like,” Theo mumbles, shifting his position on the sofa slightly and wincing. His face goes whiter than before and he shuts his eyes tightly from the pain, but he still manages to talk, however hard it may be. “Not like I’ve just had Inferi mistaking my leg for their lunch.”
“No talking and no moving,” Madam Pomfrey instructs Theo, sending him a stern glare.
“Sorry-”
“Shhh!” you hiss, giving him a glare of your own. Theo’s eyes flutter open slightly and his lips quirk up when he sees you leaning over him as close as you can get without Madam Pomfrey shooing you away.
His smile quickly drops when Madam Pomfrey pours some purple liquid into the open wound, causing it to hiss and smoke. The groan that leaves Theo has you holding your breath and you fight the urge to shut your eyes and turn away.
“Merlin, I can’t watch,” Lorenzo gags, his skin turning even sicklier than before. Turning away, he holds onto Mattheo’s shoulder to steady himself, the latter looking more interested than anything as he peers at Theo’s sizzling cut. Lorenzo shakes his head and holds a hand over his mouth every time he can hear Madam Pomfrey pouring more of the potion. “Oh, God, that’s disgusting.”
“Mr Berkshire, if you are unable to watch, then don’t,” Madam Pomfrey snaps, screwing the bottle shut and grabbing another one. She waves her hand in an impatient shooing motion. “In fact, everyone out. Now! This isn’t a Quidditch match, for heaven’s sake!”
Dumbledore starts filing everyone out and you consider staying for a minute but Madam Pomfrey’s raised eyebrows have you hurtling out of the room with everyone else. Theo starts to say something, but a drop of something else makes him grit his teeth and the green smoke produced by the potion follows you out the door.
The next hour or so is filled with Harry, Mattheo and Lorenzo being fussed over by Mrs Weasley, who insists on them going up to bed once they’ve cleaned up and changed into dry clothing. Unfortunately for the rest of you, this means you won’t be getting an update any time soon. Dumbledore is, as always these days, nowhere to be seen.
“I wonder if they found the Horcrux,” you say under your breath to Hermione as she anxiously taps her foot against the kitchen floor.
“They did,” she says grimly, glancing impatiently at the clock. She has her thinking face on, brows furrowed and gaze distant. “It was in a cave in the middle of nowhere. Harry quickly told me before Mrs Weasley sent them off. I wonder when they’ll wake up though… They didn’t look too happy, and I have a feeling it wasn’t all to do with Nott.”
You nod slowly, a weight lifting off your chest despite the last part. If, after all this, they hadn’t retrieved the Horcrux, you think you’d probably have gone to the bloody cave yourself.
“Theodore’s resting now, anyway,” Hermione adds, giving you a quick glance as though she’s waiting for a reaction. You keep your face as impassive as you can, attempting a casual nod. “Madam Pomfrey says he’s healing nicely and his leg will be fine. It’ll just be a bit sore for a few days. I’m sure he’s awake if you want to go see him.”
“I might,” you mumble, shrugging. You try to sound flippant, but the urge to clamber out of your seat probably shows because Hermione rolls her eyes at you.
“Oh, why don’t you just put him out of his misery?” she asks, her words coming out at the speed of light, like she’s been wanting to say it for a while. You blink at her in shock. Sighing, she leans over the table and her tone becomes gentle. “I know he lied to you, and you should be angry with him for that! But… well, it’s been a really awkward few days with him asking us where you are every second of the day. And, technically, he was never really a Death Eater, he was helping our side!”
Hermione takes a deep breath and exhales, slumping back in her seat as she waits for your reaction. You try not to laugh. “How long have you been holding that one in?”
“Since the second he turned up here,” she says, sagely. “Now, don’t change the subject! Go and see him. Go on, off you go!”
You stand up, swiftly dodging Hermione’s flapping hands to try and rush you out the door. “Okay, I’m going. It’s probably about time anyway,” you grumble, a fond smile creeping up on you nonetheless.
Looking satisfied, Hermione stops trying to usher you out and you make your way over to the living room again. The door is open and you sigh with relief when you notice the room is empty, bar Theo who’s in the same position as he was the last time you saw him. His eyes are shut and you wonder if he’s sleeping until you step on a creaky floorboard and he cracks one eye open.
“Hey,” you say quietly, tip-toeing into the room to perch on the coffee table adjacent to the sofa. “Did I wake you?”
“Nah,” Theo replies, moving to sit up as much as he can. You suspect he’d have the same answer even if he was asleep. He looks a lot more awake than he did before and you feel your chest squeeze tightly when you realise how glad you are. Theo seems to notice this and he reaches over to hold one of your hands, detaching it from the way you grasp them both together. “I promised you I’d come back alive, didn’t I?”
You snort, shaking your head at his ability to be so chipper. “Alive and dripping blood all over the carpet. You know if Kreacher finds out it was you, he’ll murder you in your sleep, right?”
“It doesn’t count if I die now,” Theo protests, frowning as if you’re talking about a serious possibility and not joking. “Deal was you’d forgive me if I came back alive after finding the Horcrux, remember?”
“Hm,” you hum, pretending to think deeply about it as he rubs circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. It causes you to momentarily lose your focus. “What I remember saying is that I would think about it.”
Theo shakes his head, a look of mock concern overtaking his features. “I think the stress of my injury has gotten to your memory… What I remember is you vowing to forgive me the moment I stepped foot in this place.”
“I think Madam Pomfrey’s painkillers are getting to you,” you say drily, moving to kneel on the floor next to him.
“She didn’t use any,” Theo grumbles, looking mournfully at the bandages on his leg. “She’s really sadistic, I’m telling you.”
You laugh, ducking your head so you aren’t flustered by the way Theo’s eyes focus on your smile with a grin of his own.
“You know what she told me would help with the pain?” Theo asks quietly, his enviously long eyelashes fanning over his cheekbones as he looks down at you, almost nervously.
“Let me guess,” you say, sitting up so the distance between your faces is much shorter now. “A kiss to make it all better?”
“Healer’s orders,” he says, shrugging. His breathing quickens when you don’t move away and he swallows hard, eyes dropping lower to your mouth when you bite your lip to stop from cracking a smile. “I’m not saying you have to, but if you’re okay with going directly against her orders, then-”
You cut him off by pressing a lingering kiss to his lips and he inhales sharply, unmoving for a split second before parting his lips and deepening the kiss. Theo’s hands move to your waist where he uses his remaining strength to hoist you up onto the sofa next him, one of your legs thrown over his waist as you half-straddle him.
You gasp into his mouth when he nips at your bottom lip and the sound he makes in the back of his throat has your cheeks warming up and you kiss him harder. The fact it’s been so long since you’ve even been near him has you both kissing for what feels like hours and you only pull away when you need to breathe and you’re worried you’re leaning on Theo’s leg.
Pulling away, you scan Theo’s face and pause for a second to take in his beautiful features. His eyes are blown wide like he can’t believe he’s here with you, kissing you. A warm feeling starting in your stomach spreads all the way down to the tips of your fingers as he looks at you.
“Any other very important requests from the Healer?” you ask breathlessly, feeling a shiver run down your spine where Theo lightly skims his fingers. A dangerous smile overtakes his face and his lips, pink and swollen from kissing you, curve up, causing you to narrow your eyes at him.
“I think she mentioned something about a sponge bath?”
You whack his arm and he yelps, grabbing your wrist to stop you assaulting him further. “Hey, I’m an injured patient!”
“Your leg is injured, not your arm.”
“It is now,” he says, pouting as he rubs dramatically at his bicep where you lightly thumped him. He grumbles when you roll your eyes and press another kiss to his lips to get him to stop pouting. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“Hm,” you hum, settling your face in his chest and sighing at the warmth of his arms, feeling him smile against your forehead where he kisses you.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: You meet Clark Kent and Superman within the same week. Fall for them at the same time. Then put two and two together, and realize that maybe for once, you can have a good thing.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, friends to lovers, insecurity, light angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, love confessions, shameless smut (dry humping, slight body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This takes place in a alternate world where Clark and Lois just never happened, because I will not stand for girlboss slander. Enjoy!✦
It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow.
It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides.
But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall.
Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.
And he probably will.
But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes.
It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance.
And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it.
Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of.
You’d be fine.
So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet.
But you also haven’t had a night like this one.
And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else.
“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.”
You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”
The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”
That’s easy then. “Alright.”
“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”
“Well, what happens if I don’t?”
“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”
You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun.
“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”
“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”
“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”
“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”
The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”
“Not right now, no.”
“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“
You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once.
Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid.
You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.
The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.
The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag.
“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”
You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge.
“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different.
Less god-like.
When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do.
“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”
You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”
“You didn’t know I would be fine-“
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”
“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.
Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“
“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-
“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”
You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”
Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”
“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you.
“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“
“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”
Superman stares at you. “And?”
“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”
You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style.
“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs.
“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”
“Why-“
“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”
“And you… don’t want them to?”
“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”
He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout.
It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body.
And he’s handsome.
You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you.
You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy.
“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”
“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”
Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”
“A- What?”
“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”
You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”
“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”
“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”
He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded.
So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.
But you can still feel it.
Superman’s gaze.
When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.
———
“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”
You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”
“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.
“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”
She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“
“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“
“Just don’t say it. Please.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”
Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.”
“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens.
Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second.
It leaves you oddly cold.
“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”
“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”
“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it.
You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.
The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something.
You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight.
“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“
“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red.
“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”
“Busy?”
“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”
You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool.
This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence.
You never break the silence. That’s losing.
Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite.
And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you.
“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”
It doesn’t.
But now you know what Kent is like.
Polite, gentle, kind.
You can work with that.
“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before.
It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring.
With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch.
“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”
You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is.
Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees.
He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game.
“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”
You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”
“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”
“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”
Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”
Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”
“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”
“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”
“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”
“Graphic-“
“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”
There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”
He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“
Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself.
He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation.
But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room.
He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again.
At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.
You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”
“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”
That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”
Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”
You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water.
He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging.
“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“
“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”
You stare at him, and he turns a little red.
“It’s my first name.”
“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“
“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”
He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”
You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”
“Uh- Yeah?”
“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”
Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“
“I know.”
He frowns. “How?”
“You told me earlier.”
“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”
You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”
“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”
You raise your brows. “I don’t?”
“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”
It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.
“Okay, Kent-“
“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm.
“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”
“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”
“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”
Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question.
Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you.
“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand.
It’s big and warm.
You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.
And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table.
Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body.
It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again.
You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.
———
There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.
Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels.
Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown.
“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”
They are.
You still scowl at him.
“Are you stalking me?”
He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”
He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him.
“It’s scouts honor.”
“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”
“Their scout badge?”
He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.
“Sure. Why not.”
“Well, those boys work very hard-“
“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air.
“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”
“I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”
“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”
“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning.
“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”
You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back.
It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift.
Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy.
Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice.
“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”
“Could you get me a driver?”
“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”
“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”
“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff.
“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”
“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”
“How?”
Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“
“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”
“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”
Of course you did.
He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you.
“What does that mean-“
“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”
You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week.
“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.
If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman.
“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street.
You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak.
“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side.
You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind.
Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.
“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.
“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“
“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”
He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”
“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs.
“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“
“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”
Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“
“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”
“I can’t control it-“
“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”
“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”
You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”
He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”
“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”
“Do I poop?”
“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”
“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”
You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”
“Yes. I poop.”
“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”
Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”
There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud.
You groan.
“That’s fucking horrible.”
“You smiled-“
“I did not-“
“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”
“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”
Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”
“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”
“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”
That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”
He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”
There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name.
You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back.
Your stupid heart skips.
And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside.
He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night
You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment.
It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water.
So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.
———
Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.
You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee.
They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet.
You just want your fucking muffin.
Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something.
It almost works.
The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”
“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”
“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place.
You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”
Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it.
The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it.
And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes.
The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt.
You stare at Clark Kent.
He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open.
“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine.
Which is really fucking annoying.
“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans.
“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”
Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.
“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”
“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look.
“You interview Superman, dude.”
“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”
You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile.
“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”
Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“
“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“
“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.
“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“
“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”
Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league.
Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“
“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head.
“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”
Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”
“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”
You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”
Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”
There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin.
You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away.
You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside.
And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well.
———
“Superman?”
You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.
“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing.
You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name.
But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.
“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”
Silence.
You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman.
And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.
Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.
You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you.
“Please don’t do that.”
You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot-
But there’s a whoosh.
And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge.
Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace.
A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star.
You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-
“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush.
“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second.
His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright.
Only to help you get upright. Nothing else.
He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has.
“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation.
Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”
Shit. “I wasn’t-“
“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”
“Well- I wasn’t.”
“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”
You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”
He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”
“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.”
Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”
“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”
“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug.
“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”
“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”
It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things.
You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.
You can’t kiss Superman.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record.
He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again.
Calm the fuck down.
You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life.
Alone.
Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm.
———
You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.
A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place.
Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground.
Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue.
“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”
You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice.
For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing.
It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here.
With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him.
Which isn’t fair.
“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins.
“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”
“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”
Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”
“Not with that attitude you can’t.”
“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”
You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop.
And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body.
You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.
“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”
Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”
“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods.
“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”
Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”
Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”
“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”
This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“Do you have any pets?”
“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”
You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”
“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.”
“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”
Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”
“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“
“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”
“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”
“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”
You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing.
“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods.
“You’re tough.”
That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”
“Kr- Oco.”
You frown. “Kroco?”
“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”
“Godzilla.”
Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”
“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”
“I bet you did.”
You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.
And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd.
Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights.
Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.
———
You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.
Already easy to herd.
Very easily baited by more cocaine.
Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.
It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile.
“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”
You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”
“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”
That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to.
You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over.
Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something.
He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.
“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully.
“Are you-“
“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”
He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“
“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.
“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”
You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”
Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”
“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”
He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”
Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”
“They do?”
“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”
And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face.
You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic.
But it might make you a bad person.
Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand.
The second dose of cocaine.
Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle.
It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing.
But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything.
“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”
Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”
“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“
“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”
“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”
Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”
“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“
“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”
“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”
Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”
“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”
You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”
Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t.
But you hadn’t scared him off.
He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture.
“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”
He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”
You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head.
“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”
“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”
Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”
“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”
“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”
You’d blinked at him. “What?”
“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”
“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned.
“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”
Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”
“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”
You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.
“Am I close?”
“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”
“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”
Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”
“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”
Of course.
You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.
And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no.
Not because you hadn’t.
But you’d wanted to see Superman.
Because you aren’t a good person.
That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”
“If people need saving-“
“No, I was just talking to someone important.”
You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”
He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.
“I might have an answer.”
“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“
You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”
“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”
“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.”
“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar.
And you’re a horrible person.
“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”
“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”
“Knowing the weather, like-“
“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”
You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night.
The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.
You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”
“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”
He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out.
So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”
He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“
“Clark-“
“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”
You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or-
Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.
That had terrified you.
“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.
“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him.
You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.
Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home.
You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them.
And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.
———
The world is spinning.
And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it.
Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity.
“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”
Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“
You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck.
“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”
Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”
“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”
“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”
You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two.
Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.
Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor.
It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away.
You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself.
You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance.
Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens.
You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.
This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt.
Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs.
It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him.
“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns.
“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel.
“I like it when you talk about your parents.”
Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous.
But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say.
“Why?”
“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”
Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”
“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”
“…To be real?”
“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”
“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“
“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”
Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”
“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.
“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”
You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks.
The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep.
But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.
“You- Um- You know Superman?”
“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”
“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”
“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.”
———
It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion.
You love Clark.
And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you.
Never you.
Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands.
You can’t.
Because you might be a really bad person.
Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know.
You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.
Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all.
That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what.
At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together.
But first, you need to know.
“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”
You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”
“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?”
“No.”
“You know, that time I actually believe you.”
You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’
But there it is.
The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better.
Or maybe just one thing better.
Or the same.
Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat.
“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”
“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”
“Always.”
You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon.
Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin.
You push it out, before you can think better.
“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”
He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”
“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”
“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“
“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“
Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry.
Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll.
He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back.
And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes.
“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”
You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”
“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”
You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”
“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”
“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his.
“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”
You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it.
So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.
He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home.
And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer.
You know.
———
You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out.
When you’re going to be able to escape.
It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America.
You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea.
He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case.
So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all.
If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times.
No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to.
It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone.
That’s probably how this is going to end anyway.
Might as well get in some fucking practice.
Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time.
But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.
It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him.
“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.”
“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”
Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“
“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“
“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”
You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”
Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile.
“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs.
“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”
“You and Clark?”
“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”
“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods.
“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”
Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“
“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown.
“His what?”
“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”
“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”
“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”
“You’d know the weather.”
“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”
“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”
“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”
You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.
“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”
He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-
“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”
“I- No, of course not-“
“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”
Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“
“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid.
But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin.
He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity.
“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”
Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”
You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly.
Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”
“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing.
It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm.
The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.
“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it.
“So?”
“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”
“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”
You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”
He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”
The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”
“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”
He’s saying it like it’s a joke.
You’re not sure it is.
“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.
“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”
“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”
“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs.
“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”
You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”
“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“
“You really like me?”
Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.
“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”
You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever.
But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off.
“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and he winces.
“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“
“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”
He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you.
Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted.
They have the same fucking face.
You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face.
Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs.
Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands.
“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“
You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“
“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night.
Flies off into the night.
Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down.
———
You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home.
He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.
It’s okay.
You can wait.
You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest.
Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind.
But this isn’t a normal week.
And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him.
It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up.
And it did.
Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it.
He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag.
“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him.
You don’t know how else to be.
“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”
“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”
“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”
“No, I think you should tell me first.”
“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“
“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”
Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”
You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar.
Or stood to close, on the street.
That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out.
Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter.
But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break.
It’s a good thing.
Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths.
And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both.
You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.
“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh.
“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”
He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”
“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow.
“But you didn’t know.”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”
“Uh-“
“Are you Superman?”
“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.”
Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses.
It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time.
But you can now.
And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression.
“I- How?”
“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“
“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“
“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“
“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“
“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“
“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes.
“I couldn’t hate you.”
You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.
“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”
You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.
“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”
“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.
“Do you really want me to say it?”
You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.
“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”
You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”
“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“
“Clark-“
“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”
You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark.
But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once.
So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”
“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides.
“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”
“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”
“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”
Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”
You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does.
And you have to ask.
“Is it worth it?”
Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”
You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you.
So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time.
“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod.
“Yes, please.”
His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again.
When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt.
“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”
His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”
You nod, and his throat bobs.
“How much?”
“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.
“Clark-“
“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”
You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.
“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile.
“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before.
“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”
You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you.
It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher.
“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“
“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”
His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him.
A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release.
“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“
He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.
His bed.
You’re in his bed.
But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours.
Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips.
“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”
You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life.
He catches it. Of course he is.
He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need.
It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing.
And worst of all, it’s working.
Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare.
“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever.
“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“
Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt.
He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea.
“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“
“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”
You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true.
“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip.
There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.
You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap.
Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down.
You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat.
“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“
Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot.
“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“
“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“
“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name.
“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“
He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.
He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth.
Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest.
“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“
He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit.
“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“
“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”
You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name.
He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him.
You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving.
He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-
“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“
He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“
“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”
Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“
“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“
He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss.
“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.”
You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“
“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
And he does.
Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release.
Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed.
“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“
You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down.
He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning.
You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you.
So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly.
But you have him.
All of him.
And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed.
“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is.
You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“
“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”
“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”
“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”
You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back.
“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”
Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room.
You have him.
And that makes everything clear.
✦End note: Superman brainrot got me. guys✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: Something is wrong. You feel like there's a big part of you that's missing, but you really can't quite place what. It doesn't help that you keep having flashes of a life that isn't yours. Where you're loved. Where you're Clark's, he's yours. And maybe that's been yours the whole time.
AKA you have to forget Clark, but it doesn't really stick.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, memory fic, insecurity, angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, double love confessions for your buck, shameless smut (body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v, doggy), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This one is very special to me. Enjoy!✦
Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.
You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out.
But you can feel someone.
And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer.
Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.
He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over.
You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia.
That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid.
You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something.
You’re not.
You don’t even know what you’d be looking for.
All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep.
You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch.
Which is probably why your back always hurts, now.
It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.
But it’ll pass.
Hopefully.
It’s not, but hopefully, it will.
Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process.
You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.
“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“
“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”
You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.
“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.”
“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”
“Nah. That sounds cold.”
“It’s ice-“
“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”
“I guess, but-“
“Can I ask you a question?”
You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”
“Did you guys have a fight?”
“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods.
“Yeah. You and Clark.”
“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again.
You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.
“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”
Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”
Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.
Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince.
“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante
“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark.
You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.
“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.
“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”
“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing.
That means something.
You can’t fucking remember what.
“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.
“How was… my vacation?”
“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”
“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing.
“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you.
“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“
“You were listening to me. I know you were.”
“But I didn’t even look-“
“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”
He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile.
“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“
“I am-“
“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“
“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”
“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”
You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns.
For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place.
Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing.
Your head sort of hurts.
But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog.
You don’t even remember going on vacation.
And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again.
Someone is watching you.
Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.
But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.
It’s like nothing ever happened at all.
The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place.
There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all.
But it’s gone now.
You just wish you’d known what it fucking was.
There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work.
It’s almost certainly the paranoia.
It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia.
If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.
“He’s cute, right?”
“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute.
“You think I’m cute?”
“Don’t get a big head.”
“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”
“Yeah? What kind of facts?”
“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”
You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”
“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle.
“I have cow eyes?”
“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”
You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”
“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”
“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”
He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“
“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”
“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”
You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”
“Alright. Come here.”
A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-
Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.
“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”
“Yeah, um- Sorry.”
You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe-
You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.
So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest.
“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket.
You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back-
“Taste it.”
He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“
“What are you, a doctor?”
“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“
You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you.
You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it.
“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”
“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”
He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything.
And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.
“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore.
He can see that.
His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops.
“You’re sure your ankles okay-“
“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.
“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”
You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”
“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body.
You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy.
He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back.
“I- I’m- I don’t-“
Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“
“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“
“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“
“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“
“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”
“I-“
“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.
It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.
No. It’s all fine.
There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine.
You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.
Everything was not fine.
You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse.
The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath.
You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom.
It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall.
He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids.
And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up.
“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“
He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”
You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover.
It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.
Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off.
Because fucking everything sets you off.
“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”
“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed.
“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.
It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams.
You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.
Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”
“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”
“Too late?”
“I forgot my lunch.”
“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.”
“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“
“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”
You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything.
“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“
“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”
“But Jimmy said it was-“
“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”
“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“
Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”
“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”
“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”
“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”
“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“
“To fish guts?”
“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”
“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.
“I don’t get sick, darling.”
“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“
He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss.
This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss.
Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air.
And he fucking knows.
“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”
“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“
You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“
“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”
Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick.
“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”
You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.
It should.
But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.
“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond.
You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter.
“You end up here often?”
You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”
He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”
“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”
“Yeah? For what?”
“Mormons.”
The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily.
It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.
You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.
There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man.
You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies.
No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun.
“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”
You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say-
“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”
A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“
“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”
“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“
“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”
You go slack, and he grins.
“There you go. That’s my good girl.”
For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen.
Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap.
Wrong.
Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong.
You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home.
And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed.
But it’s not safe.
Not anywhere.
You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here.
But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out.
That keeps you warm.
“Put it on, baby. Please.”
“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”
“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“
“But maybe it does.”
He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”
You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes.
“I hate it when you play that card.”
He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”
“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.
“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”
You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work.
But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back.
“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.
“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”
“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles.
“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“
“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”
“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”
You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”
“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”
“I’ve had banana splits before-“
“Not like these, though-“
You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”
Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.
“I just think- It’s not the same-“
“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”
You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”
“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”
The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer.
You stop looking around at things.
And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor.
You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all.
“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“
“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”
“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing.
“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”
“I, uh- Thanks.”
“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”
“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”
“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”
He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“
Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all.
“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly.
“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“
“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”
“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”
You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”
“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”
The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer.
Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins.
Spend a little too long looking in the mirror.
Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.
And you’d never said I love you. To anyone.
But you said it to him.
The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.
And he loves you back.
But only in your fucking head.
“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”
“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”
“Well, they have nothing to study-“
“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”
Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red.
Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”
“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.
Which is gathered near your desk.
It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing.
Then Clark looks at you.
Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately.
You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire.
“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin.
Then he looks away.
And you just feel cold.
“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.
“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“
“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.”
“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”
“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”
“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”
Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”
You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing.
“I- He had a hard few weeks-“
“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look.
“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”
“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”
Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“
“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”
“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”
“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.
This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes.
Different from all the other flashes.
The same as it seems to be now.
He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“
“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“
“What’s on you, the truth-“
“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“
“You’ve done a lot worse-“
“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”
“I already fucking know-“
“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“
“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”
You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.
“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“
He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof.
“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”
You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“
“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”
His eyes widen. “How-“
“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”
“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”
“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I wanted you to tell me.”
“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”
You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“
“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”
“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”
“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”
“And… other stuff.”
“What other-“
“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose.
“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”
Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“
“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”
You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.
“I’m Superman.”
“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”
“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss.
The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance.
“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”
“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”
“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs.
“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“
“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”
Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.
“Um, yeah?”
“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“
“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental.
But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced.
He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing.
Which is something he does, when he’s listening.
You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that.
But you know it’s Clark.
That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark.
Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind.
You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you.
Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground.
Everything is so, so wrong.
And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together.
You’re not even sure it can be put back at all.
You have to ask him.
It’s eating you alive.
Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match.
Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place.
Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more.
It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose.
There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him.
And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman.
You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth.
Clark is Superman.
He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear.
He has the same fucking face.
When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.
But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out.
It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew.
You don’t know how you started dating.
You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence.
Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek.
The paranoia hasn’t gone away.
You still don’t know where it came from in the first place.
And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.
One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.
It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know.
You can’t figure out what that question should be.
So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping.
You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane.
You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first.
This is mostly so you can say you tried.
And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice.
See if anything at all comes back.
“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”
There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs.
“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”
The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire.
You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”
“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”
“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”
“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”
You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”
“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”
You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”
Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“
“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”
“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”
“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.
“That’s true. She did.”
“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”
You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side.
She likes you.
The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.
You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either.
He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.
You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more.
The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances.
But it didn’t matter.
She likes you.
And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear.
“She likes me.”
“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”
The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name.
It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you.
You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.
But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size.
He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“
“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”
“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap.
He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.
Now.
“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“
“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”
You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.
“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“
“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.
“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan.
Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage.
“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“
“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”
His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”
“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”
You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger.
He used a grown-up curse word.
You’re getting what you want.
“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”
You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”
He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”
You nod, and he raises his brows.
“You going to let me take care of you?”
“Yeah- Oh-“
Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.
“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“
“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.
“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”
You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care.
“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”
“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“
“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.
“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.
He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy.
You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning.
Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear.
“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”
One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan.
“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”
You nod, and Clark clears his throat.
“Can I please do the, uh-“
“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help.
He doesn’t let you.
Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him.
“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”
You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.
“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“
Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress.
“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“
“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.
“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“
Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.
He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized.
When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.
But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him.
Then his kisses grow sloppy.
His thrusts become uneven.
And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body.
Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss.
You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands.
“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck.
He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you.
He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.
He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it.
“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”
You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“
“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”
“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch.
“Yeah. I have the best too.”
Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head.
But without any lust or need.
Just worry.
And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.
“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp.
He lets you.
Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.
But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again.
Someone watching.
And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away.
He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out.
Like he wants to catch you, but can’t.
Like he knows you’re already gone.
You can’t sleep.
If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh.
Something you’ve never had before.
That it feels like you never really had at all.
And you don’t understand.
You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it.
If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you.
But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.
At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark.
He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry.
As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it.
Won’t fix it.
If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all.
Then, you feel it.
Something watching you.
Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet.
There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air.
You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”
Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry.
And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before.
You think you’ve seen it a million times before.
But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you.
Like he cares.
“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“
He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball.
“Why are you here?”
Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“
“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“
“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”
You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”
His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.
Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.
Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom.
Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all.
“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly.
He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first.
You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move.
The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave.
Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.
And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle.
You never would have forgotten that.
But you did.
And you don’t understand.
Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit.
But he doesn’t.
This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him.
They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do.
You do.
And it makes the emptiness hurt even more.
Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m not.” You say it before you can think.
You can tell him.
You tell Clark everything.
He mutters your name, and you shake your head.
“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“
A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm.
You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there.
You never would have let go.
“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”
You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you.
As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”
You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”
There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.
“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”
Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it.
Your own screams.
“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“
“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek.
“Clark-“
“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”
“You’d rather not have me at all?”
Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.
“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“
“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”
You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”
“When-“
“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”
He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”
“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”
“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”
There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips.
“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”
Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”
He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“
“I feel safe now.”
You do.
For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe.
And you’re not going to let go.
“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”
“You will, I trust you-“
“I almost didn’t-“
“But you did-“
“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“
“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“
“I- I’d never make you-“
“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“
“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“
“I’ll be okay.”
“But-“
“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”
Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second.
Then he’s moving.
Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.
Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep.
And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee.
Feels like yours.
“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him.
“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.
“You and me.” Clark whispers.
He’s not letting go either.
“It’s always been real.”
✦End note: Oh to love someone so much it physically cannot be erased. I'm very normal about memory fics, guys✦
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summary: an old friend visits town and humiliates you in front of chloe and lois. with nowhere else to go, you turn to clark. you have to learn that not everything you’ve experienced is true, nor is it right, and that just because love is hard to come by doesn’t mean you can’t have it.
word count: 5.2k
contains: angst & fluff. bitch best friend from metropolis who says hurtful things about/to reader, body insecurity (plus size/chubby reader struggles with confidence), mental health, crying, soft angst which turns into fluff, first kiss (i love that first kiss trope guys get used to it…) just insane yearning mixed with a lifetime of the torture being a big girl brings when it comes to wondering whether or not we deserve love (which we do, you do, always.) *no use of y/n
a/n: my first request!! i hope you like it anon, because i loved writing it. every short i write where clark is all over us is just another dream i can use to fall asleep at night.
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It was one of those things that you didn’t need to have told to you. You’re not so stupid as to let it escape your attention. In fact, it monopolized your attention, every waking-fucking-moment of your life. But it was just your luck to have it said aloud- and in front of your friends, nonetheless.
The Talon was warm. A bit too warm, which made you shrug your denim jacket off to reveal the hand-me-down henley hugging your undulating frame. Chloe and Lois were perched across the little bistro table which housed you and your long-time best friend, Blaire, who was visiting from Metropolis. You and Blaire had been thick as thieves since practically infancy, given that you grew up under the dingy fluorescent lights of inner-Metropolis public schools; until your parents moved your family out to Smallville on a Luthorcorp management offer for your father, she had been your closest confidant. Every so often you visited her, but her life after high school was much different than yours. She was a student at the Metropolis Institute of Art on a state scholarship, and she bagged a rich boyfriend whose parents pulled university strings (she was always a bit on the nose with her ulterior motives, but you never minded her assertiveness). Meanwhile, you were doing your best to get a good education at Central Kansas while working at the bookstore to save up for God knows what– life, you supposed.
When you first moved to Smallville, the strain on yours and Blaire’s friendship was tough. You hated the endless rows of corn and blistering heat. You called her every night, and you hoped to God that something would go wrong at the Luthorcorp plant and your parents would ship you back to Metropolis. But slowly, very slowly, you made new friends. You joined the Torch as a junior reporter, where you ran into the illustrious Chloe Sullivan, who took you under her wing and brightened the halls. You worked on the stage crew for every poorly-funded Smallville High musical. In fact, during a mishap where a swingling light dislodged and nearly crushed you upstage, you met Clark Kent. And, oh, Clark was just what you needed to put a spotlight on Smallville before the whole place lost its shine forever. Clark was what was missing with Blaire, even if you didn’t realize it at first.
Blaire knew you inside and out, once. She knew what movies you watched when you were in a slump, and how you drank ginger ale to feel the comfort of being sick without having to suffer the actual illness. She knew about the corny poetry you wrote in grade school and the box of keepsakes you harbored, full of concert and movie stubs and pieces of baby clothes and photos of everyone you’ve ever loved. But Blaire also knew you so well that it yielded a sharp kind of protectiveness, and being as self-assured as she was, Blaire took on that role with purpose. She was your better half, the one with more confidence and opportunity. More worth. When it came to the world perceiving your friendship together, it was Blaire and you, not the other way around. Blaire, beautiful and skinny, artsy, smart as a whip. You, the quiet, softer friend, who never had a boyfriend while she was never without one. You, who could never share clothes but was expected to share everything else.
But Clark? Clark wasn’t your chaperone, he was your keeper. It was never a question of who came first. Clark didn’t have to know your comfort movies, because he knew when you were down before you even reached for the remote. He only learned the titles when he’d asked you directly. And your first Christmas in Smallville, a certain someone threw rocks at your window and tossed up a wrapped box full of used DVDS– all John Hughes films, all yours now. Clark showed you the Smallville tradition of mixing Cherry Fanta with cream soda to make a sickening sugar-bomb creation, and now it was all you ever wanted to drink. Clark seemed to make more of an effort to learn the things about you that Blaire came across by lone probability, because he missed out on most of your life, and he wanted to make up for the disadvantage. Clark made you feel like there was no better half, only an extra whole. That kind of love was blinding, and it made you an idealist, to the point where it clouded your vision of everyone else. But really, how couldn’t you love life when Clark Kent was in it?
Sitting beside Blaire and watching her hit it off with Chloe and Lois was a bit disconcerting. She had on this smile that felt cruel, and you knew it well. The smile she gave when she felt she was the most intelligent one at the table. Over the years of adjusting to Smallville living, sentiments of aggravation passed through the phone receiver– that you were turning too ‘milkmaid’ hanging around all these farmer’s kids, or that you don’t have the same ‘city edge’ you did back home, the same depth. But Blaire didn’t see how you lit up around the new people in your life. Blaire didn't know how your passion for writing flourished under Chloe’s influence, or how Mrs. Kent taught you to bake pies from scratch, crust to filling. Blaire had no idea how full your heart became in the town where nothing happened. And right before your eyes, she was judging that life. Chloe was too kind to notice, and Lois likely did, but she knew better than to say anything around you. But you knew.
It was all performative, of course. There was a softness to Blaire’s attempt, you knew that. She was trying. But she was not cut from the same cloth as these girls. There is a viciousness to being Metropolis-raised. No matter how hard she tried, she could never be as hopelessly forgiving as Smallville natives. You got lucky, in a way. Maybe that soft part of you that always yielded to her helped you assimilate. You were grateful for her cordiality– it was all ‘How is it having this city girl around, huh? Bet she causes all kinds of trouble!’ and ‘She always was a bit of an oddball, don’t you love that about her?’ and ‘I always admired how clueless she was, so I’m glad you've got her investigating and doing some critical thinking, Chloe– she’s always got her head in the clouds!’ All compliment sandwiches. All old love for you, compounded with a thin resentment for the life you seem to love living without her. It made you squirm in your seat. It made you hot under the collar. But it was excusable. That was Blaire, right?
It was only when Chloe brought up Clark that you’d wished you’d never invited her here in the first place.
“Well, our friend Clark is a big Metropolis sports fan, so–”
“Oh, I know all about Clark,” Blaire snickered, nudging you in the rib a bit too harshly to be playful. “She never shuts up about the guy. It’s like he's Jesus or something.”
Chloe smiled sheepishly. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. He’s just a really giving guy. Everybody loves him. I’m sure you’ll get to meet him, Clark was just saying the other day how he wanted to finally meet the infamous best friend from the big city!”
Blaire threw a glance your way, tilting her head jeeringly. “Is that right?”
You flushed a bit and nodded, adjusting the spot where your shirt clung to your tummy, making you feel suffocated. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I told him you were coming.”
“Don’t look so embarrassed, babe,” Blaire laughed, waving your awkward air away from her. “It’s not like I’m meeting the boyfriend!”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you muttered softly, raising your coffee cup to your lips in a futile attempt to hide the darkening embarrassment on your face.
“You’re telling me. I’ve seen the pictures you’ve sent in your emails, and I mean, wow,” She smirked across the table to Chloe and Lois, who had confused smiles on their faces, and then said, “You know, I never really envisioned this one here in a relationship anyway. Especially not with a guy like Clark.”
Your grip on the paper cup tightened, and you looked to the girl beside you whose hair was a blonde monstrosity instead of its genetic tawny brown, whose shoes were definitely bought by that rich boyfriend of hers, and who was laughing at her own joke like it was no question as to why you were the butt of it. Lois and Chloe shifted in their seats, expressions falling. Your words were strangled.
“Blaire, seriously?”
“What? I’m kidding! Plus, you know you’re too sensitive for a boyfriend anyway. You love everything too much,” she chuckled, brow gathering in the middle, questioning what it was you didn’t understand. “You’re too smart for heartbreak, babe. And so soft around the middle. Guys nowadays aren’t into that. Good thing you don’t go after a guy like that.”
Your jaw clenched. “Good thing?”
Blaire’s grin drained slowly. “What, are you pissed or something? Don’t be like that, I’m just having fun–”
“You- you make it sound like no guy would ever want to date me, or like- like I’m this hulking–”
“My god! I didn’t say that! Did I say that?” She scoffed incredulously, looking to Chloe and Lois for support. They gave none.
“You’re embarrassing me, Blaire,” you croaked. Your heart was pounding in your chest. Truthfully, you were scared of her. She wasn’t the same girl you knew, and you both were aware of that now. You weren’t the puzzle piece which clicked into her snugly anymore.
“I’m embarrassing you? Give me a break,” she rolled her eyes, grinning harshly. “You never could take a joke. Good to see some things haven’t changed.”
The heat was licking like flames inside your gut, and everything was so hot, and your clothes were so tight, and the lack of air in the Talon was suddenly choking you out. You stood up, chair scraping the floor violently, and swiped your jacket.
“Where are you going?” Blaire sputtered.
“Doesn’t matter. Thanks for coming, Blaire. Get home safe,” you grunted, and with barely a wave goodbye to the two girls watching you with concern, you rushed out of the Talon as fast as you could.
The October air was so welcome against your searing skin as you barreled down the sidewalk towards your car. You’d never been more grateful that Blaire was only taking a day trip– if you had to house her overnight, you might’ve strangled her. When your fingers curled around the handle, the rest was a blur. Driving home to your parent’s house, the walk down the hall to your bedroom, the way the pillow molded to your face as you flopped into it, it all felt like one big, long, waking nightmare. A purgatory of your own making. You had invited her here, into your life, hoping she’d see what you saw. She knew you so well, didn’t she? This was supposed to be the mixing of your two worlds. The one good thing about your past mingling with all the wonderful parts of your present life. Blaire was supposed to see how happy you were now, and feel a fullness in her heart at the idea that you’d grown, that you’re not that same girl who needed her attention, who clung to her side for comfort. But you’d underestimated how deeply Blaire relied on that bond. How much power she gleaned from your adoration, how much soft greed, how much desperate superiority. You gave Blaire something to make herself feel irreplaceable, like the chief advisor in how your life must be directed. But she was never that for you. You only wanted a friend, a real one. And the longer you replayed how she boasted about her art college life and her city-girl romps to your humbler friends, and the way she put you down like some undateable thing, the more you recognized the friendship for what it was. Parasitic. One-sided. Misinterpreted.
All you could think about now was Clark. Clark would never do this to you, would he? What did Clark think of you really? Were you just another parasite clinging to his care? Were you some chubby thing that he cared for enough to keep around, but never enough to want? What did it mean to him, that you told everyone you knew about the farmboy like he was some kind of guardian angel, some savior who showed you all the pretty things about a friendship you missed so dearly in this home away from home? He had to see how you looked at him, hear how you talked to him. Clark was a smart guy. He had to see how it was impossible not to love someone so kind.
You didn’t know when the tears started coming, but they soaked through your pillowcase down to the feathers under the fabric. And they fell, over and over, and you twisted and writhed in the bed, tugging at your shirt and your jeans, wanting to tear them off and suck yourself in and never touch anything ever again, never feel like you took up space, never know which angle was least flattering when you sat on the couch in Clark’s loft, forgetting to stop the double chin from forming. You wanted to dig your fingers into yourself and tear off the pieces you didn’t want. Maybe you’d look like the girls at Blaire’s art school. Maybe you’d be pretty enough then.
Even in the fervor, though, you still couldn’t get your mind off Clark. Who knew if all those things you feared were true or not; it didn’t matter anyway. You wouldn’t be able to change them if they were. But you wanted him now. You wanted to feel one of those classic Kent bear hugs, and you wanted someone to tell you that Blaire was wrong. That just because the friendship was a lie doesn’t mean you were entirely unlovable. You wanted to feel like there was something still worthwhile about you after all this. So, in the same, floating way you came, you left home, and you drove down the dark county road towards the Kent farm. It was nearly one in the morning, far past his curfew, but you had hoped he would be in the barn.
The light was spilling out of the shutters when you rolled up quietly on the dirt drive. You saw the mop-haired silhouette in the window as you clambered out of your car lethargically. The smell of grass and chicken feed overwhelmed you as you trudged towards the stairs leading up to the barn loft. Clark didn’t even let you reach the first step before he was flying down them all to meet you on the ground.
“What are you doing here, it’s late– hey,” his voice weakened, “Your eyes are bloodshot.”
He was clearly ready for bed. The half-tattered flannel pajama pants hanging off his hips were lucky to survive his freshman year growth spurt. You remembered when you first met him then, how he seemed to grow a foot in a day. They managed somehow, and they sat low, looking so worn it made you ache. His hoodie was just as washed, blue and pilling over the arms and chest from use. One side of his hair was flatter than the other, like he’d been laying on it, probably reading, like he always was. So torturously pretty at night, all tired and mellow, and concerned about you. It shattered you on the spot.
Clark caught you in his arms as you exploded into a storm of tears, curling into his chest, all shaking shoulders and panicked breath. “Woah– shh, hey, what is it, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did somebody hurt you?”
The words came out semi-comprehensible– as clearly as they could, granted the barrier of cotton between your mouth and his ears. “Blaire,” was all you choked out.
“Blaire? What, your friend Blaire? I… I thought I was supposed to meet her, you never called,” he questioned, smoothing a big, calloused hand over the crest of your skull.
“She– she–” you tried, but you couldn’t speak through all the heaving.
Clark had seen you cry, but never like this. He couldn’t bear it for another second. “Okay, okay, easy. Come on, come up with me, you need to sit down.”
His warm palms wrapped beneath your thighs and he hoisted you up against his chest, and you cried even harder, because he lifted you like air. You, so big, like Blaire found you, weightless to him. He frowned deeply as he carried you up the stairs into the loft, and he set you down delicately on the couch before taking his place right beside you and letting you recoil into his side. Clark’s heart hammered with anxiety as he drew your face into the crook of his neck.
“Come on, you gotta breathe, you’re gonna knock yourself out like this,” he cooed, stroking your cheek. “Big breaths, okay?”
You tried so hard, and it took you so long. The disgust churning under your skin, the shiver of his breath across your face, it all made you want to cry harder. But you listened. You breathed in time with the swell of his hand swiping up, down, up, down your back, until you could get enough air to fill your lungs again.
Clark’s tone took on a gentleness that wouldn’t dare spook a deer away. “What happened?”
You swallowed the hoarse feeling in your throat and wiped at the snot pooling in your cupid’s bow with your shirt sleeve. “Blaire came to town today.”
“I’m guessing it didn't go well, huh?”
You shook off a wave of tears. “No. No, she, uh.. She met Chloe and Lois… she– god, she embarrassed me so badly!”
Clark didn’t let you melt into him this time, hooking a hand under your chin and forcing a little eye contact. “C’mon, finish. Tell me what she did.”
Your eyes fell to your lap as he dropped his hand. Picking at your nails, you muttered, “She just bragged. Bragged about her life in Metropolis, her stupid relationship. Made me look like an idiot for living here, for enjoying it,”
Clark felt the sentence hanging enjambed. “And?”
“And,” you sighed shakily, “She made this joke about me. That I’m… That I’m not someone she ever imagined having a boyfriend. That it had to do with my weight, with my personality, all of it. She- she said it in front of them, and she laughed.”
The farmboy’s face twisted in a whirlwind of soft emotions- something angry, something repulsed, something pitying. But when it settled, it was warm. Not a discomforting warmth. Maybe the first comfortable warmth you’d encountered all day.
“Don’t take it to heart,” he begged, “She’s probably just jealous. You’ve got so much love around you here. Metropolis is a cold place.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You don't need a boyfriend to be loved,” Clark urged, “Plus, none of the guys in this town are nearly good enough for you, alright? You’re too smart for them anyway.”
A frown weighed so heavily on your face that you wouldn’t be surprised to crash through the floorboards any second now. “That’s what Blaire said.”
Clark floundered for a moment, mouth opening and closing, before he settled on, “Blaire clearly doesn’t know you like she thought she did. She should know that any guy would be lucky to have you.”
You rolled your eyes in exhaustion, wiping at more rogue tears and feeling nothing but dread. “But she’s right, Clark. I can’t even imagine myself in a relationship.”
Clark didn’t know where to begin. He could say so many things. He could tell you about how pretty you were that first day of freshman year, such a smart newcomer in your button-pin jacket. Or how he still has the photo of your first fall festival with him and Chloe in his wallet. He could even remind you of the way he tipped the DJ at your senior prom to play that Dylan song you like, about the bird that sings, so you could have one magic slow dance and feel like things went the way everyone promised they would for years and years. But he didn’t pick any of those things. Instead, he did the one thing he tended to avoid doing most often, which was being direct.
“I can.”
You sniffled softly, rubbing your eyes. “I mean it, Clark.”
“I mean it, too. I can absolutely picture you in a relationship. I can see you with me.”
Your heart stilled for a moment, blood rushing in your ears, and it made you well right up again, like you were an untapped oasis. “Don’t joke, Clark, it’s not funny, okay?”
The boy huffed and swatted your hands away softly, wiping at your tears for you with his thumbs. “I’m not joking. You don’t know how much I care about you?”
Your lip trembles, eyes refusing to meet him. “Of course I do, you’re my best friend. But I don’t need you to say stuff you think’ll cheer me up, especially not that– please, not that, okay?”
“Why not?”
You turned into his chest, hiding, hoping he’ll afford you this one moment before he pushes you back forever. “Because it hurts, Clark. Can’t take that.”
His body thrummed with the urge to swallow you and soak up every last drop of pain. Whoever this Blaire girl was, he wanted to abandon all his rules to pay her a visit.
“It hurts to hear that I love you?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, “Cause- ‘cause I know it’s not the kind I want from you,”
Clark’s hands smoothed down your back again, and he turned his cheek to press into your hair. For a moment, he just held you there, waiting for your breathing to even out. When it did, he cupped his palms around your jaw and titled your head back, leaving you no choice but to gaze into those glass eyes.
“Let me kiss you,” he whispered.
Your brow furrowed, and you swallowed a heart-sized lump in your throat. This wasn’t a joke, right? The world wouldn’t be so cruel as to play this trick after pulling the lifelong friendship rug out from under your feet, would it?
“Huh?”
Clark brushed his thumbs under your eyes. “Let me kiss you. I want to.”
You didn’t know how to say yes, because the words sounded so foreign falling from his lips. Lips you’d dreamed of and woke up miserable over. You just stared for a moment, feeling how his gaze was so familiar and felt so disjointed from those desperate words. Did he always look at you like this?
The way he leaned in was slow, slow enough to prove his patience, and so when you finally nodded, he let his hands fall to your neck, which he encircled like a trophy and used to pull you up to him. He let out the softest sound, something like a hum, something like relief, when his lips met yours. They were so warm, just like he hoped. Warm, cushy, responsive. He was well-aware that you’d never been kissed, but it didn’t seem to show. Maybe he was taking it slow enough not to challenge you, but there was no utility in that anyway. What you needed was love, and he had so much of it, all for you. His hands couldn’t decide which purchase was most secure, so they stroked the hollows of your round cheeks, and the spots behind your ears where baby hairs grew, and across the skin of your collarbones where the flesh was so warm that there needn’t be bone at all– just plushness, just you, every inch sprawling over the next.
You didn’t know what to do with the shellshock shaking you. With palms planted firmly on his chest, you were frozen in time. This moment felt so unreal. Clark Kent, on you. A dream. That possibility which Blaire couldn’t entertain.
Clark only ceased the union when he lost his breath, and so he pressed his forehead to yours, panting softly. “See?”
You licked your lips, eyes fluttering open. “What?”
Clark’s mouth quirked in that half-grin, flashing one set of canines. “You’re exhausting.”
“Clark–”
“I love you,” he started, and then he couldn’t stop. “I don’t care what that girl said, but I love you. You’re not impossible to picture in love at all. Actually, I picture you in love with people all the time, whenever you talk to anybody that isn’t me, and it makes me feel sick,”
“I-”
“I’m not done, baby, just– I think there isn’t one bad part of you. There’s not an inch of you I wouldn’t touch, and watching you hate yourself over stuff like that breaks my heart,” he pledged, hands resting on the rolling curves of your waist like custom handles. “I loved you when I met you and I love you more every day, and I wish I’d told you sooner. Forgive me for the ambush, but I had to say it sometime.”
The loft was cold from the air filtering through the window. You could hear the grass rustling in the witching-hour wind. Everything was calm but you, as if the world had given you enough grief for one day. Or maybe it was just this land, this farm, this place that created a boy so beautiful as the one sitting before you now, begging you to answer him, looking petrified at how long you've been silent.
“How?” is what you came up with.
“How?”
“Yeah,” you prompted,”How. I… I’ve never been loved. I started thinking that maybe I wasn’t supposed to be. That all this time alone was just how I was gonna have to live.”
“My god,” Clark’s eyes shimmered, “That’s insane! It- it isn’t even about how. I mean, there isn’t a moment I can think of where I didn’t care about you. Your cluelessness, and the way you can talk for hours if I don’t stop you, how you let my mom teach you recipes even when she takes forever and makes you late for work… how couldn’t I love you? You’re kind, baby, so kind, and you love everyone so much, and you look down on yourself so harshly. You’re so unfair to yourself. Was that Blaire? Did she do that to you?”
You wiped your nose again, to no avail. It might drip forever. “Maybe it was. Never really thought about it until now.”
“She was so wrong, you know that? You deserve a relationship. You’re gorgeous, I mean it. You’re soft, and warm, and when you hug me I feel like the whole world could collapse and I’d still be safe right here,” Clark professed, running his hands down your arms and squeezing the pudge passionately. “You deserve love without needing to change. You deserve it all on your own.”
Those were words you didn’t know could be strung together in a sentence about you.
His throat strained as he asked again, “I love you, and I know it’s probably confusing, but if you know, then just tell me now what you want. I won’t do anything to make you unhappy.”
What did you want? Wanting was out of the question for so long. Wanting might be synonymous with getting for some, but for you, wanting just meant fantasy. You didn’t get what you wanted, you got the little bits here and there which the world would throw you as consolation. But here was the one thing that never asked anything of you, or pitied you, or required your submission for approval. Clark loved you, and he wanted to know what you wanted. That answer was automatic- it was the truth.
“I love you, too.”
His smile sped through the night, you could’ve sworn it. Turned the whole barn into sunlight. He surged forward and kissed you again, much less careful this time, and when your hands pressed against his chest in slight alarm, he snapped back with a flustered urgency. “Sorry– sorry! I’m just…”
You took it all in, in case it wasn’t real, but there was some uncanny feeling that it had to be. Maybe you deserved this one thing. You’d felt so deserted, but never by Clark. Clark was not Blaire. Clark loved you like a friend, and the rest came from it.
“I didn’t expect this,” was all you could say. Because I’m not supposed to have it. Because you’re too good, too much, too out of reach for me. Because I’m the worse half.
“I did,” he rebutted, “I knew I’d get you somehow.”
Clark slithered an arm around your back and drew you in, and the sheer weight of his around your body was enough to flatten any insecurities you had left. His strength absorbed your softness, molded to it, like it didn’t need to make room for you at all- it just fit together, without compromise. Your face found his neck, and you rested there, brain aching from all the crying.
Clark murmured into your hair, “Don’t ever let me meet that Blaire chick. I don’t like the sound of her.”
You laughed for the first time in hours. “You won’t see her.”
“Good,” he smiled, imprinting a kiss to your window’s peak. “You’ve got better friends right here.”
“Please don’t tell me we’re friends,” you teased, but it hung heavy, like a plea.
“Oh, no, definitely not,” he assured with a smirk. “You’re all mine. You were before, too, you know. Why do you think nobody ever asked you out in high school? They thought I would beat the living daylights out of them.”
You lifted your head to stare at him in comic shock, and your mouth curled into a smile. A real one. “That… kind of makes me feel better about my whole life.”
Clark laughed, “Well, then, you're lucky it’s the truth.”
Heat rushed over you, which you were so familiar with. It had driven you out of yourself every day in fear. But now, it only drew you closer to him, lips on lips, feeling out the rest of your life in the dips of his arms and the breadth of his shoulders.
Mid-promise, he broke from you to purr, “First boyfriend, huh?”
And you just shut him up, because he knew the answer.
First boyfriend was starting to sound a lot like only boyfriend as he pressed you back into the couch, smushing you like his favorite pillow, making sure that every inch of you felt loved for the first time. Maybe you didn’t need to picture yourself in a relationship, because nothing you imagined could ever be as good as this. No rich, art-school boyfriend could compare. No celebrity crush, no guy at the Talon who ordered your same latte. None of it. None of them were Clark, and they never would be.
summary: clark has always been very protective of you, because he adores you… and because you’re a baby when it comes to pain. but he can’t anticipate every threat. and maybe, just maybe, the both of you could benefit from seeing that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. particularly clark (especially clark.)
word count: 3.8k
contains: hurt & comfort to fluff, attack & kidnapping, slight body shaming. reader gets kidnapped and clark has to save her. clark is a wreck over it, won’t let anyone touch reader, is obsessed with reader, blah blah. some tears, some mentions of pain and violence, some rude language from the kidnapper about reader’s weight. a little self-depreciation as well. happy ending. *no use of y/n
a/n: finally had time to finish another anon request :) sorry for going MIA, it’s finals time. this was a nice little brain break and fed my psychotic obsession with clark. hope you like, anon :) ps wrote this in one shot and gave it a fast proof so if it is misspelled or sucks… keep your mouths shut
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Usually your involvement with meteor-freak scenarios was minimal or nonexistent, no matter how you insisted you could help. Clark has always refused to let you get involved. You’ll swear it ‘til the day you die– no matter what anyone says about that boy’s demeanor, he is a brutal opponent in debate. Winning is possible, but it will cost you, and you’d much rather let the invincible one take the punches. So, you usually don’t fight him on it.
There were a few infractions of the no-involvement policy from the past. Minor ones. Like when you were fifteen, that kid who turned girls into icicles showed up at your pizzeria job. He tried to smooch you frozen, but you landed a solid right hook on his jaw, and Clark swept through the storefront to whisk the danger away, leaving a few frosty atoms to settle on the tile floors like neither of them were ever there. You also had a run-in with that photographer Brendan during your senior year, who tried to lure you into his Smallville-High-forever trap; he got Chloe and Lana, but when he went to grab you, you darted the contact– and of course, Clark appeared out of thin air and rocked the kid and his camera into a wall. So, you never had to worry. Meteor-powered offenders seemed to go after Chloe and Lana, and even Lois, more than you, and as stressful as it was to watch your girlfriends get serially attacked, they were much stronger than you. Mentally and physically. You were… a bit of a mess when it came to those things.
Clark wouldn’t call you a mess, but that came from a place of bias. He was privy to just how emotional stress could make you, and his heart shattered whenever you were subjected to any kind of trauma, especially the meteor-rock kind. You were supposed to be completely off limits. Wholly untouchable. But more than anything, he was terrified of jeopardizing your safety- and your low pain tolerance.
Ever since you two were kids, bumps and scrapes were your worst enemy. You had an irrational fear of pain. You don’t know why everything hurts so badly, but something within you is wired to respond disproportionately to even the smallest injuries. You once stubbed your toe so hard on the corner of Clark’s bed that you burst into tears. Another time you whacked your forehead trying to follow Clark out of a door and it knocked you to your feet, despite barely even leaving a mark. There was also the famed burn scenario– the one Chloe swears to tease you about to the bitter end. Mindlessly, as most of your injuries tended to be, you grabbed a scalding pot in Chloe’s apartment while trying to clean up after dinner; seconds later, you were halfway down the stairs with the ER on your mind, a ball of sobs and shakes and ice in your palm. Chloe had called Clark the second you grabbed your keys, and he ran at the speed of sound to meet you at the Talon doors. He grabbed your palm and blew his ice-cold breath over it until you stopped wailing, and then he kissed all your tears away and carried you back upstairs like the princess you were. He didn’t leave you alone until you fell asleep with his lips still doting on your burnt hand, and Chloe has the blackmail pictures to prove it.
Every mishap always ended in Clark scooping you up and nursing you back to health, because he simply couldn’t stand to see you hurt. The kind of damage these meteor-freaks could do was serious, and if a broken nail could put you out of commission, he didn’t want to know what a bullet wound or a broken bone might do to his girl. So, you two had made an agreement as you got older. You wouldn’t know about his missions until after he had completed them, and you would stay away from his and Chloe’s dangerous work lives. After high school and throughout college, Clark refused to tell you anything, because the less you knew, the less danger you were in. You weren’t even allowed to help at the Isis Foundation with Lana or Chloe. And as much as you hated how it contributed to that whole guilt complex he has, his Kryptonian I’m-a-monster-and-everyone-I-know-leaves-or-dies thing… he was right. People who attacked Clark attacked the people who worked with him. Your name never came up, so you were safe. Usually.
With Clark’s evolution into the Blur, you were increasingly worried about him. Oliver and the rest of their leatherized friends had his back, you knew that. Chloe’s eyes at the Watchtower were all-seeing. He had more help than he would ever need. But sometimes he came back with bruises. Your Clark– steel skinned– bleeding by his lip. You worried about him every night when he took off after his shift at the Planet. More often than not, you stayed locked in Oliver’s office at Queen Industries Tower and watched the city streets below, catching the corners where newspapers would flutter, just to be soothed by the non-sight of him still running. Oliver had hired you as a paid intern, and now you had a tower office and were his personal administrative assistant. You answered his calls, scheduled his meetings, and let no one ask questions of his whereabouts. It was a lucky stroke, one you were positive was influenced by Clark, who knew you felt safer up high where you could see him. He took care of you in ways you’d never be able to prove.
So far, there has been no reason to panic. Clark had everything under control with his secret identity. You came and went from work, from the city back to Smallville, without danger. But tonight was the statistical anomaly that was bound to happen. The culmination of years of evasion reaching a breaking point. You couldn’t have avoided it if you tried. No one can avoid a blitz.
It was just like any other December night in Metropolis– speeding cars bounded down the icy streets, shoppers were bundled in scarves, bars blasting holiday music loud enough it reached the sidewalks. You were making the walk down the block to Queen Industries, a bag of burgers and fries in your hand. You were going to sit in Oliver’s office tonight, because he’s got a better TV, and wait for Clark to swoop in wearing that Matrix coat after a night of fighting crime.
But someone who wanted to catch Clark in the act had a different plan for you both. And it actually had nothing to do with the Blur, which was the ironic part.
Clark had made a few enemies through his work at the Planet. People can only take so many shots before they resent the messenger. A few weeks back, Clark was given a hit piece on a corrupt reporter from the Inquisitor who was manufacturing crime scenes to report on. He would kill victims and reappear magically at the scene, always the first to get the scoop. Clark had discovered in his own snooping that this reporter, Tommy Rider (whose name you and Clark, of course, teased for weeks) had a sinister meteor power– he could absorb blood through his skin, so any splatters or strains would soak like a sponge into his bloodstream and boost his adrenaline. He had a blood type that was unlike any other on scientific record. It couldn’t be replicated, and it couldn’t be transfused or else he would die from poisoning. Clark had stopped him as the Blur and turned him over to Queen Industries scientists for bloodwork before dropping him at Belle Reve; but as Clark Kent the Reporter, he simply exposed Rider to the world… and Rider did not take that betrayal lightly.
He broke out of Belle Reve easily, which is unsurprising, given the instability of that place. Rider camped out in the Inquisitor archives after-hours and found everything he possibly could on Clark, and through a series of online profile scourings, he found you. Clark’s beloved girlfriend, who was in every profile picture and mentioned over and over in the few posts a year he would make. If Rider was going to ever get a new reputation, he would have to go for the one thing Clark would never jeopardize. So, he found out everything he could about you (much easier to do, by the way) and tracked you down.
You were swinging your greasy bag of burgers and fries, sipping a milkshake like the world was your oyster, when a pair of hands snatched you from a side alley. The fright was chilling. You screamed for Clark over and over, flailing enough to drop the bag, but it was all useless. The perpetrator’s arms wrestled you into the dark.
“Christ, girlie, you’re a heavy one, aren’t you?” He growled, twisting your arm behind your back.
“Clark!–”
“Shut your mouth,” was all you heard back, “Kent can’t save you now, piggy.”
Before you knew it, your head smacked into the brick side of a building, and you were out.
————————————͙͘͡★———————————
When you woke up, your skull felt like it was being crushed between two hydraulic plates, or something equally as torturous. Your vision was blurry and a bit pink in the left eye, telling of some cut above your lid that was oozing blood. Nothing looked familiar, it was all plain walls, a long table, and chairs. It looked like a board room. It was dark outside of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and you could make out the twinkle of high-rises, so that had to mean you were on a top floor somewhere in the city. Even though the pain paralyzed your limbs, you still tried to call for Clark, because it was the only thing you could think to do. Your voice was barely a rasp.
“Clark…”
You didn’t have much chance to see what happened once the call fell from your lips. Your vision was too blurry with concussed tears to see the whirlwind of lightning-fast activity in the room. You didn’t even know it was Rider who kidnapped you. All you made out in the dark was a door being ripped off the hinges and shattering against the wall, and then the yelping of a man, which sounded a bit distorted, as if he was crying into a fishbowl– that might’ve just been your swimming ears. Then, another two deafening crashes of breaking glass, the shudder-inducing thunks of skin and bone against a wall, or maybe more skin and bone, and the whirring of what sounded like a descending grappling hook…
Clark was all over you immediately, snapping your zip-tied wrists and ankles from the office chair and curling you against his chest like a kitten. You knew it was him because you could smell the spiced scent of his grocery store cologne permeating the whistling winter wind in the room.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he urged in a soft panic, “It’s me, baby, it’s Clarkie… you’re gonna be okay.”
He hoisted your soft body out of the chair and made quick work of zipping you across the city to the Watchtower, where Chloe was stressing over nine keyboards to find you. After catching your cries in his Kryptonian ears, he’d done her job within the two minutes he’d left and come back.
“Chloe!” Clark’s voice rumbled as he busted the doors open. A spunky head of honey-blonde hair whipped around to see you, limp and half-conscious in his arms.
“Shit! Couch, put her on the couch!”
You felt the warm, mothbally cushion of Chloe’s couch beneath your body, and it truthfully was less comfortable than Clark’s arms, but at least you were safe. You whimpered in pain and tried to sit up.
“No! Baby, baby– back, sit back,” Clark begged, gently nudging you down and tucking a pillow beneath your swollen head. “Don’t move, please, stay still for me, okay?”
You heard it. The tremble in his voice. Unmistakable tears from the hero who never seemed to cry unless he was alone.
Everything still sounded aquatic, but you caught his utterings to Chloe as a worn pair of hands touched you all over, shakily assessing wounds. He was a constant string of panic. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I let this happen… I should’ve brought her to the hospital, but I froze up… My god, look at her, look at her face, Chloe! Baby, god, my girl… jesus, look- look how she’s bleeding, oh, jeez!...”
Chloe’s voice spliced every fussing word. “Clark– hey! Hey, it’s okay, her eyebrow is just cut, that's all! Just a few scrapes and bruises, no broken bones, Clark, it’s okay! Let me get–”
“Baby, oh, are you alright? Open your eyes for me, honey, please, can you look at me?”
You felt a warm palm on your face, and even though it ached even to try, you peeled your lids from each other. He was so close that your vision didn’t have room to blur. His eyes looked cloudy as sea-glass, melting tears, and he chewed on the corner of his lip like an animal, petting and prodding you anxiously. You grunted softly and croaked, “M’okay, Clarkie, s’fine…”
A choked sob escaped him. His fingers curled around the back of your head and cradled you like a cracking egg. He searched your eyes, trying to gauge how much pain you were in. “What did he do to you? Where does it hurt, honey?”
Another soft whine came when you lifted a knee. He tried to keep you down, but you entreated, “Lemme up, Clarkie,” and he couldn’t say no. Both him and Chloe got you upright before she scampered off to find an ice pack and her first aid kit, which was usually only necessary for Oliver.
“Baby, tell me where it hurts. I can help,” Clark begged.
Your vision didn’t spin so harshly anymore, but everything else throbbed. You head. Your arms and legs where you were undoubtedly wrestled into that chair. There were purple marks around your wrists and ankles from the zip-ties– Rider had tied them too tight out of spite. Lugging your weight around was not what he anticipated, and it seemed he got a bit frustrated with handling a victim who wasn’t stick thin. Maybe he should’ve been less hasty in his research. Despite all of this, you couldn’t take the fear in Clark’s eyes. So, you lied.
“Doesn’t hurt that bad,” you said. “Jus’ my head.”
Clark immediately frowned. “Don’t fake it. You’re prone to pain, angel, you know that, don’t lie to me.”
“Really, Clark, m’alright…”
Strong, unbreakable Clark Kent kneeled before you and rested his forehead on your knees, shoulders twitching in restraint. He muttered, “How could I let this happen? I should’ve heard him, I should’ve known what he was planning, I can’t believe I let you get hurt like this–”
There was no thought then, only muscle memory, in the way your hand reached out and threaded through the midnight locks on his head. You passed the thick hair between your fingers, nails scratching gently at the nape, and you whispered, “Shh. You’re spiraling.”
Chloe came back and sat carefully beside you, cracking open the first aid kit to do what she did best, but Clark rose to his feet and snatched it right from her hands.
“Clark–”
“I’ll do it,” was all he said.
You wouldn’t have wanted to know how long it took even if you could tell the time. He doted on you for a small eternity, putting bandaids over bruises like they were cuts, cleaning real cuts like they were severed limbs, and kissing every square inch of your head and face and neck where that monstrous reporter dared to touch you so maliciously. He swallowed tears and took care of you as best as he could, whispering sweet apologies into your hair. “I’m so sorry…I should’ve been there…Does this hurt?...Tell me if it’s too tight, I’ll rewrap it… My girl, my sweet girl… I’d do anything to make you forget it…”
More than anything, his words brought you back. You refused to let him in on just how deep the pain ached for now. You could protect him from at least this. You hated to watch him beat himself up so harshly for something that wasn’t his fault.
“Clarkie… stop,” you cooed, “You saved me, I’m okay, see? I had no doubt you would… Everything is okay now.”
He pressed a kiss to each individual knuckle on your palm, and gave you a look that felt equivalent to kicking a litter of puppies. “I should’ve stopped it before it happened.”
You frowned and tugged on his sleeve, and he took the message clearly, gathering you into his lap and tucking you under his chin. You grunted a bit at the repositioning, but quickly settled into his mass like a burrowing critter. Closing your eyes, you knew that the mission was over, and so you were free to ask away. “Who did it?”
“Rider,” he grumbled, “That reporter. The murderer.”
“Oh,” you hummed, nuzzling his shoulder. “What did you do with him?”
Clark didn’t answer for a second. You felt his heart pounding beneath his shirt, and his muscles tensing. Then, low– low enough that you figured he was trying to avoid Chloe catching it– he answered, “I left him at the police station… with a broken jaw and two broken wrists.”
You lifted your head, wincing a bit at the ache. He rushed to hold your chin up, looking you over like you might pass out any second. All you did was furrow your brow. “You never hurt people that bad, Clark.”
His jaw clenched. “He put his hands on you. He smacked your head against a building, honey. I should’ve killed him.”
There was no withholding the slight chuckle that rippled from your sore throat. It reached the amused sympathy in your eyes. You rubbed circles into his chest to help soothe the beast. “You’re not supposed to violate your no-killing code, even for your friends.”
“I didn’t kill anybody. And you’re not my friend,” he lamented, “I love you. You’re the only one who’s untouchable, you know that.”
You smiled down at him, lips a bit chapped but still shimmering with microscopic lipgloss leftovers. You ran your fingertips across the marks on your wrists. “If it makes you feel any better, I think he had a rough time lugging me around. Not exactly easy cargo.”
Clark’s hand tightened under your jaw for a second, only to rescind quickly when you grunted at the pressure. “Sorry– sorry,” he pouted, regretting adding any more pain to your already quasi-concussed head. “Just… don’t like it when you talk like that.”
You waved it off. “It’s kind of true, though.”
“If anything, your kicking and screaming gave him a bigger fight than you think. He had a black eye by the time I caught up to him. That was all you, baby.”
You smirked a bit at that, almost wishing you saw it. “I didn’t even see his face. I just kinda flailed until I hit something.”
“Good strategy,” Clark snickered, and for the first time since he sat you down, he cracked a smile.
Your fingers lifted and traced the moon shape punctuated by sharp teeth, and you murmured, “Thank you for saving me.”
He didn’t hesitate to kiss your fingertips. “I’d do anything for you. I’m just sorry I didn’t get there before he hurt you, honey.”
“It’s alright. I can take a beating.”
That was enough to make him burst into sweet laughter. His palms wrapped around the pudge of your waist, squeezing reverently, and he tugged you back into your space beneath his chin. You felt his chest rumbling like medicine against your bruised body, and you smiled along. You pressed a tiny kiss to the arm of his coat, that same stupid Matrix coat you love to tease him for, and you ran your thumb across the spot softly, thankful to have someone like him to keep you alive, always.
“Are you gonna write the story about his last hoorah?” You asked.
“No,” Clark grinned, pressing kisses along your hairline. “I think I’ll let Lois take this one. She likes interviewing men with broken bones. Says they’re easier to press.”
You giggled softly and succumbed to his prescribed lips, feeling the pain dwindle with every dose. You stayed right there for a little while, as long as he’d let you, until his nerves got the better of him and he insisted on rushing you to the hospital to get checked out. Good thing, because you were absolutely concussed from that bonk to the head. He almost cried when the doctor confirmed his suspicions, and you gave him a kiss right there in the ER just to keep him grounded.
After the stress of the night, he insisted upon taking you home. You insisted home meant his farm, so he promptly brought you there with relief; and when he offered to change your dressings again, even though they were virtually clean, you let him. He put you in his clothes, he tucked you into his bed, and he ignored every protest from your side of the room as he called the paper and scheduled five days out of his overflowing PTO to ensure that you wouldn’t have to lift a finger until he was positive nothing hurt anymore. When the stress finally settled, the invincible Clark Kent curled up by your side like a guard dog, arm draped over your waist and face tucked into the crook of your neck, warm and heavy as a beautiful shield.
“This is nice,” you whispered.
“Mm,” he grumbled, “Love layin’ with you.”
“No, Clarkie… I meant, like, being taken care of,” you grinned. “Feels good. Like no time has passed.”
Clark just wrapped his arms around your middle tighter and pressed his lips to your pulse. “Nothing will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m around.”
By the time you fell asleep, the pain was gone– or maybe it was just him. It didn’t matter. All that did matter was how much he loved you, and how nothing seemed to stop him from doing it– not your body, not your babyish pain tolerance, nothing. You were all his since he met you. Nothing would ever be enough to make him change his mind.
He might have to come up with a new protection plan, though. One with better protocols for unsuspected attackers. Maybe he’ll get you a Life Alert… he’ll figure it out in the morning.
Did you get your taste back?
Or do you just need a little love?
You run into your ex boyfriend at a party and you realise how not over him you are.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 3.5k
contains: angst (eventual fluff), ex-boyfriend!steve, pre-season 5 steve, heartbreak, miscommunication i guess, reader unaware of the upside down, lil hint of robin and vickie, use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: another song fic alert!! this is the first of the two fics inspired by 'taste back' by harry styles. this one is the angst one and a smutty one will come out later this week!! i ended up having two different interpretations of this song so hence the two fics. please enjoy!! it's my first ex!steve fic so if please be kind! also i will start working back on requests next week, i just wanted to take this week to focus on my own fics—hope that's okay!!
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
Steve Harrington seemed to be the guy you couldn’t shake off no matter how hard you tried.
And oh, how you had tried.
Of course he was here—at the same party you were at—looking effortlessly cool and stupidly handsome in a way that made you immensely annoyed.
He hadn’t seen you—not yet anyway—too busy talking to Robin. Too busy to notice his ex-girlfriend was in the same room.
It was a month ago that you two had broken up. It had come after a pattern of Steve running late for your dates—you had been patient. Incredibly so. But you had started to become skeptical. You started to doubt his excuses. Started to assume the worst—that he was being unfaithful. Even the thought of it had left you feeling sick because you knew, deep down, that Steve would never do that to you.
But then you heard the voicemail from Nancy. The one Steve tried to shut off before you could hear. But the words ‘we need to meet up after last night’ couldn’t be unheard. They sat between as you waited for him to defend himself. He didn’t.
It was then you had asked him if he was cheating on you. He just kept saying sorry—sorry that he couldn’t be honest with you and that you deserved better. You weren’t sure what it meant but you didn’t stick around to find out.
You hadn’t spoken to him since. You spent your nights wondering if he was with Nancy Wheeler. Wondering how long it was appropriate to remain in the throes of heartache.
Hence why tonight had been Vickie’s idea. The party you were at was some guy named James that you vaguely remember from Hawkins High who—like you and so many others who graduated in the summer of 1986—was stuck in Hawkins for the foreseeable future due to quarantine. Apparently he threw these parties on a regular basis. Vickie had thought it was the perfect opportunity for you to take your mind off Steve. To forget about the guy standing barely twenty feet away from you in those jeans that stretched over his thighs deliciously. The short sleeve t-shirt that you had bought him for his birthday that hugged his biceps. His hair that fell so perfectly it was almost like he didn’t try—even though you knew all too well the effort that went into Steve Harrington’s hair.
“Could we leave?” You ask Vickie as you tear your gaze away from your ex boyfriend. “Steve’s here and—”
“He is?” Vicke turns around and looks not so subtly over at Steve. “Oh—Robin said he wasn’t going to be here tonight.”
You notice how Vicke’s cheeks turn a little pink—you huff and try not to roll your eyes. Your best friend and Robin Buckley’s obvious attraction to each other did not go unnoticed.
“Well, he’s here,” you say, taking a sip from your cup and determinedly not looking over at Steve. Not wanting to feel that heaviness in your chest that hadn’t left since you had walked out of Steve’s house over a month ago now.
Vickie can see it in your face—the way your eyes went a little glassy. How your grip tightened on the cup in your hands. How you were chewing on the inside of your cheek. She reaches out a sympathetic hand to gently pat your shoulder. “Do you really want to go?” She asks. “Because you—we can go. I don’t mind.”
You look back at her and know deep down she probably did mind. She had spent a ridiculous amount of time getting ready—her red hair having a subtle wave to it. You knew the dress she was wearing was new. That she spitzed her most expensive perfume. And you knew it was all because Robin was here. You couldn’t let her down—not when she had been your rock over the past month following your breakup.
And so, you just force a smile and shake your head at her question.
“No—it’s okay,” you reassure her. “I was bound to run into him at some point, right?”
Vickie smiles back at you—sensing your hesitation but knowing you weren’t going to change your mind. “Just pretend that he’s not here, yeah?”
If only it was that easy.
Because Steve Harrington was not the kind of person you could pretend didn’t exist.
His presence had always demanded to be felt. The way people flocked to him. Friends, strangers. He was all charisma, charm and something magnetic that only Steve Harrington could possess. Your eyes keep finding him through the crowd. He never looks your way. At some point, you wonder if that was on purpose.
You try to act normal. Try to have an enjoyable evening. Try to avoid every room that Steve walks into. Try to numb the ache in your chest that was suffocating at this point. Try to ignore how a certain song made you think about him. Try to ignore how you hear him laughing over the music. Try to ignore how other girls looked at you—with a mix of sympathy and intrigue as they whispered to their friends about whether you were the girl that Steve had broken up with. Vickie glares at them while you remain silent—downing whatever drink was in your hand as though it would help.
You lose Vickie part way through the evening—as Robin drags her off to dance with an apologetic smile sent your way. You wave it off as though it didn’t matter. As though you didn’t feel immensely alone without your best friend.
The party becomes insufferable after that. You last another five minutes before you need some fresh air. I Think We’re Alone Now starts to play and it’s like a dagger to your chest. A memory of Steve humming the song in his kitchen as he made you lumpy pancakes hits you hard. Your chest feels tight. The alcohol humming through your veins makes you feel more emotional than you should over a stupid song.
You start to push through the crowd, looking for an escape. Front door, back door—hell, a window would do at this point.
Just as you find the front door, you hear a loud ‘shit, watch out!’ somewhere to your right and before you could even register that they were yelling at you—you felt a warm, sticky liquid drench your side.
You blink—something in your gut stirring. Embarrassment? Humiliation? Most definitely a concoction of both. Your eyes flicker down to your top—the one Steve had once said made your eyes pop—and feel something fragile inside you break. You don’t even look up at the guy who was profusely apologising for spilling his beer on you.
“Don’t worry about it,” you tell the guy numbly as you try to slip away before you could burst into tears. Your body angling towards the front door where you could go outside and cry in peace. “It’s fine—”
“No, it’s not. It’s—”
He goes quiet. You know the reason why without looking up.
“Shit, (y/n), you okay?”
The sound of concern in Steve’s voice could cut you open. You hate how much you love the way he says your name. Like it was always meant to fall from his lips. You hate even more when you look up and see those big brown eyes looking at you with concern. Hate that your heart does stupid things in your chest at the mere sight of him. You try not to think how those same eyes once looked at you with so much love and now—you couldn’t read him. Not in the way you used to be able to.
You don’t answer Steve—you simply look over at the guy who had spilled his beer on you and force a smile. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
You pull away this time—ignoring the repeated apologies of the stranger as you head towards the front door. Not even looking back at Steve. Because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction—to make it known how not okay you were.
But you barely make it ten feet away from the house before you hear Steve calling out your name. The sound makes you almost freeze for a sound—but you don’t stop. You keep on walking, slipping past the front gate until—
“Hey—(y/n), c’mon. Please don’t leave like this—”
“It’s just a bit of beer, Steve,” you cut across him shortly, jaw tensing and trying to avoid looking at him as he starts to walk down the street beside you. “I’ll be fi—”
“Could you stop saying you’re fine?”
The way he snaps at you—so suddenly it makes you stop. Makes you look over at him. He’s stopped too, a few feet away from you. It’s the closest he had been since the breakup and yet the distance between you feels like miles.
“What would you rather me say, Steve?” You ask, feeling the combination of alcohol and embarrassment mixing horribly in your stomach.
“I don’t know, I just—you’re drunk and upset and you shouldn’t go—”
You scoff, despite the fact you were both those things. But the fact Steve had noticed infuriated you. The fact that he was perfectly fine and you weren’t, annoyed you. And the fact you now smelt of cheap beer and your top was ruined was the cherry on top of all of it. “I’m not upset—”
“—you clearly are! I can see it on your face—”
“—then stop looking! Jesus, Steve! The whole point of us breaking up was so you didn’t have to worry about me anymore so stop.”
You expect Steve to back off—for him to see the anger blazing in your eyes and leave. But one look at your face and Steve knew he couldn’t.
“Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I’m ever going to stop caring about you.”
You know those words were meant to bring you comfort. Meant to ease the ache that had taken refuge in your chest. But they didn’t. They made everything hurt just a little bit more. Because despite how much you wished you didn’t—you still loved Steve. Still loved him despite how heartbroken you were. Despite how much you had cried over him. Despite how you had driven yourself insane imagining him with Nancy—you still loved him.
“Don’t—fuck—don’t say shit like that to me,” you say finally, hating how your voice breaks. Hating how weak you feel in his presence. How a month after your breakup you still hadn’t recovered. How much you wished things were different.
Steve looks at you—face falling and hands clenching as though he was stopping himself from reaching for you. “Please don’t cry. You know I hate it when you cry—”
“—then you’d hate to know it’s all I’ve been doing the past month.”
It slips out before you could stop it. You don’t mean to make him feel bad but it does—it makes him feel awful.
Steve swallows, averts his eyes. He wants to tell you everything—even though he can’t. He knows he’s doing the right thing. Protecting you. But it came at the cost of losing you. Of not being honest with you. Of letting you believe he had been unfaithful—
“I need you to know that I didn’t cheat on you,” he says the words so suddenly it takes even him by surprise.
You sniffle in response, not knowing when the tears had escaped but feeling them rush down your cheeks. The sight of them breaks something in Steve and he takes a tentative step closer. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t. I would—there’s no one—and I mean no one for me but you.”
His words mend something—something small but significant—inside you. You knew he was telling the truth. You had known all along really that Steve loved you too much to be unfaithful. That he hadn’t ever wanted to become like his father—who Steve had watched shower his mother with gifts and vacations to make up for his indiscretions. And so, though it may be naive of you—you trusted that he hadn’t been unfaithful.
“Then—what were you hiding?” You ask finally because you knew that there was something. Something he wasn’t telling you. Something big. Something that meant unexplained late nights at the radio station. Something that meant rescheduled dates and a sinking feeling in your gut when he would turn up ten minutes late.
“I can’t—I can’t tell you.”
You were expecting it but it hurts just the same.
“Then I don’t know what else to say,” you murmur, turning away from him to wipe your eyes.
Steve watches—wanting more than anything to comfort you but knowing he didn’t have the right to anymore.
“Let me walk you home,” he says, unable to offer anything else.
“No,” you tell him—a lump in your throat making you sound less confident. “Steve, I can’t—”
“I can’t let you walk home alone while you’re drunk—”
“—and I can’t be near you right now.”
Steve blinks. You know instantly you’ve upset him and for one moment you feel a sick sense of satisfaction. Seeing some indication that he was feeling even the ounce of hurt that you had been feeling. But that feeling expires the moment your eyes flicker up to meet his. Those big brown eyes of his had always been your weakness. You have to look away again.
“Okay,” Steve says evenly, in a voice that was suppressed with emotion. You could hear the thickness in his voice—the slight croak in his throat. “I-I understand. I really do. Y-you probably hate me—”
You almost laugh because god—he was wrong. He was so, so wrong.
“—I could never hate you, Steve,” you tell him honestly, blinking away some fresh tears as you meet his eye again. “That’s the problem.”
You stand—two feet apart on the side of the road. The party down the street continues. The music blaring—people stumbling into waiting cars. The world goes by. But you don’t move. Neither does Steve.
“I’m sorry that I can’t be honest about what’s going on. But I—I need you to know that it’s not because I don’t trust you or don’t love you enough not to tell you. I can’t tell you because it—because I’m trying to protect you and that—that’s the most important thing to me.”
“Even if I’m miserable?” You ask.
Steve falters for a split second, looking back at you with a sad smile. “Even if we’re both miserable.”
You’re not sure why but that comment—that small admission from him that he was as affected by the break up as you tugs at something inside you. Something that had seemed to be holding you together—because one second you were fine and the next you were crying.
It wasn’t just a few little tears like before—no, it started with shuddering breaths and a loud sob that shook your body. You go to sink down onto the pavement beneath you but you never get the chance to—Steve’s arms are already there to catch you.
You melt into them like you never left.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, holding you against him as you sobbed into his chest. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You don’t say anything—you can’t say anything. Too busy crying in his arms while trying to memorise the way they wrap around you—the way the safest place you had ever been was in his arms.
You don’t know how long you stand there for. All you know is at some point you run out of tears. Your body stops shaking. And yet, Steve doesn’t let go.
“You still smell the same,” you murmur against him—unable to stop yourself as that warm, musky vanilary smell that was so unmistakably Steve floods your senses.
“And you smell like beer.”
You can’t help it—you laugh and the sound is bright and fills you with warmth that you’re not sure what to do with. And when Steve laughs too, everything hurts a little less.
Your laughter eventually dies down. And then, it was just you and Steve again. Him holding you like he refused to let go—you pretending you hadn’t memorised his heartbeat.
“I don’t want to be without you, Stevie,” you quietly admit a few moments later. Steve’s arms tighten around you a little at your words. You had been the only person he had ever let call him Stevie. It always softened him. Had always soothed him in a way that only you seemed able to do. Made him feel reassured and loved.
You feel Steve exhale. Feel the way his breath tickles the hair on the back of your neck. The action feels intimate and it stirs up a feeling deep in your stomach that you had almost forgotten existed. But before you could relish in that feeling, he pulls away. You let him.
“I can’t be without you either, baby.”
And there it was. That pet name that made your stomach feel as though it was made from molten lava. The one you told him you said you hated but secretly loved. The one reserved for only you. You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling even if you tried—tears still stinging in your eyes as you looked back at him.
“You really sure you can’t tell me what’s going on?” You ask quietly, already knowing the answer.
Steve shakes his head. “No, I can’t.”
“It must be pretty big, then,” you murmur as you glance around the street—at the small reminders of the quarantine restrictions. The way the colours in Hawkins seemed to have dulled. How parts of the road still had visible cracks in it from the earthquake. The cigarette butts discarded by the military that littered the street.
“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, scratching the back of his neck. “Pretty big.”
You nod—looking back at him from a quick second before you glance down, catching a glimpse of your beer soaked top.
“I really want—want to give this—us—another go,” you tell him, your eyes meeting those big brown ones you loved so much, “and I know that’s crazy because a month ago I said I couldn’t live with you not being honest with me but I also—living without you is ten times more miserable.”
Steve looks at you—simply just looks. As though he was trying to process everything you had just said. Blinks a few times before he finds his voice.
“Are you—are you sure because—”
“Steve,” you interrupt him, taking a hesitant step closer. You were now barely a foot apart. You could see those tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. You could count the moles that littered his face and neck, the ones you used to map out with your fingers and gentle kisses. “If there’s one thing I’ve been sure of in my life—it’s you.”
Steve’s mouth twitches—swears his heart is trying to escape from his chest with how fast it was racing. He wants to be sure—to be absolutely sure that you meant it. That despite the fact that he couldn’t tell you everything—that you still wanted him. That you would choose him.
“Could say the same thing about you,” he says, reaching up to cup your face tentatively with one hand. “Been the worst month of my life without you.”
“Even worse than when you had food poisoning and the flu?”
Steve laughs and the sound is warm and brings alive a memory of him bedridden and you feeding him tomato soup for two weeks.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Steve murmurs, thumb moving over your cheek in a reverent way. Like he was scared to pull away. “Not when you took such great care of me.”
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” you tell him sincerely. “Even if you did get throw up in my hair.”
Steve bites back a smile. “Won’t happen again.”
You return his small smile—eyes flickering between his as you allow yourself to hope for the first time in over a month. Hope that the two of you would work it out. That your love and trust in him transcended any information that he was withholding from you. Deep down—you knew it was. You trusted Steve more than you had trusted anybody else.
“Does this mean I can kiss you now?” Steve asks hopefully, thumb brushing the corner of your bottom lip purposefully. It makes your heart do silly things in your chest. Makes you want to bottle this moment and save it for a rainy day.
“Take me out on date first, Harrington” you tell him with a soft smile. “Then maybe—just maybe, I’ll let you kiss me.”
“Deal,” Steve says with a smile that could have lit up the whole damn town of Hawkins. “For now—can I walk you home?”
He drops his hand from your face—holds it out for you to take. You feel giddy as you take it firmly in yours. Not missing how your fingers interlocked felt like coming home after a long trip.
“I’d like that,” you say.
And as Steve Harrington walks you home—you wonder how the hell you had ever lived without him.
dividers by @cafekitsune
a lil after dinner mint: you guys were so so close to getting a sad ending but i just couldn't do it lmao. if you guys want a sad ending to an angst please let me know!! also once again—this is a very loose intreptration of the song, i take a line or the general themes of the song and start writing and things change but i hope you enjoyed this. gonna go stream kattdo again xox
okay, I am still working on drink order fic requests but this has been in the drafts for a bit and i needed to post t because I'm back on my Gator bullshit after getting into more dark romance books. don't judge me. (jk, you're all just as down bad as me <3)
especially then
gator tillman x reader
He’s scarred, blind, and bitter, you’re the nurse paid to keep him alive and the only one stubborn enough to push back when he bites. Between soup disasters, sharp banter, and late-night confessions, the line between duty and desire starts to blur. You're not afraid of finding softness in the spaces where he lets you in.
wc: 15576
[smut smut smut after the initial long long opening because its meeeee and i cant stop with long exposition to save my life]
tw: blindness (post-injury, adjustment struggles), burn scars & facial disfigurement, mentions of past violence/murder, therapy sessions, caretaker/patient dynamic (blurred boundaries), unprotected sex, rough language (gator swears like it’s punctuation), masturbation, jealousy, gator being a stubborn bastard but also needy as hell, yes i cried at writing this and i hope y'all see how much i trully love this sad pathetic bastard of a man, as always no use of y/n
The thud of his palm slamming the counter echoed off the laminate walls. “Don’t need you hoverin’ like I’m goddamn five,” Gator snapped back, voice thick with frustration, edged in that familiar drawl. “Got hands, don’t I? Can still feel where shit goes.”
"You’re gonna burn the whole goddamn place down," you mutter, stepping into the tiny kitchen just in time to see him jabbing at the microwave buttons.
Gator doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even turn toward you. His face stays pointed at the humming box of plastic, one hand braced on the counter, the other hovering over the keypad like it's a landmine he’s got half a mind to trigger.
"I’m not helpless," he says, jaw tight. "Can still work a fuckin’ microwave."
"Then stop trying to cook soup on defrost, genius."
You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.
"You always this bossy with your patients?"
You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.
"I didn’t ask for you."
"No. The state did. Big difference."
That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.
You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."
You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.
"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."
"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."
"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."
The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.
He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.
He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.
“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.
Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”
You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”
He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.
You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”
His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”
“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”
There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.
"You were different back then," you say finally.
He swallows. “Back when?”
“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”
You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."
You nod. “I remember.”
He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.
He doesn't say thank you.
He doesn’t have to.
Because he knows you’ll be there.
Even when he’s acting like a bastard.
Especially then.
The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.
“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”
“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”
You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.
“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”
Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”
His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.
You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.
“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”
“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”
He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.
You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.
“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”
“You enjoy shaving me?”
“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”
“Convenient.”
“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”
“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.
“Damn right I do.”
He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.
You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.
But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.
He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.
You don’t.
His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.
It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.
And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.
You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.
Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.
Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.
Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.
He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.
And you’re still here.
Even when he doesn’t ask.
Especially then.
You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.
"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"
You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”
“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.
She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.
You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.
“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”
“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”
You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.
She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.
“You heading out?” she asks gently.
“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”
Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.
“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”
You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.
“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”
You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.
She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”
“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”
You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.
You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.
The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.
“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.
“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”
“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”
“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.
You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.
And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.
The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.
And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.
You’re just there.
And he knows it.
Even when he won’t say it.
Especially then.
The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.
He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.
“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”
You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”
He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”
You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”
“Came close,” he mutters.
You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.
“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.
You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.
“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”
“And before that…”
He groans. “Med check.”
You’re already walking over. “Face check.”
“I hate this part,” he says.
“I know.”
But he lets you do it anyway.
You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.
“You ready?”
“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.
“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”
He snorts. “That’s a lie.”
You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.
Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.
He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.
“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”
He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”
You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”
He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”
You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.
“Didn’t say they didn’t.”
That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different.
You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.
He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.
Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”
“I know,” he says.
You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.
The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.
But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.
He won’t say what that means.
You don’t ask.
Especially then.
The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.
He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.
“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.
“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”
The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.
“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”
More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.
“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.
“You mean besides this circus?”
“Yes.”
Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”
“Where to?”
“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”
“Alone?”
Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.
“Mostly,” he muttered.
The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”
Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.
The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”
There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.
“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”
“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”
“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”
“Anyone else?”
Gator hesitated.
“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”
“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”
Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.
“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”
The therapist didn’t speak.
“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”
“But this one… you let her close.”
“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”
Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.
“What?” Gator growled.
“You talk about her differently.”
“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”
“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”
Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.
After a beat, he smirked.
“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.
Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”
“Says the guy with a functioning face.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Damn right I am.”
“You ever try not doing that?”
Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”
And the silence returned.
Like it always did.
Especially then.
You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.
“You smell different.”
You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”
He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”
You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”
“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”
“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”
“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”
You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”
He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”
“Bergamot.”
There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”
“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”
He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.
His hand goes still.
It’s clear the second he notices.
You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.
“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.
You hesitate. “Yeah.”
“Huh.”
You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”
“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”
“No,” you say. “I have a date.”
He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”
“Who is he?”
You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”
You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.
“He got two workin’ eyes?”
You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”
“What? That a requirement now?”
“You’re being a dick.”
“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”
“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.
“Must be nice.”
You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”
You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.
Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.
“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”
You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.
“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.
You open the door and step out into the night.
You don’t slam it.
But you don’t close it softly either.
Especially then.
The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.
The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.
He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.
Bergamot. That’s what you said.
Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.
Fucking bergamot.
You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.
The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.
He didn’t care. He didn’t.
But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was, trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.
Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.
He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.
The apartment still smelled like you.
Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.
He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.
His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.
You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.
His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.
He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.
He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.
His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.
That scent clung to everything you’d touched.
His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.
He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.
And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.
He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.
His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.
Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that.
The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.
His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.
He didn’t say your name.
But his mind did.
Again and again.
The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.
He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.
All he could smell was you.
And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.
And what someone else might be seeing now.
He didn’t say it out loud.
Especially then.
You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.
Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.
You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.
Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.
He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.
Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.
“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”
You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”
“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”
“I know that.”
His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”
“You think I care what people think?”
“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”
You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.
“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.
He scoffs. “Of what?”
You don’t answer. Neither does he.
You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.
“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”
You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.
“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.
He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.
“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.
“I’m working.”
“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”
He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.
He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.
You glance at the clock, then back at him.
You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.
“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.
He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.
You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.
He follows.
You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.
And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.
Especially then.
The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.
You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.
It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.
Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.
The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.
He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.
“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.
You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.
“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”
He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”
You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.
“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”
He grunted, amused. “Classic.”
“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”
Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”
“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”
He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”
“You say that like it’s a challenge.”
You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.
“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”
“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”
You laughed. “You asked.”
He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”
“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”
“Sure.”
You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.
He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.
He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.
So he said it, casual, low.
“Never been into girls like that.”
You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.
“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”
Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.
Hell, he wondered too.
“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”
He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.
“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”
He let that one sit.
Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”
You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.
He didn’t need eyes for this part.
He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.
And it was doing something to him too.
Especially then.
You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.
It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.
You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,
“Can I ask you something weird?”
He grunts in a way that means yes.
“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”
Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.
“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”
You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”
He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”
You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”
You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.
“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9
You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.
He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”
He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”
You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”
He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yeah, well. I can.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”
“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”
Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.
Then—
“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.
You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then.
Especially then.
He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.
“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.
He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”
You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”
He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”
You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”
He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.
He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.
“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”
You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.
He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.
But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”
His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.
“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.
“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”
He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.
“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.
His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.
Dammit, Todd.
He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”
You didn’t speak. He kept going.
“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”
Your breath hitched. Just a little.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.
“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”
You didn’t pull away. Not this time.
So he held on.
And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.
His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.
"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."
Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.
"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."
"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.
He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.
"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."
Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.
"Gator."
"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."
You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.
"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."
He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."
That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.
"You think I'd want to?"
"I know you do."
Silence.
"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"
You swallow hard.
"Do I what?"
"Do you ever think about me like that?"
It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"
"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."
He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.
"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."
"That ain't what I asked."
"You're right."
"So."
"So what?"
He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."
It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.
"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."
Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.
"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."
He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.
"You can hear me." You say, whispered.
He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."
You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."
Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?
"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."
His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."
"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."
You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.
He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.
He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.
"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.
"You're not." You reply.
He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."
"It's not."
"Then what am I?"
"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."
His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.
"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.
You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.
"Whatever you want me to."
He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.
"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."
"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."
"Yeah."
You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.
You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.
"Lie down." You say.
He does.
You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.
Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.
You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.
Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.
"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.
"You can't see me. What's it matter?"
He groans. "It matters."
You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."
He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.
The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.
"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."
"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.
He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.
You reach for the button of his jeans.
"Do you want these off too?"
"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."
His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"
"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"
He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none.
"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."
You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.
"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."
He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.
"Why?" he asks.
"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."
"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.
You can't help but laugh. "What?"
"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."
"Yeah, but.."
"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"
You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"
He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.
"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."
He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.
"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."
You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."
He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.
"Get on top of me," he commands.
"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.
You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.
"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."
"You are touching me," you say, breathless.
"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."
You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.
"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."
You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.
"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."
You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.
"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.
"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.
"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."
He kisses you, hot and hungry.
"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"
"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"
"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."
"You're cute when you're horny."
He growls. "Shut up."
You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."
He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you.
"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.
He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.
"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."
He's scared, you can feel it.
"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."
His cock twitches and he hisses.
"Fuck, I want you."
"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."
He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.
"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."
"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."
You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.
"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.
He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.
Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."
You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.
"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."
You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.
"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."
"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.
"You won't. Please."
You can't say no to him when he begs.
"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."
He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”
"I love it. Fuck."
You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.
"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.
You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce.
"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."
He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.
"Open," he rasps.
You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.
"Suck," he orders.
You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.
"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."
You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.
"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.
"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.
"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."
His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.
"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.
"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"
"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."
You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.
"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"
"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.
"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."
You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.
"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.
"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"
"Please," you whine.
"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."
"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."
He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.
The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.
He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.
You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.
"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."
"Yeah," you agree.
There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.
You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.
You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.
"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.
The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up.
"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.
"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."
He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.
"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.
"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"
He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.
"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.
He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.
When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.
"Oh."
"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."
You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.
Useless.
The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep.
The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.
You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.
He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”
“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”
You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.
Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”
You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.
“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”
Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.
“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”
You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”
He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”
Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.
“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”
You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”
He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.
And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.
Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.
“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”
He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”
You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”
There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.
“Do you trust me?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”
You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”
You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.
You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.
“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”
“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.
“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.
You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”
You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.
“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”
You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”
You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”
Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”
He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.
“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.
You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”
You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.
He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”
“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”
You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.
Then his hand drifts lower.
He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.
“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.
“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”
You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.
“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.
“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.
You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.
You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.
You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.
His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.
“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”
He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.
“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.
Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it.
“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.
You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.
“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”
“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”
He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.
“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.
He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.
“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”
“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”
He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.
After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”
“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”
“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.
“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”
You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.
Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.
The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway.
Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.
He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.
There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.
But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.
And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.
The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.
Especially then.
WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!
If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!
so how about some GATOR comforting his chubby girlfriend who’s having body image issues? i feel like he’d try hard, misspeak, lowkey make things worse, and then manage to fix it. thots? 💜 keer-y on main 💜
love notes: hi bestie @keer-y ilysm. okay so, i had a similar idea for a blurb about his posters (bro you're 27 c'mon, grow up) so i combined them. us curvy babes need to stick together.
"So, ya don't think I'm strong or somethin'?" Gator looked at you, setting his jaw. "Can flip ya 'roud just fine, never heard ya complain about it before."
Your sigh was more of a groan, because of course he'd take it this way. Like your own insecurities were just a reflection of his fragile masculinity.
You were standing in his bedroom, both half dressed mid foreplay, as he sat on the edge of the bed. That annoyingly stupid but adorable look of confusion. Face scrunched up like he was insulted or smelt something funky, could go either way when he looked like that.
"Oh my god, that's where your brain goes?"
"Well, what else am I suppose'ta think?!" He shot back, throwing his hands up. "You're all mopey, then start talkin' shit 'bout how you been feelin' 'bout yourself, then say 'do you still even find me attractive?' after bein' all weird 'bout me pickin' you up! Just connect the dots, sweetheart."
"You're making up your own dots, because how the hell does that even make sense? It's not about you, Gator!"
You were exasperated. You should feel happy. Elated even. Months of dating, after this gorgeous idiot of a man pulled his head out of his ass. Months of great sex, that still sometimes made you feel insecure.
It was usually louder on days like today. When you were in his bedroom, surrounded by posters of airbrushed bikini models, straight from the pages of some early 2000s Maxims his dad probably gave him. The perfectly generated bodies staring back at you as he stripped your own clothes off. They were always there, a silent, paper army judging you.
"Look, I don't get it." He said, standing up and taking a few steps toward you. "Yer here. With me. We're doin' all this kissin' an' touchin'. It feels... damn good. So why're ya all pissy?"
That was the thing about Gator Tillman. He was a simple man at his core.
You felt a lump in your throat. The fight draining out of you, replaced with that hot, burning shame that came with feeling so vulnerable.
"It's… it's just different, okay?" you mumble, turning your back to him to look at a poster of a woman impossibly thin and tan.
"Diff'rent how? You're diff'rent now? 'Cause you ain't." He's right behind you now, and you can feel the heat from him. "You're still the same girl I chased 'round the fairgrounds last summer. Same girl I wanted to punch that rookie in the face for lookin' at wrong. Same girl I…"
He trailed off, and you heard the slight creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight.
"God dammit." The words were sharp and frustrated. "This is what I'm talkin' about. Words are for girls and... books and shit. I'm bad at 'em."
"Yeah, no shit." You muttered.
His eyes followed your line of sight to one of the posters on his wall.
His big hands gripped your generous hips, turning you to face him. His expression wasn't angry, just raw. A little lost.
"Alright. Look." He took a deep breath. "I'm gonna say somethin', and it's gonna come out wrong. But just… listen to the thing I'm tryin' to say, not the words I'm usin'."
You blinked, not expecting that. "Okay…"
"Okay." He repeated, nodding to himself. "Them girls," he jerked a thumb over at the posters. "They're like… like a popsicle. Looks good when you're hot, but there's nothin' to 'em. Melt in a second, ain't no substance."
A small, watery chuckle escaped your lips. "A popsicle?"
"Shut up, I'm tryin'ere," A hint of a smile played on his own lips. "You… you ain't a popsicle. You're like a a big ol' bowl of chili. Or some of yer grandma's cornbread. You're… hearty. Warm. Fills ya up. Makes you feel good."
"You're comparing me to... chili?"
"It's a good thing!" He insisted, his hands squeezing your hips. "It means I want ya. Not just to look at. I want to have ya. To hold on to. To feel all of ya when I'm inside ya. To wrap my arms 'round and sink into that... you know what I mean! Ya got those… birthin' hips. Soft tummy I can rest my head on. Thighs I could get lost in fer a week or more."
His voice dropped, getting huskier with each word. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "Tits perfect fer buryin' my face in. A big, soft ass that's got my name on it." He punctuated each statement with a kiss. A peck to your cheek, your nose, your jaw.
"I'm a simple guy, darlin'. I like simple things. And I like you. More'n anythin'. "
You just looked at him incredulously. He was so incredibly sincere, as absolutely ridiculous as his words sounded.
"You don't need to insult other body types to appreciate mine." You mumbled, but the defensiveness was gone. Replaced by a warmth spreading through your chest.
"Dammit woman! Didn't insult 'em. Said they're nice to look at. But they ain't real food. They ain't... you." He kissed your temple, then your cheek again. "Now… you gonna let me show you just how much I like all this… chili?"
"Not if you keep using that metaphor."
He scoffed, plush lips parted in disbelief. "Fine then, ya gonna let me taste all yer pretty bits?"
You broke. A real laugh, this one loud and unrestrained. "You're a moron."
"Yeah, ya ain't lyin' there." He agreed, a wide, boyish grin finally breaking through. "But I'm your moron. And I'm hungry."
His arms wrapped fully around your waist, pulling your soft curves flush against the hard planes of his body.
"Gonna start with those tits." He mumbled into your neck. "Always wanna start there."
He backed you up towards the bed, like a predator encrouching in your space. "Then work my way down. Might needa nap in between. A man needs his energy for a feast."
You were falling back onto the mattress with a soft 'oof', him landing on top of you with a grunt.
"Gator!"
"Jes' sayin'," he grins, nipping at your neck. "Gonna be a long night."
Aside from someone swiping your parking spot in the morning, something much more peculiar was afoot. And it involved one, six-foot-something somebody, boring holes into your back like he might actually beam lasers into you.
Which, in this particular case, was possible. Not that you knew.
Clark couldn't help himself, really. But this was the only natural response. He'd been hovering around you, wary and unsure when he could strike up a conversation. It wasn't that he was a hindrance for you, per se — his proximity helped, mostly in the getting people out of your personal space aspect when you'd gotten on the elevator to get coffee, with him following you like a shadow and effectively blocking everyone else.
Even that hadn't crossed the odd territory. Because you'd always gotten coffee with Clark Kent.
Except this time, he was friendlier-than-necessary.
You'd noticed it first when you walked into the building.
He was already there, all leaned up next to the receptionist counter, chirping happily with Jenn. When he sees you, he greets you with the same, dorky sweet smile felt far too bright for the current hangover you were dealing with.
"How are you so…bright at 8 am?"
Clark looks over to you, a confused look taking over his expression. "Bright?"
You stare at him deadpan, wincing at the metaphorical rays growing even more blinding at the taut smile that curls at the corner of his lips, two deep indents furthering your point.
"… Never mind."
The folders that were stacked in your arm were quickly lifted off you, purse coming off next. You blink and watch the taller man beside you awkwardly shuffle the straps of his messenger bag to make space for the feminine intruder.
"Don't worry about it." He assures, pressing the lift door open for you.
Huh. It felt weird not carrying anything.
His odd behaviours hadn't stopped there.
Clark was always nice to you, but this felt much. Territorial even. Sure, you appreciated him offering to help edit your copy.
But…
"Kent. Quit following me."
He jerks upright behind you — sounds of paper crumple in his fists.
"I-I'm not!" He protests, looking at the papers he just so happened to be carrying, lifting them like a trophy, far too excitedly. "I'm just…we're headed the same way. So."
You frown as you look ahead to the door marked for the Copy Room, and a far too smug Clark who saunters in ahead of you, keeping the door open for you with the heel of his shoe.
"Right. Sorry." You mumbled, awkwardly shuffling past him. He shuts his eyes, and you don't notice how he'd taken a quiet inhale of your fluttering scent.
Maybe you were imagining things.
[2:20PM]
Clark Kent: I bought you the pastries you liked. Come to the pantry!
[2:25PM]
Clark Kent: Did you take them?
[2:30PM]
You: No.
You: I think Olsen is eating them.
"Gosh-darnit. Olsen!"
You snort at the voice that rings in the bullpen as you grab your usual gear after setting your phone to airplane mode — recorder, notes and a phoney smile in preparation for your 3 pm interview.
[3:10PM]
Clark Kent: Bought them again…Andie told me you were at a meeting.
Clark Kent: Left them on your desk. 😬
[3:30PM]
Clark Kent: Covered the box it in the blue post-its so no one steals them.
[4:10PM]
Clark Kent: Are you free after work?
Clark Kent: I know somewhere quiet we can grab a bite.
Clark Kent: Saved the owners before.
Clark Kent: I mean. I know them. From somewhere.
[4:30PM]
Clark Kent: Anyways, let me know. 🤯
[4:40PM]
Clark Kent: Scratch that. I'm sure you're tired.
Clark Kent: I'll walk you home instead.
[5:02PM]
Clark Kent: <2 Missed Calls>
…Maybe not.
The second you'd turned your phone back on, it damn near buzzes out of your hands. What must've been ten text messages in barely an hour — and a now flashing contact image of Clark dressed as Big Bird for the Halloween Party lights up. You click on the green button.
"Hello?…"
"Hi! Gosh. Hi, sorry. You weren't answering, so I thought I'd.."
"I just wrapped up. De-brief took long. Did you need something?"
"No…—…yes. Have you…um, seen the messages I sent you?"
Your gaze darts to your desk, squinting at an ominously blue Post-it-covered box. Slowly, you peel it off the plastic to reveal pastries neatly tucked in it.
"…How could I not? They were covering my lock screen entirely."
He snorts out a rather unglamorous laughter, and then it dies down abruptly, "sorry…I don't like texting. I wanted to walk you home."
"….Why?"
"I think…it's what boyfriends do, right? I haven't done this in a while."
You pause, pulling the phone away from your face. Staring at it blankly.
"Be down in ten."
Boyfriend?
Slowly, you back into your desk, slumping into your chair with a dazed look. Crap. It was about yesterday, wasn't it?
"L-Look, I need to be clear before I — mmph, do this!"
Think. Think harder.
Shaw's. Lots of tequila. Bathroom.
"Get. Em. Off." You'd rustled the larger man against the sink, yanking his belt off with such force that he jerks forward.
Between the heavy panting into each other's lips and the dire need you had for his pants to be on the ground, you were pretty sure you just agreed to whatever he was saying at that point. But what exactly was it?
You rub your forehead in concentration.
"P-Please. Wait. I want to do this properly. T-The orders — haaahh…a little…messed up."
Nope. Not that. Fast-forward.
"D-Does this mean…we're together? Mm?"
"Yes, god," you moan brokenly, drooling over the fingers he had stuffed in your mouth, fucking you hard into the sink from the back. "— ngh, Clark, yes, yes, yes!"
…In your defence, who asks someone something like that in that sort of situation?
Clark's face lights right up when he spots you leaving the building. Crossing over to you in a few long strides. He's quick to take your purse off you, and you feel a twinge in your chest.
There was no letting him down easy. It was a bandage-ripping-off sort of situation at this rate. Because this? This was like looking at a child right in the face and telling them that Santa doesn't exist or that Christmas hype was merely a scheme created by greedy men profiting off the holiday industrial complex.
You hadn't even realised you both had walked all the way up to your front door when he finally stops, bouncing at the balls of his feet.
Eager to be let in.
Oh fuck it.
"Look…Clark, I —"
"I-I know you think I can't keep up," he interrupts. Taking a step forward with a white knuckled grip around the straps of your purse. "That…I could be too soft. But…I want to learn you. What you like, i-if you'd let me."
You quirk a brow.
"…Clark…I don't exactly think we're on the same pace."
"Why…not?"
Damn him and his dejected puppy dog look.
"I'm more of a fuck on the first date sort of girl." You admit. He visibly stiffens at your words, moving like a doll to make way for you as you open your door.
"And you're sweet. I'd hate to lose you as a friend."
When you don't hear a peep from him, you'd safely assume he somehow understood.
"So…"
What you don't expect is how quickly he has arm snaked around your waist before you can even register it. Lifting you up and crossing the thresholds of your apartment.
The lock clicks shut, the purse thudding to the ground when all semblance of his politeness snaps away. You'd instinctively gripped around his shoulders in surprise. Blinking.
Clark leans in, slow enough to give you time to say no. But you lean forward instead, giving him the answer he so desperately needed.
He grunts into your lips with a familiarity — the sounds rumbling into your throat at the prolonged hum of content.
Then, he pulls back breathlessly, looking at you.
"I can keep up." He promises, placing a peck and another.
His glasses gently bumping into your nose every single time he tilts his head to get a deeper kiss. It felt far too good, and far too natural for your body to reject the notion, so you melt into him completely, curling your arms around his broad back.
There are many things Scott has given you in a short period of time: migraines, high blood pressure, and a son you would do anything for. A son he doesn’t know exists. Cutting him off was hard enough — welcoming him home might be worse.
▸ PAIRING: Ex-FWB!Scott Miller x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, former situationship to baby daddy to lovers (all at the same time tbh), fingering, slight degradation and dumbification, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, bickering is their foreplay, breeding kink, mean in bed!scott, grumpy scott in general, hurt/comfort, emotionally avoidant!reader, miscommunication (my favorite, of course)
▸ WORD COUNT: 14.1K
▸ A/N: wowowow this is the second and final part of this story!!!! thank you so much for all the love in the first one <3 i'm glad we're all hyperfixated on this man who has no screen time together. i wrote this over a month ago but i've been rereading it aggressively to make sure it's good to free into the world. one of my fave things i've written and i fucking love scott my angsty husband <33 i hope you enjoy. if you do, please comment and reblog, i'd love to hear your thoughts!!!!
↤ main masterlist | part one
“I extended my trip.”
It’s the first thing you hear when Scott shoulders past you in the evening. You’re still standing, shell-shocked by the door, trying to comprehend how this man is in your apartment hours past his supposed flight time. He comes in bearing paper bags with your local fancy grocery store stamped onto the front.
Scott has never grocery shopped a day in his life.
“Why?” You question slowly. Your eyes briefly fly to Ben who’s scribbling on the coffee table, he looks up curiously when he sees the familiar face.
“Uncle Scott,” he beams in greeting.
Scott matches that expression, the sweetest he’s ever looked, as he comes over and ruffles his hair. “Hey, big man, what’re you working on?”
“Me, mom, and dog.”
“Dog, huh?” he chuckles, “I’m sure we can arrange that.”
Ben brightens, hopeful eyes turning to you. You’re going to strangle this man. “Let’s talk about it after dinner, bud.” Your narrowed eyes switch over to Scott. “A word?”
He confidently strolls back over to you, disregarding your glare as he begins to pull out all sorts of things. Mushrooms, vegetables, packs and packs of meat. USDA Prime. Jesus Christ— “What are you doing?”
“Unpacking groceries.”
You pinch his side. He’s built like a brick wall, he doesn’t even flinch. “Scott.”
He says your name in response. A teasing lilt hanging to each letter.
“Why are you here? What is all this?”
“Groceries.”
“Don’t be an ass. Why did you extend your trip?”
“To spend time with you.” He begins to organize your fridge. Worst part? He knows exactly how you like your fridge arranged so he’s putting all the things in all the right places.
“I’m serious,” you hiss.
“What makes you think I’m not?”
You swallow, gaze flying to Ben again who’s back to drawing out his dream dog. It looks more like a deformed puppy but you get the gist of it. “We can’t—” you take a deep breath, “Listen, Ben is young. He’s going to latch onto you if you keep coming around.”
“Would that be so bad?”
The question infuriates you. You scowl, “Are you fucking kidding me? That would be a nightmare. What happens when you leave? He’s going to be asking around for Uncle Scott who will never come around again. There’s a reason why I don’t bring around just anyone to meet him.”
Scott’s eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, but you know him better than that. “You bring others around to meet him?”
“I— no, that’s not what I meant. Jenna’s really the only person who comes over other than my mom. The staff at the hospital know because he pops by time to time. I don’t— I’m careful about who I expose him to. I don’t want to have to answer questions about where someone went or pick up the pieces of a boy who shouldn’t have his heart broken because people disappear on him.”
He seems to mull over this for a moment. His next question sends a shock through your system.
“Who says I’m leaving again?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Traitorous little thing is getting excited for nothing. “What’re you talking about?”
“Storm Par is set up and running. We have a good team down in Oklahoma always collecting data. I’ve been managing mostly strategy and investor relations.” He looks a little too pleased when he says, “I need to be closer to potential funders anyway, a lot of them are in the northeast.”
“You’re not—” Your breath hitches in your throat, “you’re not considering moving back, are you?”
A proud look settles on his face. “Just signed for a sublet for the next couple of months while I look for a more permanent apartment. How’s this neighborhood? I don’t remember it being particularly nice, but it seems good. How do you feel about moving?”
“Scott,” you snap. “That’s insane. You can’t just— that’s crazy. You were literally supposed to leave today. Suddenly, you’re deciding to stay here? On a whim? What’s wrong with you?”
“Not a whim, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve… just decided it’s the right move.”
“In one night?”
“I don’t need more time than that.”
You give him a look. “That’s stupid.”
“It’s efficient decision-making.”
“Scott.”
“What’s for dinner? Does he have any allergies?”
“Scott.”
He takes a deep breath, sapphire eyes dulled out as he looks up at the ceiling, praying for some lord almighty to save him. “We can spend all night arguing about this but it’s a done deal. I like Boston, I’ve decided to come back. Is that so hard to believe?” Before you can say yes, absolutely, Scott continues, “I’ve thought about this for a while. Trust me when I say I am not doing this impulsively and I’m not just going to change my mind.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down, neither budging. Two stupidly stubborn fools.
Scott’s eyes are jagged when they first land on yours, sharp in a way that could cut. But the longer he looks at you, the more they thaw, like ice melting in the changing of seasons. It’s a soft transition that warms your frozen heart.
However, then his gaze trails to your mouth, the way they’re parted, teeth peeking out in aggravation, tongue pressing against your teeth as your jaw is clenched. His eyes go molten, scorching as they sear into your skin, tracing your bare shoulders, the length of your neck, exposed collarbones.
“Should put more on you,” he mutters.
“What?” You jerk back, confused.
“Nothing. Dinner? I don’t know how to cook.”
“Then get your own damn dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”
He challenges you with a raise of his eyebrow. “But I bought groceries.”
“That I didn’t ask for.”
“I fuckin’ forgot how bull-headed you are sometimes. Arguing for the sake of arguing.” He huffs a laugh through his nose, hip leaning against your counter, eyes sparkling. “If you wanted to fuck, just say so.”
His voice is low, low enough that you know Ben doesn’t catch it over the sound of the television, but it still puts you on high alert. “Can you not say insane things when my son is around?”
“Always picked a fight when you wanted a fuck,” he smirks.
Your lips part, ready to tell him off, but he turns to the sink instead, beginning to wash his hands.
“Now, what do you need help with?”
Scott’s reappearance has thrown your life for a loop, adding this new, uncontrolled variable that you’re not sure how to handle. He drops you off and picks you up from work. The moment he heard that you’ve been taking the train an hour each way to work, he made that call with no room for argument. He refuses to even drop you off a block away from the hospital so you end up with your coworkers’ curious eyes on you when you’re pulling up every morning in Scott’s stupidly shiny car.
“Have a good day at work, honey,” he would call out obnoxiously through the open window.
The furious glare you throw his way does nothing to deter this behavior. Now, you’re bombarded with questions about him every time you have a moment to yourself, which means you no longer have a shred of peace at work.
He comes by nearly every evening; you say nearly because you had to cut him off, tell him that he cannot show up every single day.
“Why not?”
“Scott. You can’t just come here everyday, he’s going to get confused. You are not family.”
“Yet.”
“What?”
“Fine. Every other day, but full weekends.”
It’s a compromise that you tried to negotiate down, but he refuses to budge on.
The worst part is that Scott is terrific with Ben.
He’s smart and answers all of Ben’s questions with tact. The moment your son learns that Scott works with tornadoes, chasing after them and being smack dab in the middle of the action, he’s absolutely enthralled. You have to emphasize to Scott that you will murder him if Ben ever tells him that he wants to be a tornado chaser.
“I’ll protect him, don’t worry,” is all he says.
You still worry.
Beyond that, Ben seems to enjoy his company, has started asking when Uncle Scott would be coming around again so he could show him the progress he’s made on the massive Superman LEGO set that Scott had gotten him.
“You can’t spoil him too much,” you frown when he pops by on his assigned day, a gift box in hand. It’s the fourth in two weeks.
“He’s a kid. He likes toys.”
“You can’t spoil him,” you mutter.
Your worry is partially rooted in the fact that you can’t just give Ben whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but it also stems from your guilt for not being able to provide all this. It’s not as if you’re not making money; you save enough from your salary, but Boston is an expensive city.
Scott seems to understand this. He dials it back, but you know that he’s itching every time Ben mentions something new he’s curious about. He just picks and prioritizes what he gets him.
Otherwise, he’s good. Too good even. That seems to be a pattern when it comes to him.
You tell yourself it’s because he doesn’t know he’s the father. It’s less commitment, less pressure. He plays the role of a cool uncle who showers Ben with gifts and attention.
Scott has pressed again, of course — who’s the father, when did this happen, do I need to have a conversation, you could fight for child support — to which you answer no repeatedly. An easy denial to give him none of the answers he’s looking for. It never stops him from asking again; he thinks he’ll wear you down eventually.
Truth be told, you think that Scott will bore himself soon. He can’t possibly be serious about permanently moving back to Boston. You’re convinced that in the next couple of weeks, he’ll realize that this pretend domesticity isn’t the life he wants, and he’ll pack up his bags again and leave. When that day comes, you won’t be disappointed.
As long as he never finds out Ben is his son, you’ll be fine.
(Maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll actually believe your own words.)
However, you seem to have a knack for putting your foot in your mouth and speaking too soon, because your worst nightmare comes to fruition one day when you let your guard down. Usually, you do a pretty good job of keeping track of their conversations, making sure they stay on safe territory that gives away nothing. Ben has zero clue about his father anyway, so there’s nothing really to give away.
Or so you think.
You’re caught up trying to balance sending work emails and batting away your mother’s efforts to inquire more about Scott. She’s been badgering you nonstop to learn more about your history, prodding Scott whenever she’s here to share more, even going as far as to drop the most obvious hints.
“You know, she is very single. Incredibly single.”
“Mother!”
“I’m aware,” Scott smirks. “Refuses to let me change that.”
You don’t appreciate the way he’s looking at you now, how your body is tingling all over from the memories. The press of his fingers on your hip, how his mouth feels mapping out the curve of your breasts, the burn between your legs when he pushes himself in with a hungry groan.
Heat unfurls across your face and you’re quick to turn away, missing how your mother and Scott share knowing looks.
But now that she’s not here, she’s still torturing you with incessant, inane questions about him. The only thing you manage to catch in the midst of your stress is Scott saying, “Your birthday’s in Decem—”
You don’t think much of it. Not for a moment. Until it hits you.
By the time you look up, Scott’s already directing his eyes towards you. Your blood runs cold.
It’s not a question. He knows. He’s not a fool.
Born the December in the year that you graduated college, it’s not difficult to do the math on when Ben was conceived. If you retrace your steps, it’s not difficult to know who had done the conceiving.
The two of you don’t address it, not out loud. Not yet. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to configure an excuse or a lie that would work in this instance. You’re running on empty, especially when your heart is beating straight out of your chest. Everything feels hot, your body can’t seem to handle this stress very well.
You have maybe an hour left before Ben’s due for bed and you’re half tempted to keep him awake because that means keeping Scott’s anger at bay. You can feel it roll off him in waves, crackling energy that zaps you even from this distance.
The minutes tick down much too quickly and, before you know it, Ben is yawning on cue and you’re getting him ready for bed. You spend a little longer than necessary tucking him in, reading him his story, all the while Scott is standing in the doorway watching the two of you.
He’s being considerate of Ben, maintaining his distance before he probably rips you a new one. You appreciate it, but you press an extra kiss or two onto your son’s face before you exit the room — for good luck.
When the two of you are back in the living room, Ben completely out cold to the world, Scott doesn’t ask. He simply states the irrefutable truth.
“He’s mine.”
You clear your throat. “Technically, he’s mine.”
“Don’t fucking act cute with me right now,” he snarls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the hallway both of you just left. “That’s my kid in there. Are you fucking kidding me?”
Wincing, you take a step away from him. “Can we not do this?”
“Like hell I’m letting this slide. You’ve got to be shittin’ me. That’s my kid. Ben is mine.”
The pulsing in your head only worsens the harder he glares, the more he seethes. “You’re the father. Doesn’t make him yours.”
You hear the sharp intake of breath. The confirmation landing firm in his chest. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Why does it matter?” You snap, throwing his irritated look right back at him.
“You’ve got to be on another fucking level of insane to think it doesn’t matter.”
“I was going to,” you begin, “tell you, I mean, but the timing never felt right.”
Scott looks at you, completely aghast. “Timing never felt right? You knew. You knew before I left, before we graduated. All those times you didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to eat sushi, this was why. You had all the fucking time in the world to tell me.”
“Would it have changed anything?”
“It would’ve changed everything!”
Your lungs feel devoid of oxygen as you look at Scott, his frustration palpable. Fury is carved into the lines of his face, eyes blazing with the sort of anger you’ve never seen on him. However, in between the twist of his lips and the fire in his gaze, you see a flicker of something warmer. Softer.
Hurt.
The kind of hurt that comes with a betrayal that you cannot take back.
Scott breathes out. “I would’ve been here for you.”
“I never asked you to.”
“You never asked,” he spits out, “you never let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you let me believe that I had fucked up something between us. You cut me off and I didn’t even know why.”
“It would’ve been selfish,” you argue.
“It would’ve been fair,” he insists. “You should’ve trusted me to make my own judgment call.”
Your fingers wring together in front of you. Is this it then? The point of no return. You can’t seem to find the words to say to remedy the situation.
“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” you murmur. “Between me and your dream.” The unsaid words being I didn’t want to watch you choose your dream over me.
Scott has always been larger than life. He is meant for greater things, to innovate and create. He has gone so far since you first met him. He’s become an even bigger person than you could’ve imagined.
What right did you have to hold him back from all that?
“Again, that’s not for you to decide,” he sighs, “Have you ever considered they’re one and the same?” Your gaze flies up to meet his weary one. “You’re an idiot,” Scott mutters. “So fuckin’ stupid.”
You press your lips together into a thin line. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”
“Does he know?”
With a shake of your head, you lean back. “No, he’s been… pretty good at not asking too many questions about who his dad is. It’s only a matter of time before that curiosity grows though, especially once he starts school and the other kids will undoubtedly ask him.”
“I can help you with all that, you know. I am his father after all.”
Wincing, you swallow thickly. “You don’t have to, Scott. It was my decision to go through with the pregnancy. You don’t have to feel like you have to participate.”
“Why do you keep saying it like that?” He lets out an exasperated sound. You frown in question. “Like I don’t want to be here. For him. For you.”
“I— I just don’t want you to feel pressured to—”
“Sweetheart,” he begins and your heart feels like it’s been dipped in syrup, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I’ve been present, haven’t I? And that was before I even knew he was mine. What makes you think I’m going to change my mind?”
“It’s different! Being here to support me as a friend and being here as— as his dad! As a parent.”
Scott looks up to the ceiling again, inhaling deep through his nostrils. “Tell me how it’s different.”
“A fun uncle is not a co-parent.”
“So I want to co-parent.”
“You don’t know what that means.”
“It means being here for you, for him. It means having equal responsibility and stakes in raising him. It means you’re not doing this alone.”
A lump grows in your throat as you look at him. His determination is evident.
“So I’m going to need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to piss you off, you’re going to piss me off, but we’ll make it work.”
You laugh, tears pricking the corner of your eye. “Maybe if we don’t kill each other first.”
His lips curve into a smirk. “You can’t kill me. I’m your baby daddy after all. Fucked you so hard that your birth control didn’t work.”
You almost choke on your own spit. “You’re such a piece of shit.”
He laughs. “Don’t forget the father of your child.”
Your fingers are itching to make contact with his cheek. He really can be such an asshole sometimes. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Repeating the fact that he’s Ben’s father, reminding you again that he knows your big secret now. The worst part is you know that he’s doing it intentionally; the more irritated he gets you, the better the sex. He likes it when you fight back, when you push him.
He likes it when he can put you in your place.
“Some friend you are,” you grunt.
Scott’s rising to his feet, moving towards you. With every step he takes forward, he backs you up until your lower spine lands against the kitchen counter.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” Scott says low, coming up to press you against the solid surface. With both hands planted on either side of you, he leans towards you. Your breath catches. “We’re not friends. We haven’t been for a while.”
“That’s… mean,” you whimper.
“The things I want to do with you — to you — they’re not things friends do.”
There’s a promise in his gaze that has your heart fluttering, your stomach curling with desire as heat builds between your legs.
It’s hard to breathe when he’s this close. Hard to even think. Your palm flattens against his firm, broad chest, applying pressure in a feeble attempt to put some distance. Except now you can’t help but feel the way his pecs feel underneath your fingers and you can picture yourself on top of him, sinking down on his cock while your hands are planted on his skin.
Heaven have mercy.
“Things are different now,” you gulp.
“You think I still can’t make you cum three times in a night?”
Your lips part. “That’s not—” Heat climbs up your throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Scott chuckles. “I hope you know that this only makes me want you even more. You’re stupid if you think I’m ever letting you out of my sight again.”
“Just because you want to be here and be a father does not mean that it changes anything between us.”
His joy quickly morphs into irritation again. “Why not?”
“Because Ben will always come first and we can’t… just keep fucking.”
“Again, why not?”
Because I’m in love with you. Because I’m going to get my heart broken again.
“I want to maintain some boundaries. It’ll be better for us that way.”
Scott is quiet, thoughtful as he regards you, before he straightens. “Okay then. You do that. You maintain your boundaries.”
“Thank you.”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll be helpin’ you do that,” he laughs, bitter as he smiles at you. A threat laced into his expression. “Better prepare yourself, sweetheart. I’m not here to protect your walls. I’m here to break them down.”
“We should go out.”
Your gaze lifts from your laptop, eyes instinctively wandering down the hall to Ben’s room where he’s safe and sound asleep, then back to Scott who’s on his own laptop on the dining table. “Like to get groceries?”
“No, for dinner.”
You look over your shoulder, to the take-out menus stuck to the fridge with a mismatched set of magnets. “There’s a pizza place Ben likes down the street. We could go tomorrow.”
“Finally letting me in two days in a row?” Scott cocks an eyebrow.
A glare is all he gets in return.
“I meant us. Just the two of us.”
Your fingers stop, hovering over the keyboard. “Why?”
“So I can take you out.”
“Why?”
“To spend some time together. You know, outside of parenting.”
Parenting still sounds foreign on his tongue, at least to you. Scott seems to have settled in comfortably with the title, taking on the mantle even without the official acknowledgment. The two of you agreed to ease Ben into it; he seems to have taken a liking towards Scott so at least telling him may be easier than you initially anticipated.
However, considering the situation at hand, you can only ask, “Why?”
“How old are you?” Scott snaps.
“I don’t think we need to do anything together outside of parenting.”
“Why not?”
It’s your turn to give him a look. “We are two people who happen to be raising a child together. Somewhat.”
“But we’re friends first.”
“I think co-parenting supersedes the friend label now, which means I can’t be doing that with you. Not alone.”
He knows you’re being obstinate for the sake of it, pissing him off just because you can. However, he doesn’t take the bait.
“You know what, you’re right, sweetheart. Let me rethink this.”
Scott was never one to give up easily. On the contrary, when presented with a challenge, he rises to the occasion. He goes above and beyond.
It starts off innocuous enough, subtle that you nearly think that all of it is accidental. When he’s trying to help around the kitchen and he reaches across you, arm brushing your breasts. Your nipples perk up on instinct, seeking the familiar warmth of his touch like you’ve been trained. He doesn’t say a thing so you brush it off as inconsequential. His hand on your hip when he’s excusing himself behind you. His eyes on you when he licks his thumb clean off the brownie batter you’re making.
It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. These tiny touches, interactions that shouldn’t mean anything. You shouldn’t be reacting this way. You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a while since you got laid last — unfortunately, by none other than the source of your frustrations.
But then the touches become firmer, intentional in a way that you can’t miss. He’s slipping an arm around your waist when he picks you up at the hospital, head ducking to press a kiss to the side of your head, all the while you’re mid-conversation with a coworker who then scurries away under Scott’s glare. In the car, he’s sliding a possessive hand over your thigh, squeezing when he asks you about your day. He has a hand pressed against your lower back at all times, practically manhandling you when you move around different spaces.
And god do you fucking love it. Maybe it’s because you’ve been deprived of physical touch for so long, you haven’t had anyone in your corner reminding you that they’re there. But you also know yourself better than that and the only reason all of this works is because it’s Scott and you were in love with Scott.
You tell yourself it’s all in the past. This is the remnants of your feelings long forgotten from your more youthful self.
But then it all disappears. The touches. The fleeting glances. The flirty smiles. The difference is jarring and you can’t help but notice the extra space he puts between the two of you when you’re walking with Ben, keeping him in between you two. Or how he moves away from the kitchen when you enter it, and again when you move into the living room. Or how his question actually sounds polite when he asks you how work went.
How he doesn’t even blink twice when you tell him a colleague — that same one that he had scared away — had asked you out to dinner.
The frustration builds inside of you, like he’s crafting a wall with the distance brick by brick. You find yourself leaning towards him only for him to shift in his seat and away from you. The inches between you on the couch feel like they stretch for miles, his arm extended on the other side instead of behind your back.
You feel like an addict seeking a fix, constantly chasing after him — subtly, not enough for it to be obvious, but certainly enough for him to notice.
So, by the time he suggests it again, he’s Pavlov’d you to seek his attention. Fucker.
“Do you want to spend the day together?”
You grit your teeth. Somehow, Scott has conspired with your mother that she whisked Ben away early this morning for a trip to the zoo and you end up with this asshole at your front door with a smirk on his face, shoulders squared, chin tilted up like he’s done something good.
“You did this on purpose.”
“What did I do?”
He knows exactly what he did. “All of it.”
“Come on. Get dressed.”
“You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” you snap.
“Nowhere you need anything fancy,” he says before steering you by the elbow out the door.
You allow yourself to be pushed into the car, he even straps your seatbelt in for you, before he’s driving. Destination still unknown. You try to ask and Scott tells you to just relax, tells you that you’re wrung up too tight.
Then he stops and you look quizzically out the window.
“I got you a massage appointment.”
You nearly break your neck at the speed you whip around to look at him. “What? Why?”
“Thought it would be a nice thing to do. You used to gather knots like you were starting a collection and I had to press all of that out for you. Figured, with all the years of build up and I highly doubt you’ve been smoothing those out, a professional could do a better job.”
At a loss, you find yourself only staring at him. He looks cocky, so damn proud that he’s done something right — that he knew exactly what you needed.
“Now get going, they’re not gonna find another timeslot for you.”
With your mind in a blur, you exit the vehicle. The spa is nice, a mix of lavender and eucalyptus in the air that has you relaxing almost instantly. The experience is… divine to say the least. For once, you have not a single thought in your mind and you find yourself melting into the table during your two-hour long session.
By the time you step back outside, after the people inside tell you that it’s been paid for, Scott is waiting out front. In a daze, you slip back into the car.
“Good?” is all he asks.
You nod slowly.
“Good,” he smiles, “now, let’s get you ready for dinner.”
Scott tells you that he’s taking you somewhere casual, but nice. Nice enough that you end up spending a bit of time washing your hair, doing your makeup, even fixing your hair a little bit. When you spritz on perfume, you tell yourself that it’s for your sake.
But you can’t deny that when you see Scott drink you in — how his blue eyes go ten shades darker, how his lips part when he gets a whiff of the florals clinging onto your skin — that it might’ve been for him too.
You would think a man like Scott would take you somewhere nice, somewhere you’re going to be gawking at the prices all night, wondering if you should even be in a place like that. But when he pulls up to a quiet corner in Cambridge, an Italian restaurant that seems all too familiar, you find yourself caught off guard.
“What? You would’ve preferred steak and fries at Del Frisco’s?” He’s chuckling quietly to himself, knowing full well what your answer would be.
Before you can reach for your door, Scott’s rounding the car and pulling it open, even going as far as to offer a hand.
He’s a perfect gentleman the entire night. When you hesitate on ordering because of the prices, Scott — the condescending prick that he is — orders for you, except he orders right. You’ve been eyeing that dish but you couldn’t do the math fast enough to figure out your budget for the month. He orders a bottle of red, your favorite — it’s nothing fancy, but it had been a step up when you felt like splurging in college. The food is delicious, reminiscent of the old days when he would treat you to a meal to make you feel better, right after he fucked you seven ways to Sunday.
You’re warm, body buzzing with your fill of food and wine. For the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter, like the world isn’t weighing down on your shoulders. Scott drives you back home and he stops right in front of your apartment building.
You know what’s coming. A proposition — as always. You’re going to say yes — as always. He’s always been a snake charmer, saying and doing all the right things to get one into bed with him. It worked on you for months. It used to work on all the ladies before he stopped using it on them.
It still works on you, considering you’re feeling that warmth between your legs. That anticipation humming in your veins. You can practically taste his mouth on you, the tartness from the wine mixed with the gelato you ordered for dessert. You take a breath in eager hopefulness.
However, when he walks you to the apartment entrance, he only kisses the back of your hand. “Have a good night, sweetheart.” Then he’s slowly making his way down the steps, leaving you completely gobsmacked.
You find yourself saying, “Wait,” before you can even think twice.
Scott halts, turns, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.
You should have more self-restraint. But when he’s looking at you with those bright blue eyes and an expression that promises you a good time, you’re only human.
“What is it?”
You fidget with the handle of your purse. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” he drawls, tilting his head like he’s waiting to see your next move.
“You’re not gonna stay?”
Scott’s lips quirk up, shfiting into a look too cocky for your liking. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“Doesn’t sound like you do,” he makes a face, raising his shoulders in a shrug as he pretends to slowly turn back around.
You should let him go. You hope he has fucking blue balls tonight. However, that also means you’ll be left alone with your thoughts in an empty apartment and your vibrator on a Saturday night, and that sounds a heck of a lot less fun than getting your brains scrambled by the one man who knows exactly how to do that.
“Do you want to come up?”
It’s comical how quickly he whirls around to say, “Don’t mind if I do.”
The ride up the elevator is weighed down by tense silence. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears in time with the numbers that climb, a beep in rhythm to each floor. Scott stands next to you, hands planted on the railing casually, but you hear the impatient tapping of his shoe. When the elevator finally dings, he lets you leave first and you feel the burn of his gaze on your back, trailing the length of you down to the curve of your ass where the silk of your dress rests.
Your fingers are barely functional as you clumsily dig through your purse to open the door. It’s one thing to have someone watching you, it’s another to have Scott staring at you. The hungry look in his eyes, the way you can practically feel the heat radiate off him.
You don’t even get a chance to properly set aside your bag before Scott is pressing you up against the wall. He drinks in your surprised little gasp, your instinct to move away from him only has him backing you up against your kitchen counter. With you half-seated on it, Scott’s hands slide around your neck, cupping your cheeks so he can lick into your mouth. He takes the chance to slip his tongue in between your little gasps, tasting that sugar on your tongue.
“Fuck, sweetheart, been waiting to do that all night,” he groans as his mouth travels towards your neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin until you feel the sting spark every nerve inside your body. He does it over again, like he’s zapping you with electricity every time he leaves a new mark on your body.
You’re no better, your hands immediately crawling up his chest to find his buttons and fumble with them, slipping them out one at a time until you can shove his shirt off his shoulders. God, how is it possible that he seems even broader than before? Your palms explore his biceps, feeling the way they flex beneath your fingertips, muscles tensing into a firm surface for you to hold onto.
“You got… bigger,” you note in a daze. It’s ridiculous how drunk you feel right now and it’s certainly not from the wine. It’s his scent — masculine and clean. Like rain on freshly mowed grass, earthy in a way that grounds you. You can’t help but breathe him in, making a mental note that he still uses the same shampoo.
“A lot of time lugging around equipment out there,” he mutters. As if to prove a point, he lifts you up to the counter and wraps your legs around his waist. “Always getting drenched in the storms.”
Fuck. Terrible visual. You imagine him in a white short-sleeve shirt, the fabric soaking up all that rain and clinging to every inch of his muscles and leaving nothing to the imagination. His dusky nipples poking through the fabric. Curly brunette hair with droplets, that one stray hair on his forehead whenever it gets too humid. You can practically see the light smattering of hair on his chest, a path leading down to his navel.
God forbid that the women in Oklahoma have seen him like that. That’s a visual you’d rather keep to yourself.
Scott distracts you again when he brings his face back to kiss you. He kisses like he’s inhaling you, stealing every hitched breath from your lungs. His mouth is ravenous as it moves against you, teeth grazing your bottom lip lightly in a tantalizing threat. He finally nips and you let out a little whine that he laughs lightly at as he kisses you harder. Firmer. Soft lips, only slightly chapped, as they relearn what it is exactly that makes you moan down his throat.
“Love kissing you,” he mutters, “missed doing this. I want to do this everyday.”
You’re about to tell him why that would be a bad idea but you sigh dreamily instead, tipping your head back when he begins trailing wet kisses along your jawline again.
His hands wander to your back, dragging the zipper down quietly until your dress pools on the floor. His thumb brushes over your nipples peaking through the lace. “Missed these pretty tits too. Couldn’t get enough of them last time.” He ducks his head and tugs one free from your bra, lips closing in around your nipple in a wet heat. His groan reverberates straight through you, tongue laving around your pert nipple like he’s trying to coax it out.
As he does so, his other hand reaches for the clasp of your bra until you hear the little sound before it slides down your shoulders.
“Hands on the counter.”
“Bossy,” you murmur, but do so anyway.
Scott looks mildly surprised at your obedience and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You lean back slightly and spread your legs wider to let him step in between them, his mouth warm and sweet on your tits. He mouths hungrily at your breasts, biting, squeezing, until you’re a moaning mess arching into his touch. One of his hand slides down to your lower spine to yank you closer to him, pressing your core against the thickness in his pants.
“I’ve been hard all night lookin’ at you in that pretty dress,” Scott growls, “knew exactly what you looked like underneath it, couldn’t wait to take it off you.”
You appear to have lost your entire vocabulary when he slips that hand from your back to the space between you, two fingers against the panties that’s quickly gathering moisture. The whine that is pulled from your lips is instinctual. Pure primal need.
“Imagining you stretched out on that massage bed, naked, slicked up in oil. Fuck, I had to drive around and keep myself busy for two hours so I didn’t go back and do the job myself,” he huffs a laugh as he begins rubbing your clit over the material, arousal easing the slick of his fingers even with one layer between the two of you.
A gasp is wrenched from your throat as you stare at him, wide-eyed. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”
Scott hums, shaking his head, pressing harder, pulling out another needy sound. “Stop bein’ so tense. You’re undoing all of that woman’s hard work.” Your eyes light up briefly. “I wasn’t going to let some other man touch you. I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re such a possessive asshole,” you let out a breathless laugh, “it’s just a massage.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to be the only one that gets to touch these pretty tits. Not to mention, this—” he slides his fingers under your panties, gathering up the arousal from you slick folds on his fingertips and listening to the lewd squelch as he dips his fingers in just a tad. “You’re so goddamn wet.”
Instead of clamping your legs shut, embarrassed like you always have been, you can’t help but let your thighs fall apart further, giving him room to give you the pleasure that you so badly needed.
“You’re so much easier when you’re not stressed.”
That snaps you awake. “Oh, fuck you.”
Scott pushes two fingers in, the slide is swift and wet. “Just like that,” he grins as he slowly drags his fingers out only to shove them back in. He’s rough and he’s messy, you can hear how wet you are as he watches you come undone, thumb against your clit like he has something to prove. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re dripping all over the counter. You’re so messy, pretty girl.”
“S-Scott,” you moan, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I c-can’t, mmm, please.”
“I know, I know, still so tight, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he slowly sinks to his knees. You look down to find him with his starry eyes looking right up at you as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. You can see the moment his eyes flutter shut as he tastes you, tongue lecherously poking out to lick his fingers clean. “Better than dessert.”
“You’re so corny—” your words split off into a choked gasp when Scott dives in between your legs. His tongue drags all the way up to your clit until you’re bucking against his mouth. He licks and devours, the roughness of his tongue sliding up your slick folds, lips closing in around your core, your clit, to suck until you’re shuddering against him. “Fuck, Scott, wait, slow down.”
Scott leans away, giving you a brief moment of reprieve — except, when you look down at him, his bottom half is glistening in the moonlight that spills across your floors. His eyes return to your pussy, just beneath your stomach that’s rising and falling with your labored breaths.
His index and middle fingers rest on each of your lips as he slowly pries them apart, your pussy pulses and there’s no doubt that he catches that movement. The slight tensing, squeezing, inside of you. “Look at this pussy spreading so wet and easy for me. She’s droolin’, sweetheart.”
As if he can sense another argument on your lips, Scott leans forward again to press kisses onto your inner thigh, blooming warmth with every spot he touches. He kisses up and up until he’s back with his face between your legs, your thighs closing in around his head until he’s practically suffocating in your cunt.
It’s the way he likes it though. His hands on your ass to drag you forward so he can tongue-fuck you faster, knowing full well you’re enjoying it when you’re grinding against his face with tears leaking from your eyes and his name said in prayer.
That pleasure coils humiliatingly fast in your stomach. You can feel your climax, long abandoned, surfacing quickly. God, it feels so good, his mouth — it’s only gotten better. You hate to think if he fucked anyone else while he was away, because — of course he did, he was a hot young bachelor in bumfuck Oklahoma. He was probably the hottest shit down there.
Scott scowls up at you, “You’re tensing up again, what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” you blurt out, pressing your lips together.
He rises to his feet, fingers catching your chin. “Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” you snap irritably. Great, now you’re thinking about some cute girl in a cowboy hat he’s probably fucked the same way he did you.
“You just stiffened up again. Either you tell me, or I won’t fuck you.”
You roll your eyes, “Holding sex hostage? Real mature.” Well, two can play that game. “If you won’t fuck me, I’m sure I’ve got a few people on my dating apps that have been begging to.”
Scott’s eyes flash, your heart palpitates a little too aggressively. “Yeah? You wanna try that again with me?” Your mouth dries. “Sweetheart, you’re cute if you think I’m letting anyone else near this pretty pussy of yours. You think anyone can get you off?”
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.
“You’re mine,” he breathes out, catching your lips again. You can taste yourself on him, his moan vibrating against your mouth.
But you can’t deny his words. Instead, you let him pick you up and carry you all the way to the bedroom. He doesn’t stop kissing you the entire way, stealing your breath every chance he gets. Your back lands on the mattress, Scott climbing over you and pressing your legs into your chest.
“Love fucking you just like this,” he murmurs, applying just a little more pressure. “Maybe I can put another baby in you.”
“Scott!” You gasp.
“Fuck, I wasn’t even around when you were pregnant. I’d do it right this time. Make sure you’re taken care of — however that may be. Heard the first trimester’s roughest, probably needed a cock to fill you up, hm? Fill you up and get you so stupidly cockdrunk you won’t have the mouth to talk back to me.”
Another protest sits on your tongue but then Scott’s unzipping his pants and his cock, thick and throbbing, is in his hands, tip sitting at your entrance. You can feel your pussy dripping onto him, a trail of slick that slides down the length of him.
“I could fuck you, cum in you as much as I want — not like I didn’t already,” he chuckles, “no more risk of getting you pregnant twice. God, I could do that to you, sweetheart. Want another kid with me?”
“You’re— fuck, you’re insane.”
Scott only grunts as he begins pushing into you. “So fuckin’ tight. I need to teach your pussy how to take me again. You were so sweet and loose for me back then, we fucked so much, your cunt was shaped to my cock. Can’t wait to do that again.”
The ache burns between your legs as Scott stretches you out, your pussy opening up painfully slowly for him. You hold your breath, tensing up as he whispers for you to relax, to just keep your legs open and let him take what he needs. Your eyes roll when he finally buries himself all the way, the head kissing the deepest parts of you.
“S-shit, fuck, that feels so good. You feel like heaven.”
“Please, please just move,” you whine.
“I know, baby, but I can’t fuck you too fast, gonna hurt you. My cock barely fits in this tight pussy of yours,” Scott coos, dragging back his hips and slowly coaxing you open with a push of his cock. “I gotta go easy on her. She’s not used to being filled up, is she?”
You call him an asshole in your head, because you don’t trust your voice not to break in the haze of your pleasure.
“Pretty girl hasn’t had anyone taking care of her in a while.”
“I can take care of myself just fine,” you defend with a snap.
“Yeah? What? Those vibrators I see you hiding? Doesn’t feel the same, does it? You needed someone to fuck you properly.” Scott smirks, “Maybe I should’ve given you a dildo shaped to my cock. That way you could fuck yourself on it whenever you missed me. I’d make you call me when you do that, wanna hear you beg for my cock while you push it inside you. Better yet, I want to see you while you ride it and realize it ain’t the same as the real thing.”
“You’re so fucking gross,” you hiss and, sure enough, it melts into a moan when Scott drives into you again, and again, and again.
“What does it say about you when I can feel you chokin’ out my cock at the thought of it?” He laughs, taunting. “You’re as fucked up as I am, sweetheart. How do you think we made a baby in the first place?”
Oh fuck, Scott feels you open up to him, mold around him. That pain dulls into a throb that only serves to weave desire between your legs. You clench around him, pussy pulsing with his every word, as he fucks deep inside of you. He pushes you back into this mating press, groaning when he feels himself reach deeper inside you.
“Shit, baby, this pussy is fucking unbelievable. I can’t believe I gave this up for years. Missed fucking this gorgeous cunt so bad,” he swallows. That vein on his neck goes taut as he tries to stop himself. “You still on the pill?”
You nod weakly, fingers digging into his biceps as he pounds into you, his hips jerking faster and harder.
Then he laughs and it sounds mean and your stomach twists. “Didn’t do us much good last time though, huh? It’s alright, sweetheart. If you get knocked up again, I’ll be here. I’ll be here to fuck all that stress out of you, give you all the massages that’ll end with my head between your legs. Get you all your cravings so you can show your appreciation with your mouth on my cock.”
It’s disgusting, The thought of returning favors when he’s the one who gets you pregnant, but something about it has you tightening, punched in the stomach with a level of arousal that you can’t seem to contain.
“Don’t need to use this pretty brain of yours, baby. Just gonna have you barefooted waddling around and you can let me take real good care of you,” he pants, sweat beading his forehead as he fucks into you faster, holding himself back harder. “Make sure you and our baby are good. Don’t you worry.”
“F-fuck you,” you stutter as he drives back into you.
The bed creaks under the pressure of his thrusts, you’re getting fucked into the mattress that you can feel your body imprinting onto the bed. “That’s right. Good girl. Gonna make you a mommy again, sweetheart. Gonna put another baby into you. You’re already so cockdrunk, you won’t even know. I’m not letting you out of here until it takes.”
That knocks all the oxygen from your chest. “Shit, Scott— hold on.”
“Can’t do that,” he grunts, “pussy feels too good. Can’t get enough of this hole. I’m going to fill you up, baby. You’re gonna be leakin’ my cum for days. Maybe I’ll send you to get another massage and they’ll see you dripping my cream.”
Scott pounds into you, each word filthier than the next. He’s driving himself and you into a frenzy as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, squelching bouncing off your four walls.
“I’m gonna print my cock in your pussy so nobody else can touch you.”
“Breed this pussy so good, keep you plugged up with my cum for days.”
“This pussy was meant to be fucked, sweetheart. You don’t need princess treatment, just need to be fucked like you need another baby in you.”
It’s filthy. It’s demeaning. It’s a fucking turn-on.
“Yeah, you wanna cum, pretty girl? You wanna cum around my cock?”
You can only nod in your haze, desperate, eager.
“Cum around me, sweetheart. I wanna feel that cream coating my cock. I wanna feel that stickiness, feel what it’s like to have my girl feel so good because of me.”
Scott pounds into you faster, deeper as he fucks you harder into the mattress. He presses you further in this position, tilting your hips up until you’re climbing and climbing and falling apart around him with a loud whine. Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm, legs quaking around him as he drags out your climax with every thrust until he himself is spilling warmth inside you. You can feel the mess in your insides, feel it slosh around, feel it leak from where you two are joined.
“Fuck,” he groans, “cumming so much, sweetheart. Fillin’ her right up.”
Your heart slams against your chest as you feel exactly that.
Scott’s hips are still jerking with his cum spurting right into you. He refuses to budge, staying there until he’s sure everything’s out. Even then, he nudges his hips a little deeper, like he’s making sure his cum stays in there.
He eases out of you slowly, but he doesn’t let go of the pressure on your legs, keeping your hips up as he watches his cum ooze out of you. His brows pucker in annoyance as he uses two fingers to push it back into you.
You wince, pussy sensitive from the friction earlier. “Gross.”
“You like it.”
You do. It’s stupid but you do. Something about him staking his claim, leaving a part of him inside you, it’s just the kind of thing that has you squeezing around his fingers again.
Scott smirks. “Do you want me to clean you up?”
Your stupid, traitorous, dysfunctional brain says no. For some reason, you really like feeling his cum inside you. But you know that the correct answer is— “Yes.” It’s the only reason Scott asks – because he knows.
His eyes scan you for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth. Then he sighs and lets your legs down gently as he disappears, coming back only when he has a damp cloth in hand. It’s so strange for him to be so familiar with your place to know where things are.
At the same time — so right.
He wipes you clean, murmuring to himself about how pretty you look with his cum inside you. You try not to let your lips stretch too wide with the heat rolling across your face.
When he’s done, Scott slides himself in next to you, pulling you close.
That’s when you freeze because — what is this? What are you? The panic sinks in fast and you feel fear claw at your chest. You have a son. You can’t be doing — whatever the fuck this is — with his dad, who he doesn’t even know is his dad.
“Scott—”
“Sleep.”
“Go home.”
“No.”
“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “You can’t be here when Ben comes home tomorrow morning.”
Scott exhales long and hard, like he’s had enough of your shit. “Why not? I get full weekends, don’t I? That includes mornings. Now sleep.”
“Sleep in your own home! You can come back tomorrow.”
Before you know it, you’re back on your back and Scott’s on top of you, pinning you down with a glare. “Sweetheart, it seems like I didn’t fuck you hard enough. If I did, then you wouldn’t be thinkin’ whatever the fuck is going through that big head of yours right now. So, I’m going to fuck you again, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you stop treatin’ me like I’m some shameful one-night stand. I’m the father of your child — our child. So take your pick — do you want me to fuck you again until your head’s too full of cock to argue, or do you want to sleep?”
You open your mouth. Sleep is on the tip of your tongue, but then you feel him and his gaze warm on you and your legs press together on instinct.
He chuckles, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss onto your lips. “Good answer.”
Sure enough, he keeps his promise and you only find yourself falling asleep when he gives you your third orgasm of the night.
There is no monumental shift. Scott acts the same way he always has — at least around Ben.
He tries to maintain some level of distance but you can tell that he’s getting a little antsy about his own son not knowing who he is. Every time he asks you, you have to shoot it down, mainly for Ben’s sake.
But you also know that you raised a good, smart kid, which means it’s not surprising when Ben asks, “Who’s Uncle Scott really?”
“He is—” you pause, “—a friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
Fuck.
“No, he’s just a friend — like the kind you’ll meet in school.”
Ben looks at the television where there’s an interview of Scott playing, the one from a local station talking about his startup. “You love him?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Warmth creeps up on you and Ben must notice it because he’s smiling softly, patting your hand.
“I like him,” Ben gives his nod of approval before turning back to the LEGOs in front of him.
A four-year-old just reassured you that he likes his dad. His dad that he still doesn’t know about. You know it isn’t fair and you will tell him at some point, you’re just not sure how to have that conversation yet — not when Scott’s time here is uncertain, despite what he says.
Still, while Scott keeps things steady with Ben, he switches tactics with you. His hand is always touching you — your hip, your back, your shoulders. Subtle touches like a reminder that he’s here. It’s oddly comforting and you find yourself seeking his touch more than before.
Around your son, he still maintains some distance, even when you can tell he’s itching to get closer. The two of you are at the grocery store, you’re driving the cart while Ben runs ahead, giggling and pointing at everything he wants — which is really anything with at least twenty grams of added sugar.
Scott has an amused smile on his lips as he watches him.
“Think he could be a runner someday. Has the makings of an athlete. Maybe football,” he says, almost proudly with his chest puffed up.
You roll your eyes, “I’d rather avoid my son getting his head knocked around.”
“Or entrepreneur, he has a way with making you do things, you know. Smart. Manipulative.”
“Where do you think he got that from?”
Scott only smirks.
You’re scanning through your list when you realize, “Shit, I forgot to grab butter and it’s up the aisle.”
“I’ll grab it,” he says, squeezing your hip, “just get what you need here.”
Ben insists on getting chocolate milk, mainly because he’s convinced the chocolate cow on the box is real. You tell him that you could get the smaller version and that you’ll take him to a farm one day and realize that there are no cows that produce chocolate milk.
“With Uncle Scott? In Oka— Okla—” He struggles, frowning when he can’t remember.
Oh. “Oklahoma,” you add, “maybe. I’m sure there are closer farms.”
His mouth opens in a bright grin.
When you finally cave and put both the chocolate milk and the regular milk in the cart, you look back down the aisle to see Scott standing there.
Talking to a woman.
A woman who was very much his type before he met you.
Your chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s understandable that Scott has seen and is probably still seeing other women. The two of you don’t have a label on things, nothing you can tape to his forehead that says off limits.
She looks young, sweet, dressed like she has a life. She’s smiling up at him, giggling at something he’s saying in a way where you know it’s not because he’s funny. She reaches up to touch his arm and he takes a step back, a polite smile in place, then he’s saying something and looking at you. And then she’s looking at you too, face souring.
Alright then.
You turn away again, continuing to push the cart as Ben sets his mind on cereal next. He’s been on a Lucky Charms kick and you desperately need to move him off it. It’s all sugar and food coloring.
Scott appears next to you, a hand on your lower back as he puts the butter box in the cart. He peeks at your list. “Cereal next?”
“Um, yeah,” you say, eyes going over your shoulder to catch another glimpse of that woman. “She was cute.”
“Yeah, she was.”
Your lips immediately curl and Scott catches it before you can school your expression. “Didn’t get her number?”
“Told her I’m with my wife and kid,” he smirks.
Wife and kid— you’re not even sure how to respond to that, so you resort to clearing your throat with a deadpan look. “Glad to hear we can be used to avoid women you don’t like.”
“Well, I was only half lying, wasn’t I?” He huffs as the two of you turn the corner, finding Ben already with a box of Lucky Charms in hand. You sigh as Scott mutters under his breath, “Not too late to make it all completely true though.”
You try to convince Ben that cornflakes are much more fun, which is the least convincing argument you can make, until Scott steps in and says that cornflakes make him super strong like the rooster on the cover. So Ben swaps out his pick for a box of Froot Loops and declares that he wants to be strong like this bird instead.
It isn’t until the two of you are unloading groceries into his car that it hits you, and the bag nearly slips from his fingers.
Make it all completely true. Wife and kid.
“Took you long enough,” Scott chuckles smugly. “Give it some thought. Maybe we can stop by the jewelers on the way back.”
Scott is relentless to say the least. He has increased the frequency of touching, has made it all the more obvious in front of everyone. Your coworkers all know him by name, chatting with him when you wrap up work late. Sometimes, he’s the one who picks Ben up from your mom’s and brings him to meet you at the hospital.
Your mom, of course, is over the moon. She can’t stop gushing over him, telling you how he helped her fix her leaky faucet, how he’s always on time to pick up Ben even when he’s still in the middle of work, and “Did you know he was featured in Forbes?”
He finally invites you and Ben over for dinner in his new apartment. It’s much more spacious, a two-bedroom that’s twice the size of yours — one of which he has set up for Ben. So Ben is also over the moon when he sees how massive his bedroom is. He asks if the two of you can stay and you only manage a tight-lipped smile before you redirect your glare towards Scott.
“Your place too,” Scott says casually, handing you an extra set of keys. “In case you ever need some more space.”
Later, he also shows you that he’s left most of the closet empty in the master bedroom. “In case you need to stay over.”
It’s sweet. It’s thoughtful.
It’s too much.
You don’t even know where you stand with him. He takes you out again and then another time; you tell yourself that this is just friends hanging out, but you know it’s different when you end up in his bed at the end of the evening. The first time you slept with him at his and tried to leave after, you realize that your shoes are nowhere to be found.
“Where are my shoes?”
“I knew you were going to pull some stupid shit like this. So I hid them.”
“What the fuck? Are you four?”
“No, but our son is. Now get your ass back into bed.” You cross your arms over your chest, planting your foot down in protest. Scott regards you coolly. “You either come here on your own accord or I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”
He doesn’t make threats lightly, so you stomp all the way back to his bedroom where Scott proceeds to fuck you over again and makes sure that you have no energy left to move.
Things are… good.
For the first time in years, you feel almost at peace. Ben’s a good kid, raised right, adored by all around him. He’ll start school next year with a stronger support system, what with Scott vowing to attend every parent-teacher conference and other events that require his presence. The two of you agree to tell Ben in a month — a month to prepare for the conversation.
You can’t even imagine what it’s like — living four years of your life never seeing your father and then suddenly dropping one in his lap. Well, you suppose it isn’t very sudden considering Scott’s been around more often than not. Part of you hopes that Ben is hopeful about Scott, it’ll make the conversation easier.
That being said, your work schedule has been atrocious which means you haven’t had the chance to really sit down with him and have a conversation on how to broach the topic with your son. The one time you finally manage to get off work early, you decide to swing by Scott’s; he works from home and you figured all three of you could do dinner together at that pizza place.
The key rests between your fingers, pinched tight as you stare at it.
You should just ring the doorbell. Right? It isn’t your home. But Scott gave you a key and what if he’s still in the middle of something? What if he has someone else in there? No, you shouldn’t use the key. Then again, he shouldn’t have given you a key if he would be doing anything he wouldn’t want you to see.
The internal debate persists until you decide fuck it and push the key into the lock. You open the door slowly, quietly, nothing like your own creaky one. Scott’s nowhere to be found in his giant living room with his giant television. You look at that giant screen with envy, thinking about how wonderful movie nights would be with that setup. Scott has already insisted on doing movie nights at his instead, stocking up on popcorn and sugar, and you’re tempted to agree.
Muffled voices carry down the hall. He’s probably in the bedroom so you silently make your way over in case he’s on a call.
“Yeah, I’ll be back next week, alright,” Scott says, sounding agitated. You get a peek through the bedroom door and find him pacing.
An open suitcase in front of him.
Your heart drops. The scene is all too familiar. It’s like you’re twenty-two again, left behind in this town while he goes off to chase his dreams — only this time, he had promised you he would stay. Only this time, it won’t only be your heart he’ll break.
“I know it’s takin’ me a while,” he grunts, scrounging his hand through his hair, “no, I still need to pick up my shit.”
You can’t hear the person on the other end of the line but it’s clear that he doesn’t seem very pleased. A sigh heaves from his chest as he looks out the window, a mournful expression painted onto his face.
“I have to tie up some loose ends.”
Loose ends? You swallow thickly. That’s— is he talking about you? About Ben? He’s supposed to be back in Oklahoma next week. No doubt whoever is on the other side is someone at work. But he had promised you he would stay — right? He had said that he would be sticking around. Why else would he get an apartment? Why would he set the bedroom up for Ben otherwise?
But your mind has spiraled beyond the point of reason. Your survival instincts kick in again; you never want to be the person left behind. Not again. Not after that first time. So you should leave first. It’ll make it easier for the both of you.
Scott won’t have to break the news and you — you can let that hope quietly slip away.
All you can do now is… leave.
So you do. You take one step back then another and another until you’re in his kitchen. You open one of the drawers and tuck the extra set of keys he gave you inside; after all, you won’t be needing those anymore. Then you’re out the door.
You’re functioning numb as you get home. Ben greets you with a big smile and so does your mom. You force yourself to smile too and ask if the two of them want pizza for dinner. Your mom looks at you with a silent question asking where Scott is. You only shake your head.
When Scott calls you as you’re getting ready to leave for the restaurant, you don’t pick up.
Not feeling so hot.
His face appears on your screen as your phone vibrates with the incoming call. You curse yourself for texting so quickly.
“Hey,” you try to rasp.
“What is it? A cold? A fever? I can grab medicine and dinner on the way there. Maybe that wonton noodle soup from—”
“No, don’t,” you blurt out, “I, uh, don’t want to get you sick.”
“I don’t give a shit about that.” You can practically imagine his annoyed scowl. He’s probably shrugging on his jacket, you can hear the jingle of his keys as he heads to the door. “What do you want to eat? You like that wonton soup right? It’s on the way to yours.”
“Scott, please.”
“Sweetheart,” he sighs.
“I’ll be fine,” you insist, “just give me a few days to recover and I’ll text you, okay.”
Silence on the other end means that he’s giving it actual thought. Then you hear the long exhale. “Fine. Call or text me if you need anything. Seriously.” He clears his throat, “You know, your mom could also take Ben for a few days. I’ll come take care of you.”
You bite your tongue, blinking away the tears as you stare up at the ceiling. You can’t get used to this, can’t get used to someone checking in on you, putting you first. This isn’t the kind of thing that lasts.
“No, I promise I’ll be okay.”
You call in sick for work, which shocks your entire team because you’re the type to drag yourself out of your deathbed to make sure you don’t miss a day. You’re not sure you like this reputation.
Jenna calls your bullshit out immediately. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” you mutter, picking on the lint on your pajama pants. You’re waiting for Ben to wake up so the two of you can spend the day together. He’s a little confused why you’re at home for a few days, but he certainly isn’t complaining.
“Does it have something to do with hottie Scottie?”
You wince, “That’s a gross nickname. Never say that again.”
“So it does, what did he do?”
It’s not what he did. It’s what he’s about to do. “It’s not a big deal. I just needed a break. Gonna spend some time with Ben.”
“Well, Ben loves her cool Aunt Jenna so I’ll swing by after with fried chicken?”
Your lips twitch. She always knows the right things to say. “Sounds good.”
On the other hand, you spend the rest of the week dodging Scott’s every attempt to come visit. You tell him that your cold has only gotten worse (you’re fresher than a spring chicken), that your mom is taking Ben for a few days (he’s sitting at the dining table), and that you are doing fine otherwise (your heart is splintering in your chest).
He sounds frustrated over the phone and, when he does visit, you pretend that you’re too sick to see him, refusing to let him through the door.
“This is fucking ridiculous. You have a cold. I’ll be fine,” he snaps through the front door. “Will you just let me in?”
Once again, you emphasize that that’s not good practice and colds are highly contagious. You can hear Scott’s feet shuffling outside, his annoyed grunts.
“Can you just let me in?” He breathes out deeply, “Please. I haven’t seen you in days and I really want to. I just want to make sure you’re good.”
Your forehead presses against the cool door. You tell yourself to stay strong. Don’t give in so easily. So again, you deny him entry and he finally leaves.
On Sunday, he calls and you at least pick that up. “I have to fly out to Oklahoma for a few days,” he mutters, “I’ll be back. Call me, text me, fucking email me if you need to — if you need anything at all, alright.”
“I’ll be fine,” you whisper.
You’re tying up those loose ends for him.
Scott goes radio silent for the first half of the week. You think this is finally it. He’s finally cutting you loose and maybe he’s simply going to fade into a distant memory. You’re back at work when he leaves Boston, your coworkers peppering you with questions about your absence. Jenna keeps the wolves at bay, telling all of them to give you some space.
“You need to talk to me at some point,” she gives you a look.
You lick your lips, mouth trembling as you finally say the words you’ve been too afraid to say. Because it’s one thing to think it, it’s another to admit it aloud. “Scott’s gone.”
“What?” She jerks back, “What do you mean he’s gone?”
Pushing around your peas, you sigh. “He’s in Oklahoma.”
“Temporarily right?”
You shrug. “Feel like it might be for good.”
“Did he tell you that?”
No, but you heard his conversation and it’s all about the words that are said behind your back that matter, right?
“Hon, listen to me. I’ve never seen a man more obsessed in my life. That guy’s in love with you.”
To that, you laugh, heart a little lighter for some odd reason. “He’s just being a good friend. He probably felt guilty after — you know — finding out that he knocked me up.”
She gives you a look. “If you seriously believe that, I’m going to have to take you up to neuro to get your head checked.”
On Thursday, you’re finally settling with the possibility that this really is it. You’ll be okay; you survived once without him, you can do it again. Instead, you focus strictly on work, drowning in the mountains of paperwork and unfinished studies. While you’re doing all that, your phone lights up with Scott’s name.
You don’t pick up. The last thing you need while you’re stressed out of your mind is to hear him apologize, hear him tell you that he’s changed in his mind. You can have your heart ripped out of your chest later.
Blissful ignorance is better than blatant rejection, that’s always been your motto.
You’re ready for a night of full decompression, which means you’re going to cuddle up with your baby and maybe fall asleep on the couch after a filling dinner of grease. “I’m home,” you call out.
The sight before you has you freezing. Scott’s on the couch — your couch — with Ben on his lap. They’re reading one of Ben’s favorite books and your son is giggling uncontrollably. Now, he is facing the front which means he can’t see Scott’s expression.
And that is a look that has your entire body stiffening in the doorway. You’re almost tempted to run again, but how could you abandon your son? So you try to ignore your buzzing nerves.
“Mom!”
“Hey, buddy,” you smile weakly, closing the door behind you. “Where’s, uh, my mom?”
“She left earlier, said I should spend some time with Ben and you,” he smiles. It’s sweet. It’s a sickeningly sweet smile, which means you know better than to trust it. “Ben here was just telling me about all the fun you had last week. All week in fact. Said you weren’t going to work so you two could spend all day together. Outside.”
Well.
“We watched a baseball game and then got ice cream!” Ben announces cheerily. Then he begins to list down everything you did last week — everything — and he is completely unaware that he’s digging a deeper grave for his own mother.
“That so?” Scott chuckles, patting his head. “Your mom’s a real miracle worker, isn’t she? Real healthy and spry to be doing all those things.”
The evening is tense, mostly for you. Your back is ramrod straight as Scott insists on cooking dinner and you have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesn’t add anything to your food. There are smarter ways to take you out, none of them ideal for you. Ben seems to sense the thickness of the air, eyes darting between the two of you.
Of course, neither of you show a thing but the anger that rolls off Scott is nothing short of obvious. So Ben then proceeds to declare that he wants to sleep early.
He never sleeps early. He’s just hit you with a second strike.
You busy yourself with getting him ready for bed, staying for as long as you can. You’re glued at the hip while he brushes his teeth, while he picks out his pajamas at an alarmingly fast speed. He doesn’t even want a bedtime story, telling you that he’s knackered from the long day.
And he goes straight to sleep. Traitor.
You were hoping Ben could buy you more time to come up with some sort of explanation for your behavior, or at least figure out a way to turn the conversation back to him because — what’s he doing back here? Isn’t he supposed to be in Oklahoma?
When you finally step out of Ben’s room, Scott looks noticeably ticked off.
His jaw is squared tight, dimples that are usually so endearing appearing more menacing in this light. “You wanna tell me why you lied about bein’ sick?”
You shift back on the heels of your feet. “I just needed some me time.”
“Bullshit,” he spits out, “you know I would’ve given you that if that’s what you wanted. Try again.”
While you’re usually better at thinking on your feet, the glare he’s pinned you with has your brain completely scrambled. You’re coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing even remotely close to being sufficient for your lie.
“Can’t think of anything, can you? Now that I’ve caught you.”
“Scott…”
“What was it?” He grunts, “What fucking spooked you?”
You press your lips together. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve never been good at commitment, sweetheart. Been runnin’ since the day I met you. So tell me, what fucking scared you?”
A protest sits on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall from your lips. Defensive. But Scott’s looking at you wearily, a five o’clock shadow that’s rarely ever there dusted across his face.
“You were going to leave,” you murmur.
He frowns at that. “When the hell did I say I was gonna do that?”
“You didn’t have to tell me,” you sigh, “I heard you on the phone.”
His eyebrows jump, surprise coloring his expression. If that isn’t confirmation, you don’t know what is. “What’re you talking about?”
It’s your turn to look irritated. How is he going to play dumb when he’s been caught red-handed?
“I heard you — you were going to head back Oklahoma, that you needed to pack your stuff and—” the last part has your throat constricting, you’re blinking back tears as you look at him. “—that you needed to tie up loose ends.”
Scott looks far from appeased from your explanation. “Yeah, and?”
“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “If you were going to leave again, were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to disappear? Leave me here alone again.”
“That’s not fucking fair,” he snaps right back, “I reached out to you. Multiple times. I called and texted and you disappeared. So don’t turn this shit around on me like I intentionally left you.”
“How was I ever supposed to tell you, Scott? I’m pregnant, can you stay here with me instead?”
“Yes! Exactly like that,” he snarls, “it’s as simple as that. But instead, you stopped responding to me. You left me.” That shuts you up, your breath catching in your throat. “So don’t be a hypocrite.”
“It would’ve been selfish of me — to tell you,” you gulp, chest tight, “you would’ve stayed because that’s who you are. That stupid sense of responsibility despite you being irresponsible enough to go out there and chase goddamn tornadoes. I couldn’t do that to you.”
“I know, because that’s who you are,” he mutters, “you think you gotta do everything on your own. You think I don’t hear things? Your mom and Jenna told me plenty about how tough things were for you. How do you think that makes me feel? I’m the asshole that left you.”
“You didn’t know,” you breathe in shakily.
“Doesn’t change the circumstances, does it?” He snips. His face softens then, melting slightly as he sees you curling into yourself. “But I really need you to get your head checked. Something ain’t right up there if you think for a second I could really ever leave you again.”
You look up at him and he’s already taken a step towards you. His hand slides up your neck to cup your cheek, his warm blue eyes on you.
“I was wrapping things up in Oklahoma so I can move here for good. I needed to deal with some paperwork and all the transition for the fieldwork. We’re not short-handed but, you know how it is with leadership.” He pauses, searching your face for any reaction. “I couldn’t just leave my team hanging out to dry so I had to finalize everything before I officially moved here.”
Well. Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So you weren’t going back to Oklahoma for good?”
The aggravation returns to his face. “You’re shittin’ me right? Have I not been telling you for weeks that I’m here to stay?”
“I just thought you meant temporarily,” you sputter, “who picks up their entire life on a fucking whim?”
“It’s not a whim! I was planning to move back here, focus more on raising funds with investors. That was, if I managed to find you!” That has you jolting back in surprise. “I came here to look for you. Properly this time. Fuck, and I told myself that, if I found you, I wasn’t gonna get you walk away from me again.”
“You— really?”
He rolls his eyes, lips tugging up. “Yeah, really. Let go the love of my life once, ain’t doin’ that again.”
“Love of your life?” You squeak.
Scott looks up at the ceiling, praying to some almighty up there to lend him some patience. “Thought that was fuckin’ obvious,” he mutters, “for someone so fuckin’ smart, you can be real stupid.”
“That’s so rude,” you frown.
“Apparently, I have to be if I need you to get your head out of your ass.”
You lick your lips, face flushing with heat. “So, uh, love of your life? Can I get some clarity on that?”
“How can I be any clearer?” He snaps, “If you’re gonna ask me since when, you really think I’d keep fucking you back then if I wasn’t in love with you?” Your jaw practically drops. “You’re the idiot that didn’t want anything real.”
“You were fucking everything that moved!”
“Until I met you!” He shakes his head. “Jesus, you really— I don’t know how you got me wrapped around your finger all this time.”
You huff, “Are you gonna keep insulting me all night?”
“Are you not gonna tell me you love me?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. “What makes you think I love you?”
“I don’t think, I know, sweetheart,” Scott grins, arm stretching to pull you towards him. He tucks you in close, your breasts against his chest as your palms land on his shoulders, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet little moan. “Come on, say it. I know you’ve been dyin’ to for years now.”
With a roll of your eyes, you puff out, “I love you.”
He grunts, leaning down to tease you. “Don’t think I heard you.”
“I love you, Scott Miller. Now will you shut up and kiss me?”
“Never could say no to you, sweetheart.”
+ sam: thank you so much if you've made it this far!!! you've finally seen the inner workings of my mind when i'm truly hyperfixating. please know that i appreciate every single piece of engagement but i especially love to hear what you think of the story, your fave parts, etc.!!! <3
summary: You're in Smallville as Clark's date to a childhood friend's wedding and the longer you're there, the more it feels like you don't fit into his life like you thought you did.
warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, insecure reader, self sabotaging reader, they wear a dress to the wedding, townspeople being mean gossips, Lana Lang appearance and mention, Clark is a little bit of an idiot.
a/n: Oo I needed angst baddd with a happy ending and I watched Season 8 Ep 10 and Season 10 Ep 4 of Smallville and decided to take inspiration from both of those eps and write something about a reader who thinks a little bit too much like me with some nice Clark comfort because I love this man so much ug idk I hope it makes sense and doesn't suck okay thanks hope u enjoy!!
wc: 4.6 (god damn this is the longest fic ive written in a hot minute)
Life with Clark had been amazing. Sure you'd only been dating for six months but he had been everything you could have dreamed of. Sweet, caring, thoughtful, and a literal superhero.
Sure he had to miss a few dates but you knew that was part of the deal. Superman belonged to the people but Clark Kent belonged to you. He was the bumbling reporter and you were the rising star photographer.
You knew he favorite pastry from the bakery down the street and his coffee order. You covered for him when he disappeared and Superman mysteriously appeared in the sky. Of course he'd let you catch exclusive pictures of the caped hero as a thank you.
And when Superman came home from saving the world he became just your Clark. You remember the day he told you he loved you. It was late. About 2 in the morning. He had come back from his Superman duties and you were making him pancakes. He just watched you for a while. You were tired but still you insisted on him getting some food in his stomach.
It's not like it hit him like a truck, he knew he loved you for a while now but this just solidified the fact. I love you He blurted out causing you to freeze. In that moment home had become something more to the two of you. This was home.
So of course Clark would ask you to be his date at a hometown wedding and of course you accepted. You had met his parents a couple times but you hadn't met the town of Smallville. Gossip spreads like wildfire and you knew that Clark Kent's city date would be on the list of town gossip.
It was terrifying.
You were stepping into the unknown. Seeing a side of his life that you hadn't been apart of. It felt silly to be so worried about it. The Kent's loved you and so did Clark so nothing else should matter. But that poison seeped into your head the more you let yourself think about it.
You glance at the mirror of the Kent's guestroom for the hundredth time this morning. The dress you bought just for today laying on the bed as you work up the courage to put it on. You're wasting time and you know it. The ceremony is supposed to start in an hour and the drive was 10 minutes and you know that the Kent's are going to get stopped to chat which adds another 30 minutes before you can even get into the venue.
"Honey? We're leaving soon." Clark calls through the door. The door twists open and he peeks his head in.
"Oh!" He blushes as he covers his eyes with his hand when he see's your state of undress. You let out a laugh as you pull him into the room.
"Clark you don't have to cover your eyes, you've seen me naked before." You tease as he keeps his hand firmly over his eyes.
"That's different." He argues and you just shake your head.
"Not to rush you, but we do have to get going soon. Ma loves to chat and I already know that Mrs. Baker is going to stop us and that conversation is going to be very embarassing for me." Your smile falls slightly as you turn away.
"Just, a little nervous is all." You pick the dress up off the bed and step into it.
"Nervous for what? They're all gonna love you." Clark says with such confidence you almost believe him. What could possibly be nerve-wracking about going to a wedding in your boyfriends childhood hometown where everyone is going to gossip and grill you about your relationship with him?
"Can you help me?" You ask, dodging his question as you stare into the mirror.
Clark finally puts his hand down, grinning like a fool as he walks up behind you. His hands ghosting your hips as he kisses your cheek.
"You know it's rude to outshine the couple honey." He teases as his warm hands gently trace your back. The blush on his face still burning through his skin as he zips up your dress.
"Oh please, you've shown me the engagement photos I don't think that's possible." You say as you turn to adjust Clark's tie.
"Well, you outshine anyone in the room to me."
Kids! Come on we gotta go!" Martha calls from the kitchen.
"Coming Ma!" Clark calls back.
With a flash of his smile he grabs your hand and leads you down the stairs. Thank god for Mrs. Kent's ability to talk because she kept Clark busy the whole car ride. It was so sweet how happy she was to have Clark actually home for more than just a quick visit. He slipped back so easily into that charming farm boy persona that you had only seen glimpses of back in Metropolis. It suited him.
It seems this wedding was a whole town affair as you saw the group of people standing outside of the church. With a deep breath you tell yourself to calm down as the truck came to a stop. Clark hops out of the car first and jogs over to the other side before you can even think about opening the door.
He never let you open doors anymore, that was his job now. He holds his hand out to help you out of his dad's truck. Smiling as he offers you his arm to take as you walk towards the group who's eyes had turned to you and Clark.
"Well I'll be, Is that Clark Kent?" An older lady calls, a big smile on her face as she walks over.
"Told you." Clark mumbles in your ear before flashing a smile. Ah, Mrs. Baker.
"Yes Ma'am it is."
"I haven't seen you since you were a little boy." She grabs Clark's face and squishes his cheeks. You laugh as he gently pries her hands off his face.
"And you must be his date! Oh aren't you a pretty thing." She turns her sights to you and you smile nervously.
"I used to look after Clark when he was just a baby. Oh he was just the cutest thing. When he was three he had this blue blanket that he would refuse to let go of and cried when Martha tried to wash it." You laugh as you look at Clark who has turned bright red. She leans in closer to you winks at Clark.
"He swears he got rid of it by 5 but between you and me he slept with it till he was 10."
"Okay thank you Mrs. Baker, We should really be finding our seats soon." Clark interrupts, gently guiding you away from the woman before she could reveal any more embarassing things.
"She's exaggerating." He says as he tries to calm his burning face. You look over at him and nod, though your face smiling too wide for it to be sincere.
"I'm sure she is. So what did you name it?" You ask jokingly and he just huffs.
"Blankie..." He mumbles and you pinch his cheek teasingly.
He takes your hand and guides you through the crowd of people. It seems everyone knows him as they call his name and try and drag him into a conversation. He does his best to evade them but right as you're about to sit Martha calls his name.
"Clark! You remember the Lang's right? Come over and say hi." He groans and looks at you sadly.
"Go say hi honey, I'll be here." He hesitates, clearly wanting to stay here with you.
But you knew this was going to be a part of the day so you push him towards his mother. You could survive a few minutes alone and frankly it also means you can let yourself breathe for a second.
"Hi there!" A perky blonde woman appears in front of you. Her smile scares you a little as you reach out and shake her extended hand.
"Hi…" You look over and Clark was deep in conversation. Shit. She follows your line of sight and gasps as she puts two and two together.
"So you're Clark's date! Well aren't you just a lucky duck." She looks you over and you start to feel uncomfortable.
"So so glad you could make it, ever since Martha let it slip that her son was seeing someone we've all been dying to meet them. I mean after Lana what other great love story could Clark have?"
"Lana?" You ask and her expression turns curious.
"Lana Lang? Clark's old girlfriend. Oh they were so good together. We all thought they were going to be together forever but then she got accepted to a school on the other side of the country. Brillant one she was. And then Clark left for Metropolis and well." She sighs as she fails to notice the growing unease on your face.
Clark had never told you about Lana. Sure you never asked and it really wasn't your buisness either but seeing the way this lady was making them out to be some epic fairytale romance, it made you wonder why you hadn't even heard her name.
"I always thought they'd meet down the road one day. Right person wrong time kind of thing you know? But it seems I was wrong and you seem lovely!" She flashes that smile again and you let out a strangled hum. Was it hot in here or was it just the ugly feelings brewing in your stomach.
"Well I better go, nice to meet you." As she leaves Clark slids into the pew right next to you barely giving you time to breathe.
"Jeez am I glad to be out of that conversation." He mumbles as he takes notice of the woman you were speaking to.
"That's Mrs. Haroldhaus. She is the leader of the PTA and as my ma put it, a very unkind woman."
"Wow, those are some harsh words coming from her." You try and joke back. Clark looks at you for a moment.
"Did she say something? Because whatever it is is complete nonsense." You dig your nails into your palm but Clark locks his fingers with yours the moment he sees it.
"No she didn't say anything, it's just a lot of people I don't know who all seem to know me already." You tell him.
"That's Smallville for you, but I promise it's nothing but town gossip. Seeing your beautiful face is probably the most exciting thing to happen in weeks." He leans in to kiss your forehead and for a moment all the voices in your head are silenced.
He doesn't let go of your hand for the whole ceremony. His thumb brushing the back of your hand soothingly throughout it. Clark swears he's not a crier but you saw him wipe his eyes as the vows were said. And you almost cry when he leans over and whispers that he loves you as they say I do. The bells ring and everything that woman said has left your mind. Clark's very presence doing enough to quiet the doubt that's been growing in your heart.
It's no surprise that the reception is held at a barn just down the road from the Kent's. It's the biggest venue in town after all. It barely feels like a barn with all the decoration and the distinct lack of animal smell. It was interesting watching Clark almost revert back to his Smallville self. A southern drawl even slipping its way out now and then.
He looked so free. So natural back here. Free from the weight of Superman and the deadlines of the planet. Was this what his life was like before?
You meet his eyes and his body seems to relax. His smile becoming more natural as he sends you a small wave. You wave back and take another sip of your drink. You decided it was best to stay planted at your assigned seat. Making small talk occasionally but nothing more than complimenting the couple or admiring the decoration. The people of Smallville were still watching you.
Maybe not literally but there's a lot of people here and as you've witnessed, they love to talk. The music slows as couples start to move to the dance floor. Clark finally breaks from a conversation with an old high school friend to make his way back to you.
"Can I have this dance honey," Clark beams as he holds his hand out.
"Of course." You take it and he leads you to an emptier spot. He rests his hands on your waist as you wrap you place your hands on his shoulders.
"You look beautiful. Gosh I am the luckiest guy here." He hums and you look away. Compliments from Clark always made you so flustered.
"Oh please, I'm the envy of everyone here. I'm Clark Kent's date." Now it's his turn to get all nervous as he shakes his head.
"Careful, my ego can only handle so much." You snort as you pull him in closer, hands now around the back of his neck. You look into his eyes and everything just feels so right. Like you are meant to be here dancing with him. There's a ripple of whispers and excited voices as the barn doors open.
"I'm so sorry I'm late. My flight got delayed and I only just landed and came straight here." An angelic voice floats through the room. Cutting through the music and the noise of everyone around you. Clark's eyes widen as his head snaps in the direction of all the commotion.
"Lana?" Clark whispers. Your heart drops. Lana…Lang? Clark's high school sweetheart Lana Lang? Clark looks back at you, then at her. The crowd of people part like a fucking movie so that it's just Lana and Clark.
Lana and Clark and You. His arms fall to their side and so do yours. People go back to talking, the music never even stopped but to you it was like your world had completely frozen. You could feel a million eyes on you and you wanted to puke.
"I'm going to get a drink." You mumble. Clark's head whips back to face you. His eyes wide as he starts to stutter out something. His hand reaches for yours but you dodge it.
"Honey?" He asks, frowning as you refuse to look hin in the eye.
"Clark? It's been forever!" Lana's soft voice fills your ears.
Echoing across your head until its all you can hear. Clark looks at a loss. Torn between you and his former love. You take a step back from them. Shooting Lana a weak smile as she smiles at you. God you wished she was cruel about it. It would be so much easier if she was. But no. She was completely sincere in the way she introduces herself to you. She's beautiful. No wonder everyone in town seems to love her.
Your eyes shift towards Clark who was staring at her. Not you. Her.
"I'll let you two catch up," You blurt out before you can stop yourself.
God even Clark looks confused as you walk away. Why would you say that? Why would you leave your boyfriend to speak to his high school fucking sweetheart. It's like you want him to be as cruel as he is in your head right now.
"Oh Clark and Lana, still as perfect as they were in high school." Someone says with a sigh. You should keep walking. Tune them out and go but your feet feel like they're tied down. Forcing you to listen to words you know will only hurt you more.
"I always thought he was soo dreamy but even I couldn't deny the connection they had." Someone else says.
You refuse to turn around, afraid that if you do you'd see what everyone else sees. That Clark belonged to someone who isn't you.
You walk right past the refreshment table. Slipping past people until you were finally out of that barn. The cold air helps as you feel tears threatening to fall. Maybe you should have grabbed a drink before coming out here. You really need one.
"It's too cold for you to be out here alone hon." You wipe your eyes as you turn to see Clark's mom has followed you outside.
"Hi Mrs. Kent, I'll be back in a moment." You say but she doesn't seem convinced. She see's right through you and the look on her face says it all.
"I told you to call me Ma." She scolds and you let out a tired laugh. She looks sadly at you before grabbing your hand.
"Did Clark ever tell you that he called us after your first date?" She asks and you shake your head.
"He sounded so giddy, told me Ma, I think I'm gonna marry this girl one day." She brushes your cheek as a stray tear falls down.
"He loves you more than anything in the world. Now I'm not saying he's perfect, he is his fathers son after all and you and I both know boys can be a little foolish sometimes." You let out a real laugh this time and she pulls you into a hug. You see where Clark gets his warm hugs from. You try not to get your tears on her dress as she squeezes you tightly.
"Thank you, really." You reluctantly let go of her. Wanting to stay in her safe embrace for longer.
But you can hear the laughter coming from inside and you suddenly feel so silly for getting so upset. But in truth you don't think you could go back in there and pretend everything was okay. But today isn't about you and your black hole of insecurity. It was about that happy couple inside.
"I think I'm going to head back to the house, if that's okay with you." You say quietly.
"Let me go get-"
"No no, you guys stay here." You interrupt her before she can finish.
"Please I don't want this to ruin anyones night. Besides its just down the road I swear I won't get lost." Smallville was as safe as you could get and you refused to let anyones night be cut short because of you. She looks like she doesn't want to let you go but to your surprise she relents.
"Call as soon as your home alright and tell Clark the spare key's still under that one rock." She gives you one last hug before disappearing back inside.
"Mrs. Kent what…ah nevermind." You kick off your shoes and start down the dirt path towards the Kents.
The stars shined so bright they almost lead the way back to the farm. They're never this clear in Metropolis. You wonder if Clark ever stargazed when the sky was the clearest. He probably did, perched up in that barn on the hay past his bedtime watching the stars and knowing that's where he came from.
Then your brain wonders if he ever brought Lana with him and the thought sours. You curse yourself for letting your mind wander to that again. But you'd be a fool to pretend like all of yours and Clark's firsts hadn't happened with someone else. You were unbelievably and embarassingly jealous.
Clark…he'd never hurt you on purpose. You know that. He loves you, you know that too. But the idea that he could have settled for you haunts every step. He loves you, but did he love her more?
Was your relatonship something easy for him? Were you just the consolation prize because he couldn't be with his high school sweetheart?
A literal blur stops you in your tracks. You let out a scream as Clark suddenly stands before you. His tie is undone and he looks upset.
"Clark! I told you I hate when you super speed right next to me!" You huff as you try and walk past him. His hands grip your waist, stopping you from leaving.
"What are you thinking?! Walking back alone?? In the dark?? With no shoes on??" His hands move to cups your face, he quickly checks over you.
As if you could have sustained any injury in the 5 minutes you were walking. The barn is still in view yet he's acting like you went around the streets of Gotham.
"Clark I'm fine, what could even hurt me on the 10 minute walk back to your house anyways?" You ask and he thinks for a moment, his hands not leaving your face.
"A…bear?"
"A bear. In Smallville, Kansas." You repeat.
"Clark go back to the party, I'm fine." But he doesn't budge.
"You walked away in tears. I don't mean to push but I don't think that means your fine."
"Clark please. I really don't want to talk about this. Just go back to the party and back to Lana." The last part comes out much more venemous than you intend.
The guilt hitting as soon as the words leave your mouth and the way Clark's face falls only makes it worse.
"What?" He asks and you feel bile rise up your throat.
"Nothing, forget I said anything." You mumble as you're able to get out of his hold. He grabs your wrist firmly, not in a way he could hurt you but in a way that tells you he isn't letting you run. Not this time.
"No. I won't."
"Clark." The tears in your eyes break his heart.
"I won't because you're upset and I know you think it's easier to push me away but I'm not going to let you this time." He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to where you have to put your hands on his chest to steady yourself. His blue eyes silently begging you not to run anymore.
"Please honey, talk to me. I'm here. There's nothing you could say that I can't take."
"Sometimes I forget that you're more than just my Clark." You say quietly. Your eyes are trained on the top button of his shirt. On the tie that you helped straighten this morning that was now undone.
"It's so stupid and I hate that I feel this way but seeing you today, Seeing the way you looked at Lana…I don't know it was like I was…nothing." Clark nearly whimpers hearing you say that. Nothing? In what world could you ever be nothing to him.
"All day I've watched you fit back into Smallville like a puzzle piece. I don't. I get stares and whispers and-and people talking about how they thought you'd end up with someone else. It's like im the side character in some movie that gets tossed aside once the hero realizes they don't belong."
"Stop." Clark says firmly. He can't take it anymore.
"You are not nothing. You could never be nothing. Not to me, not to anyone. So please. Don't say that." He frowns as he sees your face tightens like it's trying not to cry.
"I am so sorry I didn't see you were hurting. That I made you feel like you don't belong in my life." His lip wobbles as he sees the hurt in your eyes.
"Lana is in my past. It's been a long time since I've seen her and I was just surprised. I swear." His stomach twists remembering the look on your face.
Guilt eating him alive at the very thought that something he did could cause you so much pain. He should have stopped you from leaving right there in that barn but he was too shocked. Too confused by your sudden exit. Then he saw his Ma follow you outside and it made him relax just a little bite. Still he believes he's failed you by letting you think for even a moment he doesn't love you.
"I won't deny that I loved her a long time ago. But that's when I thought love was just butterflies in your stomach and holding hands." He explains. One of the greatest things about humanity is love. Clark learned that multiple times throughout his life.
"Don't get me wrong honey, you give me butterflies every day but I didn't understand what it truly felt like to love and be loved until I met you. I promise on every star in the sky that you're the only one I want."
"You just seem so happy here. So at peace. What if Smallville and…everything that comes with it is where you're meant to be. You could be Superman anywhere. So why Metropolis?"
"I'm happy because you're here with me. Because I get to share this part of my life with the love of my life. And why Metropolis? Because where else would I find a bossy photographer who makes me pancakes in the middle of the night?" He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.
"Smallville is the place I grew up and I love it here, but you're my home now. Where ever you are is my home." He presses another kiss to the other corner.
"I'm sorry for letting you feel like you're not. Even if it was just for a second. I can't stand the thought of you not knowing how much you mean to me." He presses a final kiss to your lips.
It's gentle and loving and so careful and so Clark. You feel yourself relax into his embrace. You drop your shoes and tangle your hands in his hair. Ruining the slicked back hair he messed with all morning. He lets out a small relieved laugh when you part.
"It's not just your fault. I let the worst parts of my head get to me tonight when I should have just talked to you." You admit.
It's embarassing to face your worst parts head on. It's ugly and irrational and something you wish Clark never has to see again.
"Hey, I am always here to talk to. I love everything about you. The good parts and the not so good parts. You've seen both sides of me so please, trust that I can handle both parts of you too."
"Okay…Okay." You want to cry again. You were expecting the worst and here he comes to break every horrible thing your mind has already built up. He's too nice you swear it'd be annoying if you weren't so in love with him.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Now, let's get you home." He reaches down and grabs your shoes, holding them in one hand as he picks you up in his arms.
"But the reception Clark." He silences you with a look.
"Like I'd force you to go back in there with those vultures." He huffs, still upset at all the pointless town gossip.
"That's not very Supermany to say." You tease, used to his goody-two shoes attitude and he shrugs.
"They made you cry. If they apologize then maybe I'll consider taking it back." You bury your face in his neck, laughing as he walks you back home. Could he have used his powers to get you back faster? Yeah, but why would he when he could spend an extra 5 minutes with you in his arms.
The insecurities haven't gone away. In fact they'll probably live there for a while. But you don't have to fight them alone anymore. He can't fix it with his super speed or heat vision, but he can hold your hand and kiss you until your brain goes fuzzy.
★ summary: weeks had passed since the truck incident, scott pretending as if nothing had happened. refusing to let it dull your night out you join the infamous tornado wranglers at the local dive bar, content to do whatever it takes to get those blue eyes out of your mind
★ pairing: scott miller x reader, (brief tyler owens x reader)
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, oral f & male receiving, cursing, slut shaming, name calling, public dry humping, road head, mean jealous scott miller *pants*
★ word count: 5.8k
★ notes: this is part two to tornado warnings!!!! i love this dysfunctional pair sm
“Kate and her crew are going out to the bar tonight. You wanna come?” Javi repeated himself for probably the third time in the past minute. The day had been long, endlessly chasing a storm while Tyler and his tornado wranglers cut us off at every turn for the sake of their YouTube channel. Now Javi wanted you to join them at some hole-in-the-wall dive bar.
His pleading eyes made your resolve crumble, nodding to him. “Just for a little bit.”
Javi smiled, clapping you on the shoulder to thank you. Before he could speak, the energy in the room shifted, no doubt with a sulking Scott Miller approaching from behind.
“You guys are gonna go get drunk with those hillbillies?” The scoff that left his mouth was insulting. While you didn’t want to initially, now you just wanted to go, knowing it would piss him off. Not surprisingly, nothing has changed between the two of you. The hateful banter continued, and you both tried to forget how it felt for him to be inside you.
“Someone’s jealous they don’t know how to let loose.” You laughed, now fully ready to strap on the best outfit you had shoved into your travel bag.
“Yeah, MIT! You should stop by, just for a drink!” Javi laughed, grabbing your hand and holding it up in a mock celebration. “It's gonna be lit.”
All Scott could do was scoff, mumbling, “Yeah, I’m sure,” under his breath. Making a point to brush against your shoulder when he walked back to the motel, despite him being in your way. Never once stopping his dickhead antics.
“Ignore Mr. Grumpy pants, okay?” Javi smiled, “Go get ready, and I’ll drive us there.”
With a faux salute, you were off to your room. You’d think after all these months on the road, you’d be used to the shitty Midwest motels, but it still had your skin crawling at the scratchy sheets and tacky wallpaper. You got ready the best you could in the cramped bathroom with dim lighting. You were glad to be out of your normal work attire, sliding on a pair of black jeans and a low-cut top. Even went as far as doing your hair and applying eyeliner.
With a spritz of perfume, you were at Javi’s side, letting him drive you down these rural streets to some local bar. From the moment you crossed the threshold, you were assaulted by cigarette smoke and bourbon. An ancient jukebox in the corner is playing some old 80s rock. It was evident that your group of storm chasers were the youngest in this place.
“Javi!” Kate’s voice rang out, walked from the back corner where her crew had a table. “Y/n! I’m so glad you came. We need more women to offset the testosterone pouring out of Tyler.”
All you could do was smile at her, “I agree. I’m the only one with these idiots.” Pointing to where Javi was not so subtly making puppy dog eyes in Kate’s direction.
“Bless your heart.” She sighed, wrapping her arm around your shoulder as if you had been friends with her for years. “Javi, get us some beers, won’t you?”
And like a lovesick puppy, he immediately obliged, a laugh leaving your mouth. A few steps further into the bar, before a loud voice spoke out, “Oh, isn’t it Mrs. StormPar in the flesh.” The Arkansas accent was undeniable.
“Isn’t it the Tornado Wrangler himself. Should I bow to royalty?” You teased, starting a curtsy before Kate pulled you up, “Don’t make his ego any bigger than it already is.”
A round of laughter started; his other friends in the back crowded around the pool table, begging to humble him a little. Once Javi came back with drinks, you all settled into conversation easily. All prior irritations we had with the crew faded away into nothing once you got to know them a little better.
Kate said Tyler had been peacocking ever since you showed up, doing his best to impress you. With every shot he took, he’d tip his ridiculous cowboy hat at you and wink, swearing you were his good luck charm. “This one’s for you, beautiful!” He shouted, probably alerting the entire bar, before he shot one of Boone’s last balls into the hole. Boone was immediately outraged, “That’s not fair, you’re just showing off.”
Tyler let the words roll off him, never stopping to take his eyes off of you. As cocky and ridiculous as you found him, you couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t attractive. There was something about his tan skin that contrasted with the too-tight white t-shirt that clung to his body. The outline of his abs tensed each time he leaned over the table, his jeans doing wonders for his ass, too. It was almost unfair.
“He’s normally not this good at pool.” Dani laughed, handing you another beer. “He keeps this up, he’ll never let you leave.”
“With the way Y/n is staring, that might not be the worst thing in the world.” Kate teased before she and Javi went back to talking about work-related things. You were doing your best to get storm chasing off your mind, at least for the night. The weight of work was crashing terribly hard on your shoulders. Maybe a night with Tyler wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It would give you a release you desperately craved, and it also might stiffen your longing for a certain blue-eyed coworker who’s content on pretending as if you didn't exist.
“My good luck charm,” Tyler whistled, calling you out of your thoughts, “Wanna help me with this last shot?”
He held his arms out wide, giving you another opportunity to gawk at his tanned skin. His friends hollered, urging you to join his theatrics. “I guess.” You laughed, hopping off the barstool and waltzing over to him. You came up to the middle of his chest, resisting the feral urge to bury your teeth into his chiseled pec that displayed through his shirt.
“How do you want me?” You gave him a wink, causing his smile to grow even wider.
“Now or later?” He asked, staring intently at you.
“Can we get this over with?” Boone groaned, dramatically covering his eyes at you two. “Just beat me, don’t include me in your foreplay.”
“As if you’d ever be that lucky.” You teased, Tyler’s hand falling to your lower back as he guided you in front of him. You grabbed the pool cue out of his hand, leaning down against the table. His body followed, the weight of his body pressed against your back while he covered your hand over the cue.
His breath was warm against your ear, lips barely grazing the skin. “We’re gonna sink the eight ball into the second pocket over there.”
It was hard to focus on anything other than the feeling of his body against yours, his hips basically pressing your ass. You couldn’t resist giving your hips a little wiggle, pretending to adjust your footing.
“Down, girl.” He whispered, letting his lips linger on your ear this time. “Take the shot when you’re ready.”
Steadying your breathing, you let him do most of the work, guiding your hands to the shot. The balls clacked, and the eight ball sank in the pocket just as he predicted, cheers erupting around your small group. Neither of you moving from your positions,
“Told you, my good luck charm.” He laughed, his hand grabbing the outside of your hip. Squeezing the flesh there in a playful manner. You dropped the cue, leaning up, his body following. He used his hand to flip your body around, pressing against your front.
“What’s my prize?” You raised an eyebrow at him, looking up at his mossy eyes.
He pretended to be lost in thought, “What about this?” His grip on your hip tightened, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek. Before he could lean down all the way, you met him halfway, pressing your lips to his messily. He kissed gentler than you would have thought, his lips moving softly against yours. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him. You blocked out all the sounds of your friends, a mixture of groans and cheers. You couldn’t think of anything but the way his mouth felt against yours and the way his hand reached down to grip your ass. Shamelessly kneading the flesh as if you weren’t in a crowded bar.
You were practically mewling in his arms, the public display making you want nothing more than for him to take you right here on this pool table. This was what you needed, for a man to show his affection for you in front of everyone. Not to keep his attraction to you hidden like a deep dark secret, like-
“Scott!” Javi’s yell made your body freeze, pulling away from Tyler to look over. To your horror, there stood Scott Miller in the flesh. The man who never went anywhere with you guys, side-hugging Javi, his eyes locked onto you. More specifically, where Tyler’s hand was still gripping your ass. He was in jeans and a t-shirt, probably one of the few times you’ve seen him in non-work attire. The look on his face was unreadable; all he gave you was an eye roll, his jaw set. You craved to watch him, to wait for the inevitable tick of his jaw.
“Hey, man. Nice of you to join us.” Tyler spoke, his hand slowly moving to your back respectfully. Ever the gentleman, he couldn’t not greet someone, especially after you all agreed to work civilly together. He was just as shocked by Scott’s surprise appearance as you were.
All Scott did was give him a tight-lipped smile before turning away with Javi. Your breath was caught in your throat, unable to move. There was no reason for you to feel like you just got caught red-handed. It’s not like you two were exclusive; if anything, he never wanted to see you again.
“Well, that was awkward.” Tyler broke the silence, his hand smoothing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “Do you want a drink?”
All you could do was smile, nodding up at him. He told you he’d be right back with a wink. As soon as he stepped away, you let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding. A sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. This wasn't how the night was supposed to go. You were hoping Tyler would take you back to his shitty motel, plow you through the bed, and you’d put those angry blue eyes out of your mind.
“Well, that was weird.” Kate giggled, brushing her shoulder against yours when you slid next to her in the booth.
“Huh?” You asked, your brain all over the place. Turned on and nervous was a bizarre combination, your skin buzzing in anticipation.
“Mr. MIT showing up and gawking at you and Tyler sucking tongue,” Dani answered for her, plopping a plate of greasy nachos on the table. The smell making your stomach roll.
“He wasn’t gawking.” You chuckled nervously, watching where the men crowded around the bar, talking and waiting for beers. Scott looked out of place, not quite smiling but not his typical scowl either.
The girls scoffed in unison, “He looked like he was gonna throw up or punch Tyler in the face. I couldn’t tell.” Kate laughed.
“Yeah, what's going on there?” Lilly asked with a smile, “Do you have a thing for your co-workers, Y/n?”
A laugh burst out of your mouth, “I mean, the dating pool is quite small for stormchasters, but nothing happened there. He just always had a stick up his ass.” Which wasn’t a complete lie.
All Kate did was hum, giving the other girls a look when you weren’t looking. Maybe it was always oblivious to everyone but the two of you.
The girl's talk ceased when Tyler appeared, handing you another beer. “Thank you.” You smiled up at him, trying your best to ignore Scott’s presence.
“Anything for you.” He cheesed, sitting at the table across from the booths with the boys. Idle conversation went by, loud laughs from Boone made your eyes linger over to their table every once and a while. Your fingers ripped at the wet label on your bottle, doing your best to quell the anxiety looming in your gut.
“Hey, the numbers you guys got yesterday were perfect,” Kate spoke up, “We nearly missed it if it wasn’t for y'all.”
“That was all the Dream Team over here.” Javi laughed, slapping his hand down on Scott’s shoulder. You took this chance to sneak a glance at him, his jaw ticking at the mere mention of your name. The same jawline you’ve had in your hands while you, yeah, you need to get laid.
“We do all the work while Javi stands there and looks pretty.” You rolled your eyes.
He cooed at you, “Aw, you think I’m pretty?”
“Gah, you wish.” You shivered, fake gagging at the man. Kate’s shoulders shaking against yours in laughter next to you.
“Y/n is only flirting with one stormchaser tonight, I guess.” Scott’s voice spoke up, the crew erupting in laughs. What came across as a simple joke to everyone else, but you knew it was much deeper than that. His eyes narrowed into slits as he glared at you.
“Guess you got here too late, man.” Tyler joked, not a hint of malice in his tone. Completely oblivious to the repercussions of his words. Kate’s eyes widened, leaning against you a little more.
All Scott could do was laugh, taking a sip of his beer.
“Come on, guy’s rack 'em up!” Boone yelled, gathering them for another game of pool. You let out a nervous breath, watching as Scott and Javi teamed up against Tyler and Boone. You were content in drinking with the girls, grateful to talk about anything but work. It wasn’t long before the anxiety fell off your chest; you weren’t sure if it was the beer flowing through your veins or watching everyone laugh and joke around with each other.
You tried to keep your gawking to a minimum, but Scott’s arms flexing every time he wrapped his hand around the cue had you drooling. At one point, Tyler and Scott high-fived each other, making your legs squeeze together underneath the table. The death grip on your beer was making your fingers ache, too wound up to be in public.
You excused yourself outside for a moment, hoping the chilled air would help. As soon as you were outside, you let your body relax against the dirty brick wall. Your head falls into your hands. You were only granted a few minutes of peace before the sound of a lighter flicking nearby made you raise your head.
There was Scott, just a few feet away, leaning against the side of the building. The dusty neon light above him reflected off his face. A lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, a habit he was in the process of kicking. He either didn’t realize you were out here or was leaving you alone. You assumed it was the latter. If you just stayed quiet, you wouldn’t have to engage with him, but your lips were moving before you knew it.
“Out of gum?” Your voice joined the cicadas and the night breeze. A dirty habit he had picked up, one he tried to quell with the insistent smacking of nicotine gum all day.
His head popped up, a smirk on his lips. “Yup.”
“I’m surprised you came out tonight.” The words wouldn’t stop leaving your mouth, wanting to talk to him more than you’d willingly admit.
“I bet you wish I didn’t. I seem to have interrupted.” And there it was, the bitter Scott Miller you always had the pleasure of speaking to. “Bet Tyler was about to bend you over that pool table.”
“And to think I thought you were in a good mood.” You shook your head, readying yourself to storm back inside.
“Hey,” He stopped you, offering his half-smoked cigarette to you as a peace offering.
You knew that was the closest thing you’d get to a civil apology as you snatched the cigarette, taking a drag. It was so easy to fall into his orbit, you were ashamed of just how much you craved being around him. The mentholated smoke causes your skin to feel buzzy. Settling a few inches apart from him, you let your head lean back on the wall.
“If you wanna whore yourself out to Tyler, I’m not gonna stop you.” He spoke up again, cruelty seeping into his words.
A scoff left you, “When did I ask for your permission, asshole?”
“I don’t know, maybe when you gave me those wide pathetic doe eyes when I walked in.”
“I did not-”
“Did too.” He argued back, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
“You’re such a child, you know that? You show up here acting as if you want to be civil. You hand me this stupid cigarette as some peace offering to get me to stay just for you to call me a whore?” You let out a crazed laugh, your head swimming. “You make me feel like I’m going insane, Scott. The whiplash you give me. I can’t do it anymore. I really can’t.”
All he does is let out a laugh, snatching the cigarette back from you to finish it off.
“What’s fucking funny?” You barked out, ready to start an argument.
“You say you can’t do it, but we’ll always end up here. At each other’s throats, because it’s the only time I’ll acknowledge you, and that’s all you want, right? Poor little Y/n needs the attention.” His eyes narrowed at you, smoke billowing from his mouth with each word.
“No one asked you to come tonight.” Your voice rose, unwilling to tolerate him any longer.
“Well, technically Javi did.” He said matter-of-factly, raising your blood pressure only raises it even more. “Besides, I can’t believe I almost missed the show. Please go to his room tonight since we’re next to each other. I’d rather gouge my ears out than have to hear you and Mr. Cowboy in there.”
The laugh that tumbled out of your mouth made stragglers in the parking lots' heads turn, “Oh my god. I can’t believe it.”
“What?” He grumbled, his eyes still locked onto yours.
“You’re fucking jealous. You came out here with your jeans and freshly steamed t-shirt to see me, only to have your bubble burst when you saw us.”
His scoff was loud, his body language overcompensating. “I am not.”
“Oh, you’re not?” You asked, he followed with a shake of his head.
“Obviously not.”
You clicked your lips, “So if I went back in there and grabbed Tyler by his collar and pulled him into his truck and fucked him right here in this parking lot, you wouldn’t care at all?”
“Nope.” He said, his eyes unwavering.
“Not even if I took him to the hotel? Kept you up all night with the headboard banging against those shitty cardboard walls?” You continued the taunting, a devilish smirk on your face.
“You can do whatever you want.” He shrugged, angrily stomping the cigarette out on the ground.
Clearly, he wasn’t letting the unbothered act go, “Okay, I’d get some headphones tonight.” You shrugged, brushing against him to walk back inside the bar.
He was lightning fast as he walked behind you, his hand grabbing a fistful of your hair at the scalp, pulling you to his body. The whimper that left your mouth was embarrassing, your body caged between his and the wall. His fingers pulled, forcing your chin up to look at him.
“You’re such a fucking whore,” He tsked, “You want my cock so bad you have to whore yourself out to get my attention?”
“F-fucking asshole.” You seethed, pretending this isn’t exactly what you wanted. He might have been treating you horribly, but at least he was treating you at all.
“Yeah, I’m an asshole, but you’re pathetic. You think I can’t hear you at night? Stuffing your pussy with your fingers, bet they don’t fill you up like I did, huh?” He mocked, his breath hitting your lips.
“You refuse to talk about that night, you still look at me like you hate me, but you wanna fuck me still. It fucking kills you how much you want me.” You barked back, refusing to let his grip on you plow you into submission.
“I do hate you.” He lied, pressing his body against yours. The cockprint in his pants is pressing against your hipbone. “I hate you so fucking much it scares me.”
“Just talk to me.” You begged, pressing against him even more.
He answered by pressing his lips to yours, teeth gnashing against skin. It was frantic; his hold on your hair loosened, his hand reaching down to grip your ass. Palming the fabric through your jeans as if it was going to disappear, “Hated seeing his fucking hands on you.”
Your chest ached at his confession, mewling in his hold. “Take me back to the motel. Please.” You begged, not even caring how pathetic you sounded. You needed him in every sense of the world.
“Gotta go tell cowboy he won’t be expecting you.” He breathed out, letting his eyes soften at you for the first time. His thigh slotting in between your thighs, no care in the world for the public setting. This was becoming a habit for you two.
“I’m not doing that. I’m just gonna text Kate that I didn’t feel g-good.” You stuttered, his thigh pressing into your clothed core roughly.
“They’re gonna know we left together.” His hands gripped your thighs, forcing you to grind against him. The fabric rubbing against your clit harshly, only making you pant harder. “Or maybe that’s what you want. Want me to go in there and bend you across that table? Bet it’ll show him, huh?”
“F-fuck. Motel. Now.” You stuttered out, covering your hands over his. He was reluctant, but pulled away, smoothing down the hair he had just pulled.
“My truck is over here.” He guided you across the parking lot, opening the door for you. Once you were seated in the passenger seat, there was no stopping the flashbacks of that night. He pulled out of the bar expertly as you sent frantic apology texts to your friends. The low hum of the truck settled between you, Scott’s eyes focused on the road. He was snapped out of his focus by the sound of your seatbelt unclicking, your knees coming up on the seat, and crawling over to him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked, nearly jerking the wheel. “That’s so unsafe-”
“Eyes on the road.” You barked, settling your elbows on his seat while you fumbled with his pants zipper. Pulling his cock out of his pants expertly, the tip glistening. You’ve been craving to get this up close and personal with him since that night.
“You’re fucking insane.” He grunted, his knuckles turning white on the wheel when you wrapped your mouth around his tip, flicking your tongue expertly on his slit. “What a slut. Couldn’t even wait 10 minutes.” His hand went to your hair as soon as your mouth slid down on him, taking him in your mouth.
“Oh my god.” He let out, trying not to buck his hips up at you. Your saliva pooling around his balls while you worked your head up and down, his tip halfway down your throat. “Taking me so good.”
By the time he jerkily pulled the truck into a parking spot, his balls were tightening, threatening to explode down your throat. “Baby, you gotta stop or I’m gonna come.”
The nickname only made you moan around him, hurrying up his inevitable release. You didn’t listen, only dragging him further down your throat, bobbing your head even faster.
“Fucking b-bitch. Fine. Take it. Take my cock, baby.” He grumbled, pushing your head down on him harshly. Choking on every inch of him while he throbbed in your mouth. “Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”
The moment his head flew back into the car seat, you were swallowing around him, the salty taste of his come gliding down your throat with each throb of his cock. You pulled off of him with a pop, smiling shyly at him.
His eyes were glossy, looking down at you. “You’re gonna kill me.” His thumb reached out to wipe spit off the corner of your lip, pushing the digit between your lips. He didn’t even need to say anything; your mouth sucking it greedily before you released it with a pop.
“Come on.” You giggled, sliding out of the truck. Before you could even shut the truck door, he was lifting you off your feet, tossing you over his shoulder. You squealed the whole way up, being lifted with only one of his arms while the other wrestled with the motel door.
He threw you on the bed gently, your head bouncing into the pillows. “Are we gonna talk?” You asked, his darkened eyes watching the way your tits bounced in your low-cut shirt.
“Sure, we can talk.” He said absently, pulling your shoes off.
You sighed, “I really don’t feel like you’re taking this seriously.”
“As serious as a heart attack.” He was now raising your hips, pulling your jeans down your legs slowly.
“You’re so mean to me sometimes. I know I’m just as mean back, but it hurts knowing you don’t like me.” You rambled as he pressed gentle kisses up your calf and to your thighs.
“I’m listening, baby.” He hummed, pulling your legs apart slowly. The damp spot on your panties is evident, the cool motel air making you shiver.
“It makes me feel bad. Then you fucked me and acted like it never happened, which is fine because I did too, but-” Your rambling was cut off as his tongue flattened against your entrance, licking through the thin material of your panties.
“Hmm?” He urged you to continue, licking the already ruined fabric slowly.
“We’re dysfunctional, we’re so p-pent up with frustration and emotions.” You breathed out, leaning up to pull your shirt off. “It’s not healthy for either of us. This can’t continue unless we’re gonna talk about it.”
“You don’t want me to continue?” He pouted, hands pulling your underwear to the side.
“You’re not listening to me.” You seethed, his eyes locked onto your glistening cunt.
“I am.” He said, looking up at you with a soft smile. “And I don’t disagree with you. How about you let me eat your gorgeous pussy until you beg me to stop, and then you can be mad at me.”
Your stomach muscles tensed at his words, weighing your options. It took you very little time to eventually say, “Fuck, yeah, okay.” You conceded, leaning back into the pillows as his mouth made contact. Scott Miller ate pussy like he had never eaten before a day in his life. His head was buried between your thighs, his mouth sucking and licking every inch of you. You could barely catch your breath at the speed his tongue flicked against your clit.
“Fuck.” You breathed out, leaning down to run your hands through his hair. All he did was hum into you, the vibrations licking up your spine. “Need more.”
He didn’t hesitate in sliding two fingers into your sopping core, curling them in an upwards motion, making you mewl. “Is this better than your own fingers?” He mocked, truly unable to hold himself back. “Did you think about this every night you spread yourself open?”
A moan of his name escaped you, unable to form coherent words. “Answer me, sweetheart, and I’ll give you what you want.” He said, his tongue lapping against you in between words. You were so close, and he was dangling it in front of you. “Tell me or I’ll stop..”
“Please don’t please.” You begged, hips desperately grinding against him. “Nothing could compare. Can’t even stretch myself as big as your cock. Can’t even make myself cum.”
At your confession, he sucked your clit into his mouth, eating you out sloppily until your legs were shaking around his head. He refused to stop until you tapped out, your back arching each time you came around him. By the third time, you could barely breathe, pushing him away with ease. He came back up with your release dripping off of his chin, his blue eyes glossy.
“I’m going to do that every single day.” He promised, pulling your lips to his. You kissed him greedily, the taste of your release mixing with the hint of the cigarette you shared earlier. “You taste so fucking good.” He moaned into your mouth, his clothed body pressing against your nearly naked form.
“You’re wearing too many clothes.” You whine, hands lazily gripping his shirt. Clothes flew in each direction, and he nearly tripped out of his jeans while you threw your bra at him. Your tits bouncing as you plopped back down against the pillows. He was all but skipping back to the bed, mouth seeking yours.
His tongue explored every inch of your mouth while his hands finally got a hold of your tits, rolling your hardened buds in between his thumbs. His thick length pressed against your thigh, rubbing against you with each move of his hips.
“You gonna fuck me? Or make me beg?” You breathed out, nearly having to pry his mouth off of yours by his hair.
“Oh, I do love to see you beg.” His dimpled smile looked down at you, a look in his eyes you hadn't seen before until now. A look of admiration, his walls slowly crumbling around you.
“I love to see you beg,” You countered, wrapping your legs around his hips, his length settling against your sensitive core. “Which one of us is gonna cave first?”
“So competitive.” He tsked, his cock twitching against you. He reached down, rubbing his tip against your slick folds. He sucked in a deep breath when his tip caught on your entrance, your body sucking him in with a death grip.
“O-oh.” He let out a pornographic whimper, his body falling slack against yours. You pushed your hips forward a little, desperate for more of him. “Look, she’s begging for it. Missed her so much.”
“Are you referring to my pussy as she?” You giggled in between the breathy moans he was pulling out of you.
“Shut up.” He grumbled, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he let himself slide deep inside you. Both of you were gripping each other tightly when your hips met. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head at the new angle, he was so deep inside you. The sound of his hips snapping into yours was music to your ears.
“I think I’m in love with you.” He stuttered out, his eyes closed, lost in the pleasure.
Unfortunately, you were unable to stay in your lust-filled haze like he was, eyes shooting open in shock. His face was calm, lost in the feeling of you squeezing around him. His hips began moving in deep, drawn-out strokes. The feeling nearly made you forget the panic that was rising up your throat.
“W-what?” You gasped, his eyes opening, matching your own panicked ones.
“You said you wanted to talk,” He grunted, fucking you through his words, “You infuriate me. From the moment I met you. You walked in, and you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, so smart you could run circles around me, and it made my chest hurt.”
His words made your eyebrows furrow, “So why be so mean to me?”
“I didn’t mean to at first. It was easier than letting you get close. It would be messy. Didn’t wanna ruin our work. Didn’t wanna ruin you,” He grunted, pressing a kiss to your sweaty collarbones, “And I'm such an asshole you should hate me. You shouldn’t even give me the light of day. But oh, thank god you are.”
Between his words and his hip movements, you were floating. “Scott, I don’t h-hate you. It hurt my feelings, yeah, but I was cruel back.”
“I’d let you ruin me completely. I don’t care.” He spoke like a prayer, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
A deep thrust had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Don’t wanna- oh my god right there- ruin you.” Your hands were digging desperately into his skin; you could pry your hands into his ribcage, and it wouldn’t be close enough.
“Can’t you see?” He grunted, “You already have.”
He quickened his movements, pressing his lips to yours once again. Swallowing every moan and whimper of his name that escaped your mouth.
“I’m yours. Completely. If you’ll have me. Even as the dysfunctional, asshole I am.” He whimpered, watching your face.
All you could do was nod, “Y-yes, god. I’ve always been yours, you dickhead.”
“Yeah, there’s my girl.” He laughed, reaching his hand down to rub fast circles to where you were connected, your high creeping up on you. “Wanna feel you cum on my cock. Can you be good and do that? Just one more?”
His praise was all it took to have you coming around him in a final shout, pulling his lips back onto yours. He fucked you through the bed, keeping you as close as possible when he finished. His hips stuttered messily before he collapsed onto your chest, both of you sweaty and breathless.
In the sweet afterglow, you couldn't stop yourself, “Did you have to confess your love for me balls deep inside me?”
“I couldn’t think of a better time.” He smiled lazily, meeting your eyes. Your hands running through his damp hair.
“I’m sure you couldn’t.” You sighed, content with your bodies tangled together. “So what does this mean?”
“Hopefully, it means you’ll let me take you out to dinner. Do things the right way.” He nuzzled into your skin, breathing you in. “It also means if Tyler ever goes near you again, I’ll have to kill him.”
You groaned, pushing his head playfully, barely nudging the man. “I only did it to stop thinking of you, if that makes you feel better.”
“You know what? It really does.” He laughed, “It really fucking does.”
Warning: Angst! No fix. Scott being an asshole. Being led on. Sexual flirting. Not proofread. Might edit later. (Let me know if I missed anything)
(A/N: Idk if this will be multipart series or not but I felt like writing an angst would be a bit therapeutic for me. Been obsessing over Elastic Heart by Sia and I wanted to write something inspired by it. I'm also writing a bit about something that I experienced...at least its loosely inspired by it. Hope you enjoy.)
You were in love with him. The Enigma that was Scott Miller had filled up your senses and you were whole heartedly in love with him. You weren't exactly sure what was it that made you love him. You silently enjoyed being around him.
You met him by chance when you were driving your pick up truck trying to avoid a pending tornado. He was on the side of the road completely drenched in mud. You slowly pulled up beside him.
"Need a lift?" You asked.
He glanced over at you. "I don't take rides from strangers."
You snorted. "You plan on walking somewhere? There's a tornado coming. Just tryna be nice. Have a great day." Then you began to roll your window back up.
"Wait!"
You smirked and rolled the window back down. "Taking a ride from a stranger doesn't sound so bad now, does it?"
"Just take me into town." He walked around to the passenger side and got in.
You smiled at him. "Nice to meet ya, I'm Y/N."
He only grumbled to himself. "Just drive."
"Well aren't you a real peach. Remind me never to pick up strangers." You replied and started driving.
Scott directed you to the next town over where he was staying in a motel. You parked the truck and cleared your throat. "Um thank you."
"So you do have manners afterall? I'll be damned." You reply looking at him. "Gonna tell me your name or are you gonna stay a mystery mud man?"
He huffed. "Scott. My name's Scott."
"Scott." You repeated testing it out. "Yeah you look like a Scott. Bit of a tight ass sounding name."
He shot a glare at you. "Yeah that look screams Scott. So does that make you the stick in the actual mud?" You ask cracking up at your own joke.
"That's not funny." He said.
"I thought it was hilarious." You replied. "So how'd you end up in the middle of the field drenched in mud?"
He sighed out. "Got in an argument with my business partner. He left me out there."
You nodded. "Sorry about your breakup."
Scott shot you another look. "It wasn't a break up."
You shrugged. "Whatever you say. So what do you do?"
"Storm research. I try and get as much information about these twisters as I can." He explained.
"Sounds cool."
He scoffed. "It's more than just cool. It's revolutionary."
"So revolutionary your partner left you?"
"Javi didn't like the way we got our funding but it worked."
You raised an eyebrow. "How did you get your funding?"
He looked at you. "My uncle. He buys properties from families who lost their houses in storms. He invests in us and we give him the statistics."
"Yeah I don't blame this Javi fella. Sounds like your uncle preys on people's tragedies."
Scott rolled his eyes. "He gives them second chances. They are getting money."
You clicked your tongue. "Oh please. You can't tell me your uncle is giving them a fair price for the land he is getting."
The two of you argued until you said something that made him laugh.
"You know you can argue with me until you turn blue in the face but that changes nothing." You glanced over at him. "You are turning into a crustacean before my eyes." You say noticing the mud is drying on him.
For whatever reason that made him laugh. "Crustaceans are a subspecies of animals you know."
You shrugged. "Yeah. I know, but thats the best thing I can come up with. The mud is drying out and it's getting crusty."
He looks down at himself and he started to move realizing he was in fact crusty. He sighed.
Suddenly a few tricks pulled up in the parking lot. You saw a Hispanic looking man with light eyes and freckles on his face get out of one of the trucks. Scott's face distorted into one of anger. He got out of your truck quickly.
"Javi!"
The man turned around with wide eyes. "Scott? You made it back? I-"
Then a fist went flying into his face. You gasped loudly and jumped out of the truck. "What the fuck, Scott?" Javi asked holding his face.
"That's what you get for leaving me for dead." He said about to take another swing.
For whatever reason you decided to jump in front of Scott with your hands up. "Scott-" The hit landed on you instead and you dropped to the ground.
Everyone in the parking lot gasped. You heard voices all around you. "Y/N?" You couldn't keep your eyes open it hurt too much but you knew it was Scott.
"Really Scott? You'd hit a woman to get to me?" It was Javi's voice.
"It was an accident! She stepped in front of me."
"Who even is she?" Javi asked.
"I don't know. She picked me up in the side of the road and drove me here." Scott spoke."She told me her name was Y/N."
"You probably need to take her to the hospital or something to get checked. You hit her pretty hard." You heard a woman's voice.
You groaned as you held your head. "Scott?"
You felt someone get real close to you. "Yeah?"
"Remind me to never pick up strangers again." You replied.
"I am so sorry."
"Y/N, can you open your eyes?" You heard the woman ask.
You groaned in response. "Not really." You tried to open yours.
"She might have a concussion. I'm not so sure."
"Since when did you have an extensive knowledge of medical care, Kate?" Scott spoke sarcastically.
You heard the woman scoff. "I don't but the way you landed that hit on her anything is possible."
You finally managed to get your eyes open. All you saw were heads leaning over to look at you but it was a little blurry. Scott appeared the most worried. "Y/N,are you okay?"
Your eyes landed on his face. "I have had better days."
You started to sit up but everything was spinning. You held your head. "Ugh."
"Hey take it easy." Kate said rubbing your back.
"I'm fine. I think I'm okay." You then turned your head and puked on Scott's shoes. "Sorry."
He sighed deeply. "I think I deserved that."
"Okay that can't be good. Y/N,I'm going to take you to the hospital." Kate said kneeling beside you.
You shook your head. "Hospital is gonna be full of people affected by that tornado."
"Doesn't matter you need to be seen." Kate said. "Besides it didn't hit this town."
Javi and Scott helped you up. "I'll take her. It's my fault." Scott said.
Kate glanced him up and down. "You are covered head to toe in mud and you have vomit on your shoes."
He huffed. "Fine. Make sure to bring her back here after, okay?" His tone was surprisingly soft.
Kate nodded. An attractive blonde man walked up. "You really think it's a good idea to go out there? You just got out of a twister where you literally crawled out of a truck."
She looked at him. "Tyler, it's fine. I'm fine. She needs medical attention right now."
The man sighed and nodded.
Kate walked you to a Stormpar truck and helped you inside the passenger seat. You held your head groaning. "God this hurts like a bitch."
Kate ran to the other side and started driving you to the nearest hospital. "So you drove Scott to the motel?"
You squinted as you thought about it. You started hearing some ringing in your ears. "I can't remember right now."
She glanced over at you seemingly worried. After about 20 minutes you made it to the hospital where you were checked and taken care of. The did a CTscan of your head and saw you did in fact have a concussion. They told you that you'd be fine and just needed rest and to take Tylenol.
Kate took you back to the motel. You saw Scott leave his room as soon as he saw the truck. You opened the door and got out. Kate helped you to stand right. "How is she?" Scott asked as he approached you.
"Docs said you have her a concussion."
Scott glanced at you with regret in his eyes. "Will she be okay?"
Kate nodded. "Yeah. She just needs rest and Tylenol. She can't drive so she'll have to stay here."
That's when Scott looked back over to Kate. "She has to stay here? With you?"
"Yeah she can stay with me. Is that a problem with you?" She asked raising an eyebrow.
He cleared his throat. "No, I just think she should probably stay with me. It's my fault she's concussed."
"Do you not trust me to look after her?" Kate asked.
He let out a mock laugh. "That has nothing to do with it."
"I was the one that took her to the hospital. I think I can keep an eye on her." Kate said placing a hand in her hip.
Scott rolled his eyes. "I told you that's not why."
Kate huffed out. "You know what? I don't have the energy to argue with you. I need a shower. Have her stay with you. Just don't be your usual self."
He glared at her but she didn't say anything else as she walked away. "Tryna get me alone?" You asked teasing.
Scott looked at you in a way you couldn't describe. It was almost angry but something else. "No,"
He started walking you to his room. "So you're here to finish the job?"
"Finish the job?"
"Yeah, you're gonna kill me off aren't you?"
He turned to look at you. "There's something seriously wrong with you."
You only smiled at him. "It's one of my endearing qualities."
Scott snorted in response but he had a smile on his face.
That night you stayed with him and slept in the same bed. He argued he would sleep on the floor but you insisted you could share the same bed and that there were probably bugs. The thought scared him enough to agree.
That was then the start of a great friendship with him. Scott gave you his number and the two of you would always talk on the phone after that and you were never afraid to call him out on his bullshit. In turn he'd always find a way to tease you. That's how your friendship worked.
It's been about a year of friendship. You'd fallen for him since. You were at work in your bakery when you got a call. It was him. "Hey Ava, I'll be right back. Gonna take my lunch." You told your employee/best friend.
"Is that your boyfriend again?" She teased.
You rolled your eyes but with a huge smile on your face. "He's not my boyfriend Ava. You know that."
She stuck her tongue out at you. "He might as well be. You guys talk almost everyday and he always puts that huge grin on your face when he calls."
"Mhm gotta go." You said taking off your apron and stepping to the back. Then picked up your phone. "Scotty."
"My favorite pain in the ass."
You let out a laugh. "You know I'm at work."
"So am I."
You grabbed your lunch box. "You should probably do your job then."
"It's a slow day. No storms in forecast. I'm bored." He replied.
You snorted. "So you decided to bug me while I'm at work?"
"Hey you're your own boss. It's not like you'd get in trouble." He argued.
You started grabbing your food from your bag. "Can't run a business if someone keeps calling me."
"You act like you don't love it when I call you." Scott replied.
You let out a laugh. "You think entirely too highly of yourself, Scotty."
You were the only person in the world allowed to call him Scotty. With those rights you used them often.
"I do because I know you love me." You knew he was smirking from over the phone.
You felt your cheeks heat up. "You're a cocky little shit."You say as you take a bite from your sandwich.
Scott laughed over the phone. "What are you doing thinking about my cock, Y/N?"
You damn near choked. "Scott!"
Now he was full on cackling. "You're so fun to tease, doll."
You rolled your eyes. "I'm revoking your discount at the bakery."
He gasped. "Ah come on baby don't be like that."
"Nope. I made up my mind." You said taking another bite of your sandwhich.
"It's too early in the day for me to be getting Y/Nphobia. I'm getting really itchy." He said.
He made up a new phobia one day and used it whenever to tease you when ever you'd call him out on shit. He thought it was hilarious.
"Bullshit you know you have Y/Nphilia." You countered.
Scott only laughed. "I'm never admitting to that."
You smiled. "It's okay, you don't have to. I know you have it."
"I love you, Y/N."
Your face heated up again. "I'm not admitting that I love you."
He snorted. "That's okay. I know you love me too."
"Fuck off, Miller." You replied.
"But then I wouldn't get to have this great phone sex with you. Keep yelling at me I'm so close." He teased.
You felt like your body was on fire. "You're a menace. You know that?"
"That's what you love about me."
"Yeah, one of the reasons."
"Aha! So you admit it, you do love me."
You groaned. "I don't understand why you aren't like this with everyone else. I get the most annoying version of you."
Scott sounded giddy on the other side. "Because there's only one of you, and I have to give you my best."
"Ha! If this is your best I'd hate to see your worst." You replied
He cleared his throat. "Well you've seen that part of me too. Remember? The first day we met I was covered in mud, I accidentally punched you and you puked on my shoes."
You gasped covering your mouth. "I forgot that I puked on you."
"I could never forget. That was the best foreplay I have gotten." He teased.
You grimaced. "You're disgusting."
"Yeah? What else?" He asked.
"A huge pain my ass."
"Fuck keep going." He faked a moan.
"Pig."
"But you'd still fuck me."
"So what if I would?" You challenged him.
He made a satisfied sound. "Want me to stop what I'm doing and head over to you before your lunch is over?"
You rolled your eyes. "Yeah right."
"I know where you live and work, doll."
You felt your heart pang. He was never serious. This is how he was. You'd play flirt with each other but be wouldn't do anything about it. You were used to it. That didn't make it hurt any less. "Uh, Scott, I have to go."
"Aww do you really h-"
You hadn't let him finish you immediately hung up. You let out a big sigh and put the rest of your food away not being able to eat anything else. You took deep breaths as you tried not to cry.
Soon you heard foot steps. "Hey, Y/N, are you still on the-"Ava started then looked at your face. "What's wrong?"
You looked up at her and your eyes started watering. "Nothing." You said but your voice betrayed you. A tear slipped down your face and you quickly wiped it away.
"Why are you crying? Did Scott say something?" She asked you.
You sniffled. "It's stupid."
Ava looked behind her to see the bakery was still empty. Then she turned her attention back to you. "Talk to me. What happened? You were so happy to talk to him."
You took a deep breath. "Nothing, it's just the same shit, different day. We talk like we usually do but he always gets me flustered and I hate it because he never means it. Any of it. This is his way of joking with me. I feel like I constantly kid myself into believing he's actually interested in me."
Ava shook her head. "No, my love, I really think he is interested in you but you know that man is married to his job. I'm sure he just can't balance romance and work right now." She tried to assure you.
You sighed wiping away another tear. "I just... I wish if he did really want to be with me he'd tell me. He shouldn't make that kind of decision himself if that's the case."
Ava gave you a sympathetic look. "He doesn't seem like the most logical guy out there when it comes to the spectrum of normal human interactions."
That caused you to snort. "He sucks at communicating his feelings, I believe that."
She looked back again to double check that the shop was still empty (it was). Ava looked back at you again. "How about this, Scott is gonna in that other town for another two weeks, why don't you write him a letter being 100% honest about how you feel? See what happens."
You furrowed your eyebrows feeling really unsure. "I don't know, Ava."
"You'll put the ball in his court and he gets to decide for sure where this goes between the two of you." She said. "Make it really personal."
You nodded. "Fuck it, why not?"
She clapped and fist pumped the air. "Alright! I'll leave you to finish your lunch."
"Wait, why'd you come in here in the first place?" You asked her.
Ava furrowed her eyebrows. "Honestly, I don't remember." She laughed then went back to the register.
You shook your head with a smile on your face.
That night you started writing your letter to Scott. You started it off with a song recommendation which was Honest by Mali Koa. Then you wrote the rest. It took you almost all week to write what you wanted but once you had what you wanted you felt proud of it. At the end of the letter you made it perfectly clear and asked Scott that if you had no chance then he needed to let you know. As a finishing touch you sprayed your favorite perfume so he'd remember what you smelled like.
You anxiously put your envelope out to get picked up by the mail that night you finished the letter. The following day it was picked up and you were anxious since then.
Two days later you got a text from Scott.
I got mail from you. I haven't been able to sit down and look at it but I'll let you know when I do.
It's really important, can you read it ASAP?
Can't yet. I promise I'll read it ASAP.
Your anxiety levels were at an all time high but you tried to push it all down. He'll read it when he gets the chance, you kept telling yourself. It bothered you that he didn't want to just take a minute to read it. It was just a letter.
You secretly cursed, Scott for not prioritizing your letter. Ava tried talking you out of your panic about the letter and reassured you that he was a busy man. Which is true. He could get really busy with his job and research. The problem is, if he cared about you like you thought he did, he would read something that was important to you, right?
A week had went by and you didn't talk as much with Scott. He hadn't been calling you and you certainly weren't planning on calling him. So you both were at a stalemate.
That weekend you went with Ava to the local bar. It wasn't much but you were feeling sorry for yourself and you practically drank yourself to death and danced. Your heart still called for Scott so you pulled your phone out.
I like yih so mucchhhhh
Big smoooo has to u
Huh?
Kisssssyyy
Wherrreeeeeee
You put your phone away and you started feeling sick. Suddenly you booked it to the nearest trash can and vomitted whatever was in your stomach. Ava ran up to you and rubbed your back.
"Y/N, are you okay?" She asked you.
You wiped your mouth. "That was the most expensive vomit of life." You muttered.
She tried not to laugh at your comment. "Okay let's get you home girly. You're done for the night."
"No I don't wanna." You whined.
Ava started dragging you out of the bar. "I'm taking your ass home come on."
She managed to get you in her SUV and drove you to your apartment (it was above the bakery). Ava struggled but helped you climb up the stairs.
She helped you get comfortable and into bed. Ava grabbed ibuprofen for you and a glass of water to put it on your night stand. She took one last look at you and sighed before she walked out.
The next morning you woke up with a headache and a vague memory of the night before. You turned to see the ibuprofen on your night stand. You popped three pills and chugged the whole glass of water.
You then grabbed your phone and opened it to see the messages you sent to Scott last night. Your eyes nearly shot out of your head. "Oh my God!"
I am so sorry about that! I was seriously not myself last night 🤦♀️🤦♀️
I read your letter that was sweet
Good song choice
Thank you
I feel like the blood just left or I'm going to pass out. I'm not sure 😀
Oh god
Don't oh God me
But that was it. You weren't sure how to feel. He read your letter. Including the part where you explicitly told him to let you know if you didn't have a chance with him. He didn't say yes but he didn't say no.
That's when you called Ava. "Ava, he read it. He read my letter."
"And?"
"Well he said it was really sweet and he liked the song choice but that was it. He didn't say he wanted to be with me but he didn't reject me either. I don't know what to do." You explained.
The line was silent for a moment. "Well he didn't say no...so maybe he really is interested in you."
"Should I ask him?"
"Maybe not yet. Give him some time."
So you gave him time. You did try setting up dates with him but it felt like he kept making excuses about why he couldn't come. Mostly because he was busy with work so he told you that you would need to set up a time you both weren't busy.
Well you know I have short hours on the weekend. Just let me know
Yes ma'am
But he never did. You started to feel like he was slipping from your fingers and it was slowly driving you crazy. You wanted to confront him about his behavior but you were terrified of losing him all together. Nothing you were texting to him was coming out right anymore.
Sorry, can't talk much. One of the radars got lost and it's messing with my readings. Nothing has been going right.
All these issues you're having this tornado season and you still haven't reformed StormPar fully. Guess you'll never be a real company.
That's fucked up. There's no way to say that respectfully. You don't know what I have been dealing with. I only tell you some stuff.
Wait Scott that's not what I meant. You have to know I was kidding. I know you're working hard to rebuild StormPar after Javi left.
But he never replied after that. You were in your bed crying and trying to self sooth but you felt like you were losing a good friend and you didn't know what to do. You loved Scott so much that it hurt.
Being a bigger you never felt like people paid attention to you but he did. Even he wasn't serious he made you feel something. You were struggling to hold onto it.
Another week passed and the tornado season ended which meant he had to travel back home soon and wouldn't be miles away from you anymore.
I don't know if you're still mad at me but I hope you had a good end to the season.
I'm not mad at you, Y/N. It was a good end. Thank you.
Despite him texting you that. You guys didn't talk as much anymore. Finally one day you said fuck it.
Hey Scott, I know you’ve got a lot going on, and I’ve been giving you space because I don’t want to ever stress you out. But I’ve been feeling a bit uncertain and anxious since I shared my feelings with you in my last letter. If you don’t feel the same way, I completely understand, and that’s okay. I promise I will be fine. I just need a bit of clarity so I know where we stand. It would really help me to have some peace of mind. You don’t have to feel pressured to respond right away; just let me know when it’s convenient for you. I'd greatly appreciate it.
You thought he would take a while to respond but he didn't.
In the most loving and respectful way, I see this as a friendship ❤️
You felt your heart drop and the tears form in your eyes.
Thank you. That's all I needed to know. Thank you for your transparency
You should have ended the friendship there. Cut your losses but you told him you'd still be his friend and just needed space and he told you best wishes.
For a while you were still friends. It was almost the same as it used to be. Ava told you that sometimes friendships can develop into something more. That he might need time. You tried to be positive but your heart was breaking.
I'm sorry Scott. I really thought I could do this but I can't. I really don't think I can be friends with you anymore.
If that's what you want.
If that's what you want? Was that all he had to say? That broke you completely.
Without much other thought you blocked his number. You started your healing journey from there. It felt like you were going through a break up but the most embarrassing part was that you were never together.
You were almost sure he didn't care until you got a text from Kate one day. You did keep in touch with her every so often.
Javi says Scott mentioned you to him. Well actually Javi was asking about you to Scott. Said he hadn't heard from you in a while to which Scott said you stopped talking to him and that he didn't get it.
Was this joker serious? He didn't get it?
Funny.
You then sent her screenshots of your text messages with Scott. Where he said he read your letter then you sent her the last part of your letter where you asked him to be honest with you if you didn't have a chance. You then sent her the plans he said he would make with you. Then you sent the message where you asked for clarity after his mixed signals and how he replied as seeing it only as a friendship. Then finally you sent the last messages to each other before you blocked him.
If that's what you want? Seriously? I knew he was an asshole but I thought he was different with you.
I thought so too. My mistake
I'm so sorry you went though that.
It is what it is. I'm more mad at myself for wasting my time.
Wait Javi and Scott are on speaking terms again?
Yeah they decided to try and be adults since they'd be seeing each other on the field. Javi started another company.
Good for him.
It is. I'm proud of him.
The months had passed and you were growing. You threw yourself into your business. It was nice. You finally felt like yourself but sometimes you felt that phantom pain from not having Scott to talk to.
More than anything you just wondered to yourself why could you never get this love thing down. Scott was just another disappointment but you were really hoping he was the one.
What hurt the most was that you saw and noticed the red flags but you just wanted him so bad you ignored them. If he wanted to be with you he would have made time. He would have hung out with you. Scott would have made it clear from the start and not give you mixed signals.
You slowly began to realize that Scott had breadcrumbed you. He would give you enough attention to keep you around but not enough to have to make a commitment. You still felt anger about it but you were glad he couldn't hurt you anymore.
Tornado season came around again. Nothing new. It happened every year.
Hey girl, in town again. Wanna meet up for drinks?
Sure!
That night you met Kate at the local bar and you were so excited to see her again.
"Y/N, you look great!" She said giving you a hug.
You smiled widely then pulled away from the hug. "Thank you, I feel great."
"I bet, don't have that asshole in your life anymore. You look like you've been living your best life." She said.
You tried not to drop your smile at the mere mention of Scott. "I have been. Business is good. Still no luck in romance so I decided to marry my job." You said and let out an almost pained laugh.
A moment later you Javi walk over. "Hey Y/N, long time no see."
Your jaw dropped. "Holy shit, Javi! It's been a minute. You're in town too?"
He nodded pulling you into a hug. "Yeah I am. Kate didn't tell you she's working with me?"
You turned to look at her. "No she failed to mention that. Only said you started your own company." You said then looked back at him.
He smiled at you. "Yeah, I did, both Kate and Owens are helping me with it. Making sure I get the right investments unlike another companies."
Keep smiling, Y/N. Keep smiling. Don't think about him. He's not worth it. He didn't break you. You're okay. "Well that's good."
"Kate mentioned,what happened between you and Scott. I'm sorry he did that to you." Javi said.
You cleared your throat. "Thank you, but I'm not here to talk about Scott."
He put his hands up in defense. "My bad. Let me buy you a drink then."
You scrunched your eyebrows at him but shrugged. "Sure, why not."
"What would you like?"
"Malibu coconut rum and coke."
He raised an eyebrow but seemed curious and nodded. He looked at the bartender. "Can I get two Malibu coconut rum and cokes?"
The bartender nodded and started preparing the drinks. "Opening a tab or just these?" He asked.
"I'll open a tab." Javi replied and handed him a card.
A moment later you saw Owens come up. "Hey Y/N, how are you?"
"Hey Tyler. I'm good. Living life day by day."
He only nodded but he turned his attention towards Kate. "Wanna come with me to dance?"
She scrunched her nose. "I don't know."
"Come on it'll be fun." He took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
You smiled softly at the two of them. They made a cute couple you had to give them that.
"Two Malibu coconut rum and cokes." The bartender said as he placed the drinks down in front of you and Javi.
You turned back around and smiled at the bartender. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He said before walking away to attend another patron.
Javi grabbed the drink and sniffed it. You let out a laugh. "Don't sniff it! Just drink it. I promise it's good."
He shrugged then took a sip from his drink then looked up at you in surprise. "Hey that's not half bad."
You smiled. "Right? My signature drink. Well besides a good margarita."
"Nothing wrong with margaritas." He replied. "Why don't you sit down with me. I don't think you're gonna get any taller." Javi pulled out the stool next to him at the bar.
You thought fuck it and sat beside him. "So how's it been, running your own business?"
"I'd say it's been going pretty well. He's been beating me out of all the good storms."
Your heart dropped to your stomach at the sound of that voice. You let your face drop too. When you turned around you were face to face with a ghost.
"Good to see you, Y/N."He said giving you a smile but something about it seemed completely fake.
You glanced him up and down. "Scott."
"This seat taken?" He asked grabbing the empty stool on your left. Before waiting for a response he sat down.
"Looks like you already made yourself comfortable." You muttered before taking a huge sip from your drink.
Javi cleared his throat. "Always a pleasure to see you Scott."
"Wish I could say the same Javi."
You glanced at Scott. "Hey, he's just tryna be nice."
"It's fine. Javi knows I'm not serious."Scott said. "You gonna give me Y/Nphobia this early in the night?"
Javi furrowed his eyebrows. You didn't say anything as you sipped your drink. This was how he was going to play it. Act like nothing happened. As if he didn't break your heart.
You didn't know what to do. He was entirely too close to you. Your heart felt like it would beat outside of your chest. You took a deep breath and looked at Javi. "Well I'm glad your company is doing good."
He smiled softly at you. "Thank you."
The bartender walked back over. "Can I get you anything?" He asked Scott.
"Just a beer and another drink for my friend here." He said and used his thumb to point over to you.
You waved your right hand making a slicing motion by your neck. "Oh no, I'm fine with the-"
Scott grabbed your left hand. "No, I insist."
You wanted to protest but no words came out as you pulled your hand away from him. "Fine."
The bartender grabbed a beer from the cooler behind him and handed it to Scott. Then he prepared your second drink.
You silently finished your first drink. You side eyed Javi and could tell he was starting to get uncomfortable. You then side eyed Scott to see that he appeared completely unphased.
This was so like him. He fucked everything over but he gets to live life untouched. Unaffected. Without blame. You wanted to tell at him. To push him. Cuss him out. You were tired. Emotionally exhausted. He drained you.
The bartender took your empty glass and put your second drink in front of you pulling you out of your thoughts. "Thank you."
"So how have you been, Y/N. Haven't heard from you in almost a year, right?" Scott asked you."You look good."
You didn't look at him but you felt his eyes on you. "Thank you. I've been, fine. Just working." Short and sweet. You were hoping he'd catch the hint that you didn't want to talk to him.
"Still have that bakery?" He asked.
You simply nodded before taking a sip from your second drink.
Javi cleared his throat. "You know I still haven't made a trip to your bakery, Y/N."
You turned to look at Javi. "You should. I came out with tornado cookies recently. Mini cow figure flying in it included with each cookie."
That made Javi laugh. "A mini cow figure?"
"Yeah I found little tiny toy cows that I like to stick in the cookies. The customers get a kick out of them and the kids love them." You replied with a proud smile.
"You were always so creative." Scott spoke up making your smile drop.
You took another sip from your drink. "Thanks."
After another minute of awkward silence and you practically chugging your second drink Javi looked at you. "Hey, Y/N, do you wanna dance?"
You smiled. "Yes I'd love to."
Javi took your hand and led you to the dance floor.
"Thanks for the rescue. I don't know what the fuck his problem is." You said as Javi pulled you in for the dance.
Javi let out a single laugh. "Yeah Scott has a way of getting under people's skin." He said before twirling you.
For a split second you glanced at Scott who was still sitting at the bar. He was staring right at you with a clenched jaw.
"Y/N! So glad to see you dancing." You heard Kate say.
You turned to look at her with a smile. She was swaying with Tyler. "Yeah. Javi asked me to dance but it was a good excuse to get away from Scott." You tilted your head towards the bar.
Kate glanced at the bar and saw Scott sitting there staring at you. Her jaw dropped before she looked at you again. "I can't believe he's even here. At the motel we were saying we were gonna go to the bar and he said he didn't want to come. That's why I invited you because he said he wasn't coming."
Tyler had a nervous smile in his face. "I might have accidentally mentioned that Y/N was gonna be here in passing."
"Seriously, Tyler?" Kate asked looking up at her boyfriend.
"I'm sorry. He was saying something about you not wasting time to go the bar since this is our first night so I said you were looking to hang out with Y/N,more than anything. I didn't know Y/N would be his deciding factor to come." Tyler explained.
Kate groaned. "It's fine, Kate I promise. I'm barely talking to him." You assured her. "It's more awkward than anything."
She glanced at the bar again and saw he was still staring at you. "He won't stop staring at you." Kate said leaning close to you.
You glanced over at him briefly to see that yes he was in fact still staring. "That man has audacity."
Kate nodded. "I have to run to the bathroom, can you come with me?"
"Yeah, let's go."
Kate smiled. She turned to Tyler gave him a quick peck kiss before grabbing your hand to pull you towards the women's restroom. "I think he's jealous."
You tilted your head in confusion. "Who?"
"Scott. I think he's jealous that you're talking to Javi and dancing with him." Kate went inside one of the stalls.
You scrunched your face up. "You think so? I don't see why. Javi is just being nice."
Kate snorted. "Y/N, I've known Javi for years. He's not just being nice. He's interested in you."
Your jaw dropped slightly. "Interested in me?"
"Yeah girl, you're a catch."
"Me?"
"Yes you. Why is that hard to believe?"
You shrugged. "I don't know, after the whole thing with Scott it kind of just messed with my confidence. I already had issues before him. He kind of made things worst." You looked at the mirror above the sink. "To be honest, I still can't stop replaying that stuff in my head. When I sit back and look at all the mixed signals I can really see how he led me on for so long. I really thought he was interested, ya know?"
Before you knew it tears were running down your face. "Sometimes I think he did actually like me but he didn't like that I was plus sized so he kept me at arms length." You admitted.
You heard a flush then saw Kate come out of her stall. "Aww sweetie I'm so sorry he made you feel that way." She walked towards the sink. You stepped back to give her space to wash her hands.
"Honestly, it is what it is. Moral of the story, I don't think he's jealous. I think he just got a major blow to his ego." You explain.
Kate dried her hands. "I can't believe you were ever into that asshole."
You sighed."Me neither but he was my asshole, ya know? He in his own way always made me feel special. I guess I liked that."
The both of you walked out and were going back to the dance floor when Scott approached you. "Y/N, we need to talk."
"I don't think we have anything to talk about."You said trying to get past him.
"Okay how about I talk and you listen." He said blocking you.
You shook your head. "It okay, Scott. I don't want to listen to anything you have to say."
"Scott, leave her alone. You've done enough." Kate said.
"This has nothing to do with you. This is between me and Y/N." Scott said raising his tone.
You sighed. "Kate it's fine. I'll be there in a minute."
"Are you sure?" She asked.
You gave her a nod. As she walked away you turned to look at Scott. "Y/N, you have no idea how much I have missed y-"
He was cut off by a slap to the face. "Fuck you, Scott."
He held his face he looked so surprised. "What was that for?" He asked and the craziest part was that he had the audacity to look confused.
You let out a laugh. "You seriously don't know? Scott you broke my fucking heart. Then when I tell you I couldn't be your friend anymore you didn't even fucking care!" Don't cry. Don't cry. He won't see you fall apart.
"Baby, I'm sorry. I-"
"Don't call me baby. I'm not your baby. I'm not your anything." You spit out like venom.
He sighed. "Y/N, I'm sorry. I hate to admit it but I miss you. I know I wasn't a good friend to you but I want to make it up to you. I want to fix us."
You almost laughed. "Wow. So it takes me leaving and cutting ties for you to realize how much you liked having me in your life?"
Scott had a face of discomfort. "I know it was shitty of me. I should have fought for a friendship."
"That probably would have been a good idea, yeah. I would have also appreciated it if you didn't lead me on for as a long as you did."
He furrowed his eyebrows. "How did I lead you on?"
That question did make you laugh. "Does me writing a letter about my feelings for you not ring a bell? I told you to let me know if I didn't have a chance and you never did. I still had this hope that one day you'd tell me we could be together like a fool. I had to ask you explicitly to tell me the truth."
Scott shifted his feet seemingly unsure how to respond. He had no excuse. "I was afraid you'd stop being my friend."
You scoffed. "So how long would you have let me go on like that?Following you like some dog that needs water."
He was hesitant to answer. "I don't know. I was hoping one day you'd get over me."
"How? How do you think I was going to get over you? You flirted with me constantly. As someone who works all the time and never goes out you were the only one who gave me that kind of attention. What do you think that did to me?"
Scott was completely silent.
"Tell me something, what do you miss the most about me?" You asked.
You saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "You were always there for me when I needed you. I was always your number one priority."
For whatever reason the answer made you smile. Not because it flattered you but he proved you right. "You don't miss me for my company, you miss me because I always came running to you."
"That's not true."
"It isn't?"
"Y/N, I loved you. I still love you." He tried to reach out to grab your hand.
You stepped back. "Go fuck yourself."
Javi saw you step away from Scott when he tried to grab you and he came rushing over. He wanted to give you space but he knew now he needs to help. "Scott, come on leave her alone."
Scott glared at him. "Fuck off, Javi. Stay out of it. This is between me and her."
"Well now it's between you and I. Y/N wants nothing to do with you."
Scott scoffed. "So it's not enough for you take my storms from me now you want to steal my girl?"
His girl? This asshole was delusional.
"How is Y/N, your girl? You were a shitty friend, you led her on, finally had the balls to reject her, and broke her heart. You haven't spoken to each other in a year. Y/N isn't yours and she never was." Javi said.
Scott breathed heavily through his nose. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I love Y/N. I was afraid. I..." He looked like he wanted to say more but he struggled to get the words out.
"Scott, it's too late."You speak up from behind Javi. "It's over."
He shook his head. "No, it's not over. It can't be over. I need you."
You didn't say anything to him you just walked away.
"Y/N! Come back! Please! I'll do anything!" He called after you.
He wanted to grab you and keep you there with him but you were already gone.
That's when you knew for sure that Scott didn't break you. You were still fighting for your peace but you had thick skin and an elastic heart. You'd bounce back from this.
The Middle of Adventure (A Perfect Place to Start) - Scott Miller x Reader
Scott Miller x Reader
Summary: Scott left you hanging the morning after you confessed to loving him, and you hate him for it...Kind of. (A part two to this fic)
Tags: NSFW (18+), mutual masturbation, phone sex, degradation, arguing but it's kind of sexy, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, getting together, happy ending
Word Count: 3k
Taglist: @corens0ups @kryptidfiles @paperheartsdissolve @hotelslutsylvania @marvel-hiddles-stark @jam1esl0v4 @maplestrudel13 (Let me know if you'd like to be added!)
Oklahoma is a beautiful state.
It’s also a big state, which had been made obvious to you last Saturday when you’d arrived at the StormPar headquarters only to find out that you’d be sent several hours away to investigate a brewing series of storms that Javi and his boss were concerned about. You wouldn’t normally mind this change of scenery – no, you’d usually take it in stride and pack your bags and throw yourself in headfirst – but Scott would be staying back.
And that is what has made this whole week borderline unbearable.
You’re staring up at the ceiling of your motel room contemplatively when your phone dings. You don’t reach for it at first, figuring that it’s just Javi checking to ensure that all the paperwork is ready for when you arrive back at HQ tomorrow afternoon. But then, somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought flickers to life.
Scott.
What if it’s Scott?
Stupid, raunchy, nonchalant Scott, whom you have ignored since you left his motel room the morning after you spilled your guts to him. You hate him. God damn, you have literally never hated someone more than you hate Scott Miller in this moment. You rub your eyes.
You picture him in your head.
You’d woken up happy last weekend, feeling well-fucked and eager to discuss what your future held – and then it had all fallen apart when you realized he was already dressed and ready for a day of researching and crunching numbers. None of which involved you.
“I think we should probably talk about this in the morning,” he had said with you pinned beneath him the night before. How foolish you were to believe him. How silly you were to be crushed when it didn’t come to fruition.
“I’m out,” was the first thing he’d said to you when he realized you were awake. You were still fucking naked, and that was all he could say? He was grabbing his wallet and keys.
“Javi wants to see me. I’ll see you around, kid,” he’d continued shamelessly. You couldn’t even speak. There was a lump in your throat. He’d gathered his things, cleared his throat, and stepped out the door. And you had scoffed, because what the fuck, Miller? Who does that? Who, in their right mind, does that?
Whatever. It was fine.
Javi came to you later that day and told you about your hours-away assignment that he’d be joining you for. You’d accepted it with your head high but your enthusiasm in-check. Of course you weren’t excited. Scott Miller had just fucked you over to the highest degree.
Anyway. The weekend ended. Monday came. You’d packed up your shit and hopped in the truck with Javi and left Scott on read when his text about ‘meeting up before you leave’ rolled in. In fact, you’ve left all eight of his subsequent texts over the past week on read, too.
So. Here you are, in your motel room alone on a Thursday night – and your phone has dinged. And it’s probably not Javi. And there isn’t anyone else who would be awake at half past midnight other than Scott fucking Miller.
With a huff, you grab your cell and the screen lights up. Sure enough, an iMessage from none other than ‘Scott Miller (StormPar)’ is staring back at you. Your jaw clenches.
Hey.
That is all it reads.
You know him well enough to know what this is. He’s horny and maybe a bit drunk off a luke-warm beer from the bar down the road, and he’s thinking of how good of a fuck you are, and how sad he is that you aren’t there. You click into the message thread and read the other several texts that you’ve opened but not responded to.
Can we talk before you go? - Sunday, 8:04 AM
What time are you leaving tomorrow? - Sunday, 8:32 AM
I get that you’re mad but you don’t have to ignore me. - Sunday, 12:48 PM
I can’t see your location anymore, is something up with the wifi? - Monday, 7:22 AM
Javi told me you guys left this morning, thanks for keeping me in the loop, kid… - Monday, 1:04 PM
You left your bra in my room again, want me to hold onto it or what? - Tuesday, 3:31 AM
Front desk found your shirt that you were looking for, by the way. - Tuesday, 10:05 AM
You’re killing me, kid. - Wednesday, 11:58 PM
The last one was from last night. You stare at it, then reread the one sent minutes ago. You sigh. It is a sigh that comes from deep in your chest, from the depths of your soul, which is where you still love Scott Miller despite his ridiculous, manly ways.
You click the space where you can type a response. The keyboard pops up.
Slowly, you type: What do you want? Then, you hit the little blue arrow to the right, and the message is sent. Seconds later, your phone rings. It’s Scott. Your stomach flips. What could he possibly have to say right now? What does this man think he’s going to get after brushing you aside and making you think you had a chance at a normal future with him?
Fucker.
You answer it after the third ring. You let him talk first. Before he does, he lets out a surprised breath.
“Kid?”
“Mm.”
“Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Don’t get too excited.”
A huff. A pause.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Scott asks. Your brows furrow as you sit up in bed.
“What?”
“You keep leaving me on read.”
“Oh, yeah. I tend to do that when people fuck me over.”
Scott says your name, then. It’s soft. Something between a plea and a complaint. You hate the way it makes your chest ache.
“I miss you,” he admits. Then, as if that was too vulnerable, he adds, “I miss bending you over, kid. C-Can’t stop thinking about it.”
Your brows furrow. Anger flares within you. He’s touching himself. He called you so he could jerk off to your voice.
“You’re fucking pathetic, Scott,” you spit before you can stop yourself. A moan. A shaky exhale.
“Maybe. Can you blame me? Haven’t seen you all week.”
“And you’re not gonna see me for a long fucking time after the shit you pulled,” you snap.
“Don’t be like that,” Scott sighs. Your core is getting hot at the thought of Scott naked in his bed, his flushed and leaking cock in-hand as he talks to you on the phone. You push the feeling away, but it comes back when he says: “Please, kid. Just talk to me.”
He isn’t a beggar. He never has been, not really, but this is the closest he’s ever come, and it makes your breath catch.
“What the fuck do you want me to say to you, Scott?” you ask harshly. Your hand moves down slowly to press against your clothed clit.
“Whatever you want. Let me have it.”
You hesitate. You should hang up on him, you really should. He told you he loved you, he said the two of you would talk, and then he pushed you away. You hate him for it. You do, you do, you do. But when you speak, it’s consent that you’re giving him. It’s permission for him to keep touching himself, and it’s confirmation that you’re going to touch yourself, too.
“You’re such a fucking dick. I-I hate you,” you breathe, dipping your hand into your panties to collect your wetness and smear it over your aching clit. You rub it as you add, “You made me feel like I was worthless.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Scott sighs into the phone. “I’m sorry, kid. I…Mm, fuck…I wasn’t thinking.”
“I know,” you say, voice lowering as you rub yourself faster. “You never do. Y-You never think about what you’re doing or how it makes other people feel.”
“Fuck,” Scott breathes. “F-Fuck, I…”
“You’re not even sorry, are you?” you snap, letting out a soft, shaky moan.
“I am,” Scott groans. He isn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’s jerking off, now. You picture him stroking himself, cock leaking pre-come and hips bucking, and you bite your lip.
“You’re not sorry, you just wanna come,” you tell him.
“That’s not f-fuckin’ true and you know it, kid,” Scott tells you.
“No? It’s not?” you say. Scott grunts in response. Somewhere deep in your chest, hurt blooms. He really isn’t sorry, you suppose—
“I’m sorry,” Scott manages. “I-I’m sorry, I fucked up. I tried to text you—“
“You shouldn’t have had to,” you tell him. You rub yourself faster. Your orgasm begins to build. You let out an angry sound that is something between a huff and a moan. “You should’ve just talked to me like you said you were going to.”
“I know!” Scott huffs. “I fucking know, kid. I’m sorry. I’d redo it if I could.”
“Poor you!” you snap, cheeks hot. “Poor Scott Miller who didn’t get any jerking-off material this week!”
“That’s not…Fuck…”
Your orgasm is swelling, swelling, swelling…
“That’s not why I’d redo it, kid.”
“No? Why, then, if it’s not because you missed my tits?”
“I missed you,” Scott breathes. It’s quiet, barely there, but you hear him. You’re right fucking there, and so is he, and you are positive that you’ve never felt so angry and aroused in your whole life.
“W-What did you say?” You ask, teetering on the edge of orgasm.
“I said I missed you, kid!” Scott exclaims. You reach your peak suddenly, gasping as you do, and Scott grunts on the other end. You think of him and hope he’s being honest – you want him to miss you. You want him to feel bad about what happened.
You rub your clit as you come down from it all. Your head is spinning. Your mind is fuzzy. And, in the center of it all, is Scott, his breathing ragged and sharp. You’ve been with his post-orgasm enough times to know what this means: he’s spilled his load all over his warm, toned stomach. God, you wish you could lick it up…
“I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” you say finally.
“Well,” Scott says, his voice quiet, “I guess I’ll have to catch you when you get here, then, huh?”
A small smile tugs at your lips. You nod even though he can’t see you.
“I guess you will.”
“Get some rest,” Scott tells you.
“Yeah. You, too.”
The car ride with Javi is quiet aside from occasional banter and the soft music playing from the radio. You are an exposed nerve, trembling and anxious for what is waiting for you at the end of this trip. You can see Scott in your mind’s eye, his t-shirt tight against his biceps and his belt buckle showing. You’ll be cordial to him. Pleasant. Javi must know by now that something is amiss between the two of you, but if he does, he hasn’t let on.
You sigh.
This job, the requirements it has, the adventure of it all…It is wild and chaotic and unpredictable. You love it, though, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything. And…What if you admitted that part of the thrill is doing it with Scott? What then? It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but maybe it doesn’t have to.
So, when Javi pulls up in front of the motel and Scott is waiting there, your heart swells. Javi parks. Scott approaches. He catches your eye as he walks up to your door and opens it for you. You get out and size him up in a way that makes him swallow harshly.
“How was it?” Scott asks.
“Good!” Javi responds, then launches into a long explanation of what the two of you discovered on the other side of Oklahoma. You stare as Scott unloads your bags for you, then starts towards your motel room. He pulls your key out of his pocket. You almost laugh, because of course he sweet-talked the lady at the front desk into giving him your key. You two are practically together in her eyes, anyway…
Javi disappears back into the truck. He drives off towards HQ, and you look at Scott once you’ve waved good-bye to Javi. He’s hauling your things into the room and saying something about how painfully nice the weather has been this past week, and you grab the last of the bags and bring them in before kicking the door shut behind you. Scott glances up. You drop the bags, cross the room, and shove him up against the wall. He makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, one that is caught off-guard and surprised. You grab the front of his t-shirt and kiss him.
Scott kisses you back eagerly, his large hands finding your hips as he hums, and you pull away far too soon for his liking. He goes in for another kiss, but you shove him back.
“Start talking,” you tell him.
“What?”
“I said, start talking,” you say. “I’m not having sex with you until you tell me exactly what you want us to be.”
Scott’s lips part, then close, then part again.
“I want you,” he says. You shake your head.
“Not good enough,” you say.
“What the fuck, kid?”
You glare at him. Emotion swells deep within you.
“I have done whatever you want for months, Scott. I’ve let you talk down to me, I’ve let you fuck me, I’ve given you your way after every single argument. Let me have a label.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Scott’s head. You step up to him once more. He can smell your perfume like some kind of sickeningly sweet, addictive flower.
“Man up and tell me what you want me to be, or you’re never seeing me again.”
Scott pauses. He knows you’re serious, and that is what strikes him speechless for a good five seconds. He draws in a breath. He’s so scared – of what you’re not exactly sure, but you can guess. The commitment of it all, the finality of a label. The feelings he has for you, the idea of having you as more than a fuck-buddy. The knowledge that you love him, that he loves you too, and that you know all of it…
“Be my girl,” Scott says finally.
There it is, the words you’ve been waiting to hear, wanting to hear since the first time you woke up in his bed. All the bickering, all the anger, all the tears shed and insults thrown and late nights spent worrying…They’ve all led you here, to this moment.
You smile.
“Okay,” you say, nodding.
Scott exhales.
“Okay?”
You nod.
“Yes. Okay. I will.”
It’s Scott’s turn to grin, then, and he reaches for you. You let him take hold of your hips and kiss you firmly. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck. He lifts you and then sets you down on the bed. You laugh softly as he pins you down on the bed.
“See how easy that was?” you tease. “And now you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Shut up,” Scott breathes into your mouth, his hands working at his belt. You push your shorts and underwear down quickly, then spread your legs for him easily. He presses on your thighs to keep them apart. You sigh when you feel his leaky tip press against your core.
Your head is spinning with arousal and excitement. You’ve never wanted anything so badly. You’ve never felt such relief.
“Tell me you love me,” you breathe. You run your fingers through his hair. “And thank me for being patient with you, too, while you’re at it…”
“Fuckin’ bossy,” Scott grunts as he thrusts into you. You gasp. He begins to rock his hips moments later, skipping straight to setting a fast pace for the two of you, and you grip his shirt as he plows into you desperately. The bed creaks. The headboard slams against the wall. Your head rolls back, your chest tightens.
“I love you,” comes Scott’s honest, low voice. You meet his eyes, smiling genuinely. “Fuck…Fuck, I love you…Thank you f-for being patient.”
You kiss him firmly, deeply. He tastes like home.
“Very convincing,” you tease.
“Fuck you.”
“I love you, Scott,” you moan. “Oh, god, fuck…Right there…Love you…D-Don’t stop.”
Scott presses your thighs forward, nudging them up towards your head, and you groan as his cock hits a place deep inside of you. You can tell that this is going to turn into multiple rounds, so you don’t concern yourself with wanting to come just yet. You stare up at Scott and take in your boyfriend – his dark curls, his flushed cheeks, his furrowed brow. He groans.
He’s only been going at it for a minute or so, but he’s already so close. His thrusts are getting sloppy.
“Best I’ve ever had,” Scott breathes. “My best girl…T-The prettiest…Fuck…So good…”
He’s babbling now, but you don’t mind. You’ll never mind. You love it.
“Come for me, Scott,” you say. “Please. I want it, w-wanna be full of you.”
He nods.
“I’m…I’m almost…Fuck…”
He spills his load deep inside of you without warning, and you gasp at the feeling.
“Fuck!” you gasp, his thrusts getting shorter and sharper. You grip his shirt tightly, and Scott hums as his hips slow to a stop. He looks down at you, sweat beading at his forehead, and you grin as you touch his cheek.
“I love you,” you tell him once more. He smiles, really smiles. It is the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen.
“I love you too, kid.”
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
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