Technically he wasn’t. She was only an intern, given the opportunity to shadow and observe, taking notes she probably wouldn’t look at again.
She stared at the chart. Male. Mid-fifties. Ex veteran, history of PTSD and schizophrenia, missing an eye.
Homeless.
Admitted after being found wandering traffic barefoot.
The chart was too clinical and detached, stark against the reality. Because he’d spent most of the rare coherent moments apologizing.
Sorry for bothering you, sorry for asking for another blanket. Sorry for getting the bed dirty.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
It haunted her.
As though existing was something he needed permission for.
And when she handed him the turkey sandwich she had brought from home, he smiled as though she’d handed him a winning lottery ticket. Her eyes watered and throat burned.
That was what did her in. Not the psychosis, not the smell. Not the way some of the staff rolled their eyes at the case, it was the gratitude.
The overwhelming gratitude for something as stupid as a sandwich, something everyone should have access to.
By 10pm she couldn’t focus any longer. By 11 she was pretending to take notes on charts. By midnight she was taking the stairs up to the roof two at a time.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Jack noticed her around 11. Not because her eyes were a little red and watery, or because she was making mistakes, bumping into people. But because she kept going back to room 241.
The homeless psych patient he’d given some stitches earlier that evening. Every time he looked up, she was there. Adjusting a blanket, lifting a straw to his lips, watching from the doorway as he muttered to himself. She was listening, always listening.
She paid attention to his half-finished, ramblings that never made sense half the time. Most people would smile awkwardly and escape as fast as they can, she sat beside him and nodded along to the fragmented memories he repeated.
He’d seen this before. A student who cared too much. A student who hadn’t yet learned that medicine was often a series of losses, and learning to survive them. Jack knew there wasn’t much they could do for him. With no money and no insurance, they’d have to release him once stable.
He’d gotten whisked into a multi-car pileup, and before he knew it, he was distracted from the sight of her glassy eyes turning to the floor as she all but ran to the stairwell. Roof, he thought. Before the erratic beeping of machines pulled him from his trance, the young student forgotten in the back of his mind.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The rooftop was empty and cold, just what she needed.
She sat on the cool concrete and pulled a pen from her pocket. Sketching had always been somewhat of an escape for her. Whenever things got a little too sad and her heart a little too heavy, she turned to pen and paper.
She didn’t have a plan as she been frantically etching scribbled lines onto the paper, but the paper began to illustrate wrinkled hands, hospital sheets, heart monitor, a face. The man.
“Y’know, that’s not exactly a healthy coping mechanism.”
The voice nearly scared the life out of her.
Jack Abbot stood behind her, eyes peeking over her shoulder with a coffee cup outstretched.
“Oh, Dr. Abbot!
“Good evening,” he took a slow sip as his eyes scanned over the page.
She gave a half-assed, sheepish smile before her eyes dropped back to the page, hand subconsciously going to cover the drawing.
“Tell me about him,” Abbot said. “Your patient.”
“Why?” She asked. He’d been the first to treat the man, he’d needed stitches on the side of his heel, presumably from a piece of glass, and a tetanus shot.
“Because you’re up here crying about him, there’s something you need to get off your chest.” He says.
It’s almost annoying how right he is. How on the dot his intuition is.
“I- I’m not crying.” It’s a lie. Her eyes are still burning with tears and her cheeks are tacky.
Abbot glanced at her pointedly, “Right.”
She looked up at him for a moment, a shaky breath escaping her. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do,” he said.
The silence between them was heavy yet comforting.
“He likes cats.”
“Cats?”
“He feeds the stray cats he sees on the streets.” A small smile stretches over her lips as her vision blurs with tears. “Apparently there’s one with a wonky tail that loves him.”
“Yeah?” Abbot smiles, sitting down beside her. “What else?”
A quiet whimper squeezes from her throat. So soft he almost thinks he imagined it.
“He doesn’t know his name,” she sighs, voice trembling. “He’s an ex-veteran, that’s how he lost his eye.”
The smile on Jack’s face falls. This hit a little too close to home.
“He said he’s not sure what it is. Sometimes he thinks it’s Daniel, sometimes he remembers his mom calling him Mikey, but it’s not clear enough to remember.”
Her thumb drags over the corner of the page.
“Can you imagine that?” Her voice cracks. “Not knowing your own name?”
Abbot’s hands fall to his lap as his mouth opens, but no words come out. He watched as a tear slips down her cheek.
“He’s somebody, Dr. Abbot.” The words come out so incredibly broken that he swears something in his heart cracks.
Because this isn’t just about a patient anymore, it’s about the fact that she sees him. Really sees him.
And once you’ve done that, it’s impossible to turn it off.
“He’s a person, he’s somebody’s baby. Someone’s son that can’t even remember his own name, how- how is that fair?!”
He reached out and pulls the notebook from her grip before her tears smudge the pages.
“Hey,” he says.
“You know what he got today?”
She frowns, hiccuping through the tears.
He nods towards the drawing: “A sandwich.”
“Dr. Abbot-”
“Jack,” he corrects.
“Jack…”
“And somebody who listened to him, who asked him for his name because they actually wanted to know. Someone who listened to him talk about cats and talk in incoherent circles for hours.”
Her lip wobbles.
“That doesn’t fix anything.”
“No,” he says. “It doesn’t. And that sucks.”
He pauses for a moment, watching her chest shakily inhale.
“But don’t pretend that it was nothing. It takes a special kind of person to sit and listen, to feel for a patient most people look over. That’s special.”
She swallows hard. “Sometimes I wish i cared less.”
The admission hands heavy between the too. It’s honest, ugly, and real. That’s what hurts the most.
“Why?”
She laughs shakily, “because it hurts. I feel like I’m not cut out for this.”
Jacks quiet for a moment as the city hums beneath them.
“You want to know what I think?”
She sniffs, wiping aimlessly at her chin.
“I think the people who worry they aren’t cut out for medicine are usually the perfect people for it. I think you’re a good kid, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
That gains her attention, her eyes finally meet his. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You saw him before you saw a patient. That, is not a weakness. Not in my book.”
He plops the notebook back in her lap, “And that’s the whole point.”
“What if I never get used to it?”
His head snaps up towards her, “You never get used to people suffering.”
That sentence scares her more than anything she’s ever heard.
“But you learn that caring hurts a hell of a lot less than not caring.”
He stands with a small groan, a reassuring hand in her shoulder. “And the day it stops hurting?” He says.
Still thinking about wrestler!dunk and I definitely need reader to take a warm bath with him after a fight
“..dunk? are you okay in there?”
the silence grew uncomfortable the longer he took. when dunk had came back from his last match, he was in a daze. raymun had told you he took a steel cage door to the head—planned, yet poorly executed. what was meant to be a tap on the head turned into a half-conscious ordeal.
“he stuck his head too far out from the ropes,” raymun explained as his gaze darted from you to dunk. “he wasn’t supposed to. i guess he wanted to commit to making it look good.”
although you nodded and thanked him for getting dunk back in one piece, you knew that wasn’t the truth.
“honey?”
“i’m…i’m alright,” he responded, his voice barely getting past the door. “i’m falling asleep in here…”
the knob twisted, and he lifted his head to see you step in. the cool air from the room seeped through, clashing with the warmth from the water. he looked comfortable enough, and not all there.
“i’m alright, love.” dunk repeated softly, a little more weakened.
“you can’t fall asleep in here,” you murmured, coming to sit on the edge of the tub. his head was wrapped up, but the bandages were already peeling off. “want me to take that off?”
dunk managed a nod. “it’s squeezing my head.”
you unwrapped him, gentle to not rattle him too much. you realized the incident sounded worse than the injury. reddened skin and a small knot under his bangs seems to be the worst of it. as you examined him, his hands found your waist, holding you down with wet hands. the water soaked through your shirt, but you didn’t mind.
if it kept him from dozing off then so be it.
“thank you,” he muttered, gaze following the bandages as you threw them to the floor.
“call if you need help, okay?” you asked of him, moving to stand. you figured he wanted some privacy. “don’t go falling asleep—“
dunk tugged you back in. “wait—wait..”
you fell back on your ass, hands coming to his shoulders to steady yourself. you would’ve scolded him if he didn’t look so pained when your nails bit into his skin. as quick as you latched onto him, you let go.
“i’m sorry,” you rushed, “what do you need? want me to—“
"no, no," he shook his head, which was a mistake on its own. "just...stay, yeah? just want you to stay."
his hands slid to your jeans, thick fingers slipping under to try and pull them down. he wasn't all there, you knew that much, but that didn't stop you from prying his hands away. a poor choice, as his hands trailed up to peel your shirt off.
again, your hands came to still his. "you are too looped, mister—“
"am not," he scoffed, although his slow blinking said otherwise. "i'm not trying to...it feels good in here."
you made a face at him, "is that so?"
"come in for yourself," he said, hands itching to take off your top. "i wouldn't...wouldn't lie to you."
maybe it was the blush that burned his cheeks, or his shifty eyes that couldn't look away from you, but you relented. your clothes were left abandoned with his bandages, and you joined him in the tub.
dunk let out a deep sigh, his back easing to rest against the edge once more. the water curled around you, making you melt into his body as his arms wrapped around you. "god only knows i want to fall asleep. you'll have raymun or—or his cousin hauling me out."
"i can pull you out just fine," you huffed, feeling a tug of a smile press into your face. "might need to use some rope, though."
a brief hint of laughter rumbled in his chest despite his condition. dunk decided to move again, this time closer to you. his head pressed against your shoulder, mindful of the knot stretched against skin.
"...it was an honest mistake," he confessed against you. "didn't mean to get so close. i thought...i swore it wouldn't touch me."
"you were lost in the moment."
of course you'd say that. dunk would declare himself the fool, and you always showed grace. he made so many mistakes in his life, and yet you never allowed him to feel fault for it. not unless...
well, there was that time he tried to bounce off the ropes, just to lose balance and flip over onto the concrete floor. his back was bruised for weeks. yet you'd been there, you were always there. just as you were now.
"i guess so," he mumbled, lifting his head. "yeah...guess so."
dunk kissed your shoulder in quiet gratitude.
thank you!! this is for all my wrestler dunk truthers out there 🫡
Synopsis: what happens when an injured Dunk crash lands on a farmer’s property?
Warnings: Mentions of blood and wounds, stitching up wounds, etc
Also Ik a dog is probably not realistic for the time period, but I thought it was a cute idea. This is my first time writing for Duncan and AKOTSK, I'm very open to feedback, asks, and comments, i hope you enjoy!
Word Count: 4.4k
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The dog had absolutely no business being that far from the house.
She was tending to the flower beds when he had bounded past her, tail whipping her calves as he galloped out from the stables.
“Barley!” She’d yelled.
She knew the minute he was all bounding legs and reckless joy that her sharp whistle and demanding call would be ignored as if nothing more than the tweet of a bird.
“Come back!” She called, already lifting her skirts to follow. “Barley, come back here!”
But he only ran faster, tongue hanging out and fur flowing in the wind.
He cut through the tall grass and wildflowers beyond the fields, scattering seed heads in his wake, a blur of soft fur and stubborn will. She chased him past the cattle’s fence post, far past where she should’ve turned back. Her breathing was staggered and uneven as the grass bent beneath her boots.
“Barley!” She’d tried once more, her voice sharper now. “If father sees us—”
The dog barked once, loud and abruptly, almost in warning rather than a playful sound.
The sound willed her to slow, coming to a stop just a few paces behind the dog’s fierce stance. The bark reverberated through her, pulling something tight in her chest, turning her irritation into pure fear. Barley stood ahead, just before the willow tree, body rigid and tail lifted with an unwavering gaze. He was watching something.
“Barley?” Her pulse began to thump loudly in her ears, and her hands quickly became clammy.
The clearing opened as she took a step closer and there… There was a horse.
It stood just beside the willow tree, angled towards it, reins hanging loose to one side, and its head lowered with fatigue. It wasn’t one of theirs; it was tall, war-trained.
She looked at the tall grass at the base of the trunk and gasped as her stomach dropped.
A knight.
“Gods…” she whispered.
The air rumbled with Barley’s low growl, followed by an uncertain huff.
The knight lay half on his side, his arm folded abnormally beneath his torso where he must have fallen on it. The other lay limp in front of him in the grass.
He donned bits and pieces of armor, leather with chain at the shoulder, and his sword still belted at his hip.
For a moment, she was scared to move, scared to breathe.
A knight. A large and battered one at that.
Her first instinct was to run, to fetch her father and brother and have them take care of the man on their property. But she held more sympathy for him than her family surely would.
He didn’t move, not even when Barley edged closer with another huff, nudging the knight’s head with his nose.
“Leave it,” she whispered.
She stepped forward before she could think better of her actions.
She stopped just shy of the shield that lay beside him, eyes fixated on him. Hair damp and dirty, blood smeared across his dirtied face, and another blood stain blooming at the side of his tunic.
“Ser?” She tried.
Nothing.
She moved closer, crouching down as her body braced for sudden impact. Up close, he seemed even larger; his shoulders were broad, limbs as long as branches, the kind of presence that demanded attention and respect.
His chest rattled with a shallow breath.
“Ser,” she tried again, firmer this time as her hand gently jostled his shoulder.
He was warm to the touch, alive. Relief flickered in her eyes.
At her soft touch, he stirred, a groan leaving his pale lips.
“Easy,” she murmured, though her heart began to race. “Easy now, I won’t hurt you, Ser.”
His eyes fluttered open ever so slightly, irises clouded over with pain and surely dehydration, maybe even starvation.
For a long moment, he did not notice her at all.
Then, his hazy gaze found her shape.
“You—” The word died on his lips just as fast as it had come, voice rough and dry, more breath than sound.
Barley reacted before she could, emitting a low, warning growl as his whole body went taut. He stepped forward, placing himself between her and the fallen knight. The fur along his back stood on its ends, making him look even larger than he already did.
“Barley, no.” She warned, reaching for him quickly and fingers catching in the thick scruff at the back of his neck. “He’s hurt.”
The dog didn’t lunge or snap, but he didn’t back down either. He was tasked with protecting both the farm animals and the farmer’s daughter; he would not let his guard down. Barley’s gaze never shifted once, as if daring the man to make a wrong move.
Duncan, for his part, was in no state to move at all. His unfocused gaze shifted, trying to settle on her face before fluttering closed once again. Pain pulled at the corners of his eyes and eyebrows, his breath shallow and dry.
“Mmm…” He mumbled.
“Ser?” She couldn’t understand what he was saying.
“Mm… water.”
“Oh! Yes— yes, I—” She looked around, as if a waterskin would magically appear by the grace of the gods, but it didn’t. “I’ll go fetch some. I’ll bring everything you need, just— just don’t…” she trailed off, unsure of what she was even asking him.
Don’t die, perhaps.
Her grip on Barley’s fur tightened as she rose, willing him with her. But he hesitated, planting his paws firmly into the soft beneath him.
“No,” she urged. “You’re coming with me, Barley.”
He spared the knight one last glance, exhaling a loud huff through his snout, before allowing himself to be guided back to the house. However, he kept glancing back as if memorizing the man’s every breath.
Leaving him felt wrong, dangerous. She was playing with borrowed time; surely, he could be bleeding out. What if he worsened? What if he…
She began to run. She ran back to the house with a speed she never had before, the life of a stranger weighing on her shoulders as she panted.
Barley easily kept up with her pace, though he often darted ahead and back again in uneven, urgent bursts as if he understood that something was wrong.
Her lungs burned desperately by the time she reached the back door. She didn’t stop to explain, not really. She just grabbed what she could with trembling fingers.
A waterskin, a bucket of clean water, a cloth, her mother’s sewing kit, a needle, and thread.
“Where are you off to with all that, lass?” Her father called.
“The dog’s cut himself on the wire,” she lied, eyes turning away from her father in shame. “I’ll see to it.”
He grunted something, whether it was in approval or dismissal, she doesn’t know.
Before she knows it, she’s running again.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
When she finally returned, he had not moved far. He had only propped himself against the willow tree, his armor discarded and tunic tied tight around his abdomen to keep the blood at bay.
Relief struck her so hard she almost felt winded.
“Ser,” she called, breathless, as she clumsily dropped to her knees beside him. “I brought what I could. I’m going to help you.”
Barley was at her side in an instant, pushing between the two of them, though his growl was softer this time.
“Oh, off with you, you great lump. Always putting your nose where it don’t belong,” she huffed, working her way around the large dog. “It’s alright, we’ll help him.”
The knight stirred at her words, his head lifting just enough to let her know that he was conscious and alive.
“Stay with me,” her tone is almost like a coo as she holds the waterskin up to his lips, feeding him water bit by bit. “I need you to stay with me, Ser. Can you do that?”
She hesitated for a moment until his gulping came to a slow, he only grunted as she lowered the water from his mouth.
She dipped a cloth into the bucket, wringing it out with shaking hands before she pressed the damp rag against the larger gash on his forehead.
It wasn’t long before she knew she had to face the worst of his injuries: the gaping wound at his side that flowed blood like an ancient waterfall.
“Oh seven hells,” she mumbled, taking a deep breath before her clammy hands reached for the blood-soaked tunic, working uneasily to untie it.
The fabric clung. Of course it did. Blood had dried stiff around the edges, dark and stubborn. And when she tried to peel it back, it resisted, pulling at the wound beneath.
She stopped immediately. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “Sorry, I know. I know…”
His body tensed immensely anyway. A sharp inhale was sucked through his teeth, hand twitching weakly at his side as if to stop her, but it never quite made it. He managed to grab hold of the edges of her skirt, and he fisted it tight in his hand. “Easy now,” she cooed again. “I have to see it.”
Barley let out a low, uneasy whine beside her, pacing once before settling again, though his eyes never left the man.
She swallowed hard, taking a deep breath before continuing, slower this time. She worked the fabric free, bit by bit, dampening it with water where it stuck to the worst of his wound.
And when it finally gave, she suddenly wished it hadn’t.
The wound was deep, deeper than anything she’d ever seen outside of slaughtering season. And this was no clean cut of a blade meant for meat. The flesh was torn and angry, still bleeding heavily in a way that made her stomach turn.
“Gods, provide me strength,” she murmured to herself.
“Leave it,” he rasped.
She shook her head immediately.
“I won’t, I cannot.”
“It’s nothing, m’lady.”
“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, almost exasperated. “You’ll bleed out.”
That seems to reach him, he took a deep breath and paused. “… clean it first.”
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“Water,” he managed. “Wash it first, no needle yet.”
She could follow instructions.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Her fingers hovered over the sewing kit longer than they should have. The needle seemed too small, too thin, useless for something as dire as this.
“I’ve only ever done this on animals,” she admitted.
The man didn’t answer right away. He rested his head back against the willow, eyes half lidded and breath uneven, but he was listening.
“Same craft,” he muttered. “Just slower.”
She exhaled a trembling breath.
“Just slower,” she repeated, almost as if gearing up to actually do the stitching.
Barley stood beside her and let out yet another uncertain whine.
“I know,” she murmured absentmindedly.
She made quick work of pouring the clean water over the wound, yet it was no help in washing the blood away. The deep red instantly replaced the droplets of water.
She threaded the needle with unsteady hands, pulling it through and tying it just like she had hundreds of times before. Only now, it felt as if her fingers belonged to someone else, not attached to her own limbs. This was not just a small cut on a cow’s leg from the wire; this was a life-threatening injury.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Alright.”
She leaned in close, her knees nudging his tense thighs as she began the very first stitch.
The first one was the worst; she had hesitated a second too long, pushed through the skin just a little too slow. Clumsy, too slow, too unsure.
The man’s breath hitched, and his body tensed immensely. She could see him bite down on a stick in her peripheral vision.
Barley barked in response, tail standing up, on edge.
“I’m sorry!” She rushed, panic flooding her body as her heart began to thump impossibly harder. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright, lass,” he’d muttered through gritted teeth.
The pair went quiet as she continued to work, the only sounds being his sharp inhales and her winces.
“That your hound?” He managed, eyes squeezed tightly shut and fists clutching the edges of her dress.
She almost laughed, a breathy sound alleviating the heaviness in her chest.
“Yes,” she said simply. Though she was trying to maintain her focus, she decided a little chatter might take his mind off the pain. “This is Barley, he’s a pain in my arse, pardon my language. I know that’s no way for a lady to speak to a knight, but it’s the truth.”
He made a sound intended to be a chuckle, though it broke halfway through into a sharp wince.
"Heard worse," he muttered.
"From better company, I'm sure."
Barley huffed beside them before dramatically lowering himself to the ground, head resting on the knight's thigh.
She worked another stitch, then another. She fell into the motion effortlessly, though it was not nearly as neat as the work of her mother's hand.
"Don't go falling asleep on me now, ser," she said. "You've made it this far."
"Wouldn't dare," he muttered. But his fistfuls of her skirt have tremendously loosened, and his head began lolling to one side.
"You would," her voice came out shakier than intended. "And I won't have it."
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The last few stitches took longer as her fingers began to ache from the precision. This was no animal or pettiskirt, it was a man. A knight.
She swallowed hard as she finished the final stitch; the bleeding had slowed and stopped by now.
She finally sat back on her heels with the needle still clutched between her fingers. And for a moment, all she could do was stare. Stare at the stitches, at his torn-up face and blood-soaked clothes.
His grip had gone entirely slack now, and his eyes were only gently closed. The fist that had once clutched her skirt so tightly now lay open in the grass, fingers barely curled, while the other lay limp, caught in her skirt.
"Ser," she said quickly, lurching forward to place her fingers against his chest. He was warm and clammy, but his heartbeat was steady. "Stay with me, you promised you wouldn't..."
His breath stirred against the skin of her forehead, and relief hit her so hard her chest hurt.
"...not goin' anywhere, lass."
"You need rest and a proper meal. I'll bring you something," she promised as she used a wet cloth to wipe at the damp skin of his face and neck.
"Don't trouble yourself, m'lady," he breathed.
"It is no trouble, ser, I'll be back."
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
When she finally entered the house, the air was thick with the smell of dinner being started. Stew, it smelled like. Just what he needed.
It was these kinds of moments that made her appreciate her father's status. It was rare to see a Lord retire to the outskirts of Westeros to maintain a farm, but the decision was driven by the desire for privacy after the death of her eldest brother. Meals were always plentiful, leftovers often being fed to Barley, who now expected the luxury of steaming meals.
"Where have you been?" Her mother asked.
"Barley got caught in the wire, almost cut his tail clean off," she lied. "Cleaned it and stitched him up; he's resting out by the willow tree."
"Very well, poor beast. Finish chopping the vegetables while I take the bread off the fire, will you?"
"Yes, mother," she mumbled, actions immediate as she felt relief wash over her.
The knife felt strange in her hand. Not because this task was unfamiliar to her, she had been cooking since she could reach the table, but because her mind was elsewhere.
It was stuck beyond the fields, focused beneath the willow.
She pressed the blade harder than she meant to; the carrot split unevenly as the knife stuck into the board.
"Mind your fingers, dear," her mother said absently.
"Yes, mother." Her voice was quiet as she yanked the knife from the wood and adjusted her grip and forced herself to slow.
The rhythmic chopping did nothing to settle her racing thoughts. Not when she could still feel the heat of his feverish skin, not when the vision of his head lolling back replayed in her eyes over and over again. The way his breath nearly-
She stopped, tightening her jaw and inhaling through her nose. He’s alive.
She repeated the thought like a mantra. He’s alive, that’s all that mattered.
“Fetch the bowls, love,” her mother instructed after a moment.
She moved quickly to set the tables and grab the bowls: one, two, three, four, her hand hovered over the fifth. She hesitated for only a minute before taking it down.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The stew had thickened by the time the table was set. The aromatic and heavy, the kind of sauce that stuck thickly to the ladle.
She worked beside her mother to portion each bowl equally and carefully. Until her mother turned away, just for a moment, that was all it took.
She stepped forward swiftly and quietly, dipping the ladle back into the pot to fill the fifth bowl, just slightly fuller than the rest, heavy with more meat and vegetables than broth.
Her heart thudded as she set it aside.
No one noticed or spoke up, or so she thought.
The family ate in peace, her father and brother speaking lightly of their day filled with training and farming, while her mother filled them in with gossip of the town.
It was when her mother and father had moved to sit before the fireplace that her brother spoke up.
“Planning to eat twice tonight, are you?”
She froze in the midst of cleaning the table.
Her brother’s voice carries from the doorway, lazily and amused.
“I’m not,” she said, far too quickly to be believable. “Barley hurt his tail. I just— I thought he deserved a warm meal for being good while I stitched him up.”
He pushed off the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as he squinted his eyes at her.
He glanced at the full bowl, then back at his sister. “…right.”
Heat crept up her neck, and she was quick to look away.
“Don’t start, Edric,” she muttered, fingers fussing with her bodice nervously.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You don’t have to,” she countered.
He snorted softly. Then there was a pause, an uncomfortable silence. “What’s his name?”
Her heart dropped to her toes.
“What are you on about?”
“The hedge knight you’re hiding,” he clarified. “What’s his name?”
Her fingers still, heart thumping impossibly hard and fast. “I’m not hiding anyone. The dog got hurt, is all.”
“Mm,” he began, clearly unconvinced. “So the dog allowed you to stitch him up then? With no resistance and not a peep?”
She closed her eyes briefly. “You weren’t meant to find out,” she grumbled. “I was supposed to stitch him up, feed him a bit, and send him on his way first thing tomorrow.”
“I find out everything,” he sighed. “I won’t tell them.”
Her head snapped toward him.
“Not yet, anyway.”
“This isn’t funny, Edric,” she scolded.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not joking. But if he’s trouble, you need to tell Father.”
“He isn’t,” she said quickly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I- I think I do. He’s just hurt.”
“Well,” he said. “We don’t need you hurt, now do we?”
“He would hurt me.”
There was a long pause as the siblings looked at one another, neither daring to break eye contact.
“You always did have a soft spot for the strays.”
“He’s not a stray,” her voice was soft, almost ashamed of her own earnestness.
“Go on, then. Before his stew gets cold.”
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The stew sloshed in the bowl as she slipped out the back door once again, out into the cooling evening air. Barley trotted beside her, quieter now, despite his ears being perked forward, alert.
The sky had begun to dim, soft gold light bleeding into the pale blue sky, the first stars just beginning to peek through.
Her fingers tightened around the bowl until the wood bit into her skin: what if he had gone?
“Don’t think like that,” she whispered under her breath.
The willow tree came into view before she was prepared for it. Her breath caught, and for a heartbeat, she stood frozen in place. Her eyes searched the ground, the shadows, searching for any sign of life. Then she saw him, still there, chest rising and falling with steady breath.
He was exactly as she left him, slumped awkwardly against the trunk.
“Ser,” she called softly, hurrying forward as best she could without spilling any stew.
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his head lolled slightly, and his eyes flickered beneath his eyelids. “Thought I might’ve dreamt you,” he mumbled at last, voice as scratchy and rough as gravel.
She let out a soft, breathy laugh before she could stop herself. “No, ser. I’m afraid you’re very much awake.”
She settled on the grass beside him, cradling the bowl in both her hands to steady it.
“Can you sit up a bit?”
His brows furrowed slightly, but he tried anyway.
It was a slow, painful movement, but he managed to shift ever so slightly.
“That’s it,” she encouraged. “Just like that.”
Soft steam curled up from the bowl as she brought it closer, and the rich scent of the stew filled the air around them.
His gaze followed the bowl hungrily, and she smiled at the action.
“Easy,” she warned, voice as soft as a lullaby as she brought the spoon to his lips. “Small bites, we don’t want you to make yourself ill.”
His mouth parted desperately, eagerly as the warmth brushed over his tongue.
She fed him slowly, watching closely with every spoonful. She pulled a warm rosemary roll from the pocket of her apron, tearing bits off to feed him in between spoons of stew.
His eyes squinted suspiciously at the small, golden roll. “Why is it green?”
She paused, then glanced down at the roll.
“Oh– that’s just rosemary,” she said, clearly amused. “It’s for flavor.”
“Rosemary,” he repeated.
He looked at her, then back at the bread with uncertainty.
“Is it… meant to look like that?”
“Yes,” she said, a soft giggle slipping from her lips. “It’s supposed to be, it comes from a plant.”
He hesitates once again. “And it's… safe?” He asked.
She smiled softly. “It’s just a herb, ser, no more harmful than a sprinkle of salt.”
That seemed to satisfy him enough to allow her to place a piece onto his tongue. He chewed slowly and carefully, testing whether the world had truly offered him something so small yet luxurious.
“Good,” he admitted at last, though it came out softer and muffled.
“I’m glad.”
She continued to feed him, the moment quiet save for the rustle of leaves and the screech of crickets. Once he had finished eating, she fished out an apple and a large carrot from the pocket, feeding them to his exhausted horse, who had now lain down a few paces away next to the side of the willow.
“I’ve been rather rude,” he says, breaking the silence as she lowers the empty bowl to her lap.
“Rude?” She asks, absolutely baffled. “Oh, ser. You’ve been anything but!” She insists.
“I’ve been ungentlemanly; it’s only the knightly thing to do to ask my savior for her name.”
“Oh,” she sighs. She gives him her name, a soft warmth creeping up her cheeks.
He tests out the feel of her name on his tongue. “A fine name, it is.:
Her cheeks warm further, and she looks to Barley to hide it. “Thank you, ser.” Another silence settles between them, yet it’s comfortable this time. “And what should I call you?” She asks after a moment. “I cannot keep calling you ‘ser’ as though I know nothing more of you.”
His mouth twitches into the faintest of smiles: “Duncan,” he says after a moment. “Ser Duncan the Tall, if you please.”
“Ser Duncan the Tall,” she repeats, a small grin on her face as she fiddles with the bowl and spoon.
“You’ve a good hand, m’lady.” He adds after a moment and gestures faintly toward his freshly stitched-up wound.
“I’ve had my fair share of practice,” she says. “Though, usually on animals and clothing, never men.”
“Well,” he says. “You’re far better than most who claim themselves to be healers.
She smiles softly, “That isn’t saying very much, Ser Duncan.”
“It is,” he declares. “More than you think.”
The sky above them continues to darken, light slipping through their fingers as fireflies begin to float above the pond in the distance.
“You should rest,” she says gently, even though she makes no move to leave quite yet.
“As should you, m’lady.”
“I’ll stay a while longer,” she states.
His brows furrow once more. “You shouldn’t,” he whispers. There’s no force beneath the words. “It’s not safe for a lady to linger with a wounded man in the dark.”
“No,” she agrees. “It isn’t.” She waits a beat before continuing. “But you’re in no shape to be left alone either.
His expression softens ever so slightly.
“Stubborn,” he huffs.
Barley shifts beside them, rolling onto his back and spreading out with a lazy grunt. His weight settles comfortably against Duncan’s leg, as if he’s made his own decision.
Duncan’s gaze darts down to the dog and then back at her.
“You trust the beast to guard you?” He asks.
She smiles, reaching down to scratch behind Barley’s ear. “With my life,” she says simply, a fond smile on her face. “Any smart man wouldn’t touch me with Barley around. Lest he’s keen on holding his head to his shoulders with his own hands.”
“Good.”
The sun had dipped even further down, and her eyes shifted to the darkening sky. She hesitated for an instant. “I should go, before Father comes looking for me.” She said quietly.
Duncan only nodded in agreement.
She didn’t like the thought of leaving him out here alone in the dark, but she knew his fate was much worse if her father found him.
She assured him as she stood: “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“You’d best,” he grinned.
“I will.”
Barley lifted his head at her movements. “I’m coming back,” she told him softly, reaching down to smooth her hand over his fur. “Stay.”
The dog huffed dramatically, head plopping back into Duncan’s thigh.
"Goodnight, m'lady."
"Goodnight, Ser Duncan."
She glanced at the two one last time before she turned and walked away.
Now it was Dunk’s turn to run his fingers through the dog’s surprisingly soft fur. His side ached desperately, and his head throbbed, but the promise of her return kept him alive through the night.
I'm getting so much snow where I live and all I can think about is getting snowed in with co worker!clark, and the power goes out and they have to cuddle to stay warm, but then they start making out or something and it's friends to loversjzjdjsbxj
(Maybe they are the first 2 to show up at a daily planet snowy cabin getaway, but no one else can make it cause of the storm??)
Atonement
Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
a/n: I'm gonna break your heart for like the first few thousand words and then i'm gonna fix it. I always fix it.
Classification: Angst and fluff with Smut +18 | Emotional vulnerability, avoidant attachment patterns, emotional self-punishing thoughts and guilt, fear of abandonment, themes of miscommunication, intense emotional and phsysical reconciliation, fingering, finger sucking, unprotected p-in-v, creampie, mild size kink, manhandling, crying during sex.
Word count: 8,2k
Divider by me ;)
Atonement (n.) -- The act of making amends for a wrong, of repairing what has been broken through repentance, forgiveness and the hope of reconciliation.
You should have known to turn back the moment your car began struggling up the hill, the tires whining in protest as fresh snow swallowed the narrow path that had been clear not twenty minutes earlier, the engine fighting a losing battle against the quiet persistence of winter that had decided, without consulting you, that tonight would not be the night you arrived anywhere easily.
The storm had moved with the kind of silent certainty that only nature possessed, first dusting the road, then coating it, then burying it altogether until your headlights illuminated nothing but a wall of white drifting endlessly downward, as if the sky itself had begun to collapse in slow motion. Eventually frustration had given way to resignation and you abandoned the car halfway up the incline, the realization settling bitterly in your chest that turning around was no longer an option, not with the road already swallowed behind you and the cabin somewhere ahead like a promise you weren’t sure you even wanted to keep.
So you walked, digging your snow boots into the thickening drifts as the wind shoved mercilessly against your back, the cold biting through every layer you wore as if your body had been placed into a test you had not agreed to take. By the time the cabin came into view through the storm you were already exhausted, breath clouding the air with every step, your hands numb even inside your gloves as you forced yourself up the final stretch. The door resisted when you pushed it open, the wind howling behind you like something alive, something unwilling to let you escape it and when you finally forced your way inside it slammed shut with a heavy, echoing thud that felt almost ceremonial as though the outside world had been sealed away in one violent motion.
Inside, the silence settled immediately.
The cabin was dimly lit with the sort of warm, golden glow that made the cold outside feel unreal, the kind of place someone built not to survive winter but to live somewhat comfortably within it. It was larger than you expected, the ceilings high and the rooms stretching deeper than the modest exterior suggested and every piece of furniture carried the quiet dignity of real wood that had been stained and polished over years of care. There were small imperfections too, tiny scratches in the arms of chairs, a faint ring on the coffee table where someone had once left a mug too long, which only made the space feel lived in rather than staged. The air carried the faint scent of pine and something else you couldn’t quite name, something earthy and grounding that made the inside of the cabin feel strangely intimate despite the emptiness. Outside, the storm raged on, but here the world had been reduced to a muted hush, the windows framing nothing but the endless fall of snow while the wind clawed uselessly at the walls.
“Great,” you muttered to yourself as you dropped your bags and groceries onto the floor with a dull thud, the sound echoing briefly through the quiet.
Reluctantly you peeled off your gloves and coat, the sudden warmth prickling painfully against your frozen skin, though you kept your beanie pulled low over your ears as if surrendering entirely to comfort might somehow feel like defeat. Your gaze drifted toward the fireplace instinctively, a childish part of you hoping it might ignite on its own, before you looked down at your hands instead, flexing them slowly, willing warmth back into stiff fingers that had forgotten what it felt like to move without effort. The clock on the wall ticked steadily above the mantle, its patient rhythm somehow louder than the storm outside and you rubbed your hands up and down your legs in an absent attempt to generate heat while watching the seconds pass.
It was already past six, which meant everyone else should have been there by now.
You pulled your phone from your pocket and checked it, only to find the screen stubbornly displaying the absence of service and in that moment a quiet string of curses formed in your mind directed squarely at Cat and everyone else who had enthusiastically agreed that the entire bullpen needed a “bonding weekend.”
As if there had ever been something wrong with coworkers simply being coworkers, with eating lunch alone on the stairwell or staying late in the office long after everyone else had left so the silence could settle around you like a shield. Steve had started the whole thing by mentioning it to Jimmy in passing, who of course told Cat, and Cat inevitably decided it was the most brilliant idea anyone had ever suggested. Once Lois agreed there had been no refusing it, because Lois Lane had the uncanny ability to speak for the entire newsroom as though the rest of you were merely supporting characters in whatever narrative she happened to be driving forward.
The house stretched deeper the further you walked and something about it felt eerily reminiscent of the opening scenes in a horror film, where curiosity quietly overpowered caution as each dim hallway invited you forward. You passed from room to room, peeking inside them one by one, judging the decor with the same detached authority you used while browsing Zillow listings for homes you would never buy. Every space had been designed with a specific intention, a color palette anchoring each room so that the furniture and small details seemed to orbit around a single idea. Whoever had built this place had done so carefully, intentionally and with far more patience than you had ever possessed for anything that required permanence.
You were near the far end of the cabin when you heard the front door open again.
It did not slam this time. Instead it closed gently, almost unnaturally so, as if the person entering had managed to persuade the storm itself to behave.
You didn’t rush back immediately. Instead you finished your slow walk through the final hallway, letting your footsteps fall softly against the wood floor until you eventually turned toward the entryway. Even from several feet away you recognized him instantly, though you refused to look at his face at first, your gaze fixed stubbornly on the familiar shape of his shoulders as he stood there studying the pile of belongings you had abandoned on the floor. When he finally turned, it was slow, like he had heard his name spoken aloud even though you had long ago promised yourself you would never call it again.
You forced yourself to notice only the obvious details, the safe ones.
His cheeks and nose weren’t red from the cold the way they should have been, and though a heavy winter coat was clutched awkwardly in one of his large hands it had clearly never been worn. Snow dusted his hair and the lighter jacket resting on his shoulders, melting slowly into dark specks against the fabric, while a duffle bag hung loosely from the other shoulder like an afterthought.
He gestured vaguely toward the storm outside.
“Saw your car out there,” he said. “Pushed it up to the beginning of the driveway for you.”
You nodded as though it had been a task someone had formally assigned him.
“Guessing you didn’t drive out here in that,” you replied, motioning toward the nearest window where the outside world had dissolved entirely into falling white.
Clark glanced down at himself briefly, as if checking whether his appearance matched the story he would normally tell in front of others. “Is it too obvious?” he asked.
“Depends,” you shrugged lightly. “How hard did you try to keep that winter jacket on?”
He looked down at the coat in his hand and shook a small layer of snow from it. “It was uncomfortable to fly in.”
You nodded with quiet understanding, the kind you could never fake when it came to him. You had been the first person Clark ever trusted with the truth about himself, the first person who knew that gravity had never really applied to him the way it did to the rest of the world. Whatever else had been broken between you since then, that shared secret had never once felt like a regret to him.
“I don’t think the others are coming,” you said eventually, crossing the room to collapse onto the couch with a tired sigh, drawing your knees close to your chest after removing your boots, as if surrendering to the inevitable. “But I wouldn’t know if they were just late. There’s no service.”
“The storm knocked down the towers nearby,” he explained quietly. “I saw them on the way over. I tried to fix them but they won’t stand.”
You didn’t need to know that he had flown across half the city first just to make sure no one had left their homes in this storm, that when he saw the faint warmth of a single heat signature inside the cabin he had gone back to his apartment to gather his things before returning.
“You should go home, Clark,” you said softly.
He shook his head. “I’m not flying you in this storm,” he replied. “Speed will only make it colder.”
“I meant you,” you clarified quietly. “Alone.”
He didn’t answer, instead Clark walked to the fireplace and stood before it, the brief flash of heat vision igniting the stacked logs with effortless precision. The flames caught slowly at first, then steadily grew, filling the room with a warmth that began pushing back against the lingering chill. The house had never been truly cold, but somehow the fire made it feel alive again.
“I should get more blankets in here,” he murmured, glancing toward the armchair beside the hearth. “Sit closer?”
“I’m okay,” you answered quietly.
He disappeared down the hallway anyway. You stared into the fire while he moved through the bedrooms, his footsteps surprisingly light against the hardwood despite his size and when he returned a few minutes later he carried several thick blankets folded neatly in his arms. Without asking he unfolded them and draped them over you one by one with a careful gentleness that felt achingly familiar, a quiet reminder of the kind of man Clark Kent had always been, the kind that could not help but take care of the people he loved, even when loving them had only ever caused him pain.
“Did you hear what I said?” you asked finally, looking up at him while he avoided your gaze. “They’re not coming.”
“And I’m not leaving you here alone,” he replied calmly. “Who knows how long this weather will last.”
He reached down and pulled the couch closer to the fireplace, moving it just far enough that the heat reached you without becoming overwhelming, like he had memorized the exact distance that would make you comfortable.
“You could,” you insisted quietly. “I have enough food for the next few days and the storm will pass…as all things do.”
He only hummed in quiet dismissal.
“Why are you even here?” you asked then, though the answer seemed painfully obvious.
“I was invited,” he said matter of factly.
“I’m aware,” you replied, “but given that you probably got here five minutes after leaving your apartment, you could have stayed there. I didn’t exactly have that kind of luck.”
You had already been halfway here when the storm worsened, already committed to the road before realizing how badly the weather had turned. Your foot had remained pressed stubbornly against the accelerator the entire time, because the truth was that turning around would have meant going back to things you had been running from for far longer than this drive.
Clark finally looked at you then. The moment your eyes met felt exactly the way he had feared it would, like stepping directly into sunlight after living too long in shadow, the sudden warmth bringing with it a flood of memories he had spent months trying unsuccessfully to quiet. Every instinct in him told him to step away from the pain that lived inside that gaze but his heart, foolishly loyal as it had always been, told him he was standing exactly where he belonged.
He wanted to say the obvious thing, the stubborn truth that he would stay whether you wanted him to or not but when you struggled to hold his gaze he chose a gentler path instead.
“Have you eaten anything?” he asked quietly. The softness in his voice startled you more than you would ever admit aloud, because it reminded you too clearly that this was the man whose heart you had once walked away from, not because you didn’t love him but because somewhere deep inside yourself you had always believed that loving you would eventually ruin him.
You shook your head faintly and watched as he disappeared again down the hallway, the distance between you stretching in the way it always seemed to when Clark walked away from you. It was never abruptly, never with anger but with that gentle restraint he had learned to wear around you like armor, as if he understood that the space you placed between the two of you was not something he could cross without permission, even when every part of him wanted to.
The sound of his footsteps faded into the rest of the cabin until they blended with the soft crackle of the fire and the faint hum of wind pushing against the windows and you let your eyes drift closed, allowing your head to sink against the back of the couch while exhaustion and something far older than it settled into your bones.
In the silence that followed, you found yourself praying in a way you hadn’t since childhood with a quiet plea buried somewhere in your chest, begging whatever distant mercy governed the world to have compassion on him rather than on you. You asked the gods, ones you weren’t even certain you believed in, to free him from the gravity of your existence, to release him from the slow orbit he had never chosen yet never seemed able to escape. Your heart tried to follow the rhythm of the sounds drifting from the kitchen, the careful movement of dishes, drawers and running water creating a steady tempo that pulled at something fragile inside you, but you forced yourself to remain still because you had already learned the consequences of letting yourself move toward him. Loving Clark had always felt less like falling and more like stepping into sunlight you were certain would leave burns on your skin eventually and you had spent your whole life learning that kind warmth rarely lasted.
But the gods, if they were listening at all, offered mercy rather than escape that night and mercy had always been far more difficult to bear.
Perhaps this was simply the road distance had prepared you to walk all along, the quiet punishment waiting patiently at the end of every decision you had made, because some beds were built slowly over time and eventually there was nothing left to do but lie in them.
When you opened your eyes again your gaze drifted unfocused toward the clock above the mantle, and the realization that thirty minutes had passed struck you with the strange weight of something far larger than half an hour, because it felt as though an entire lifetime had moved quietly through the room while you sat there unmoving or maybe you just hoped it had. The cabin had grown warmer during that time, not only in temperature but in light as well, the fire casting a golden glow across the wooden walls that softened the sharp edges of the space and filled the air with the faint scent of something cooking. The entire room carried the strange atmosphere of forgiveness you did not deserve, the delicate suggestion of a second chance that hovered around you like something sacred and fragile and the thought of it made your chest tighten because hope had always been the cruelest dream you allowed yourself to touch.
It felt like stepping into one of those dreams you occasionally had in the quiet hours before dawn, the kind that dared to imagine a world where things might be different, where you might be different and every time you had woken from those dreams the loss had wrapped itself around your ribs so tightly that breathing became an effort.
Your socked feet touched the floor slowly as you pushed yourself upright, letting most of the blankets slide from your shoulders until only one remained wrapped loosely around you like a fragile shield. The warmth of the fire reached your skin as you walked across the room toward the place where Clark had neatly arranged both of your belongings and despite yourself, your attention settled almost immediately on the jacket he had dropped beside the bags.
You hesitated before touching it.
Your fingers slipped out from the safety of the blanket and brushed lightly against the fabric, the movement slow and tentative as if you feared the memory of him might disappear the moment you made contact. The rough surface of the material felt achingly familiar beneath your fingertips and before you could stop yourself you wrapped your hand around the sleeve, lifting it slightly as tears began to gather quietly in your eyes. There had been a time when this scent surrounded you constantly, when the warmth of his clothes and the quiet steadiness of his presence had felt like the closest thing to safety you had ever known.
You raised the jacket slowly, pressing it against your face as you inhaled despite the voice in your mind warning you not to reopen wounds you had barely learned to survive.
Clark still smelled the same. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at the realization, because the world had continued moving without your permission and yet somehow he had remained unchanged in the ways that mattered most. You stood there longer than you should have, breathing in the quiet evidence of what you had once been allowed to hold, before forcing yourself to place the jacket carefully back where it had been as if the moment had never happened.
Walking away from it felt like leaving a piece of yourself behind.
The doorway to the kitchen seemed to glow faintly from the warm light inside and for a moment the simple act of stepping through it filled you with a strange and irrational fear, because something about crossing that threshold felt like waking from the fragile dream you had been standing inside. You lingered there instead, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders as though the thin fabric might somehow substitute for the memory of arms that had once tried patiently and unsuccessfully, to hold together parts of you that had been breaking for years before he ever arrived.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Clark said quietly without turning around.
He moved through the kitchen with the same careful rhythm he had always used since you left, as if he had learned to live with the quiet absence of something vital without ever quite acknowledging it aloud. He had stopped chasing you the way someone stops arguing after a severe judge delivers a verdict the entire courtroom knows is unjust and though he could have fought it, appealed it, demanded that someone reconsider the sentence, he had chosen instead to accept the judgment with quiet grace.
He had walked into that final moment without a defense, carrying nothing but an open heart and more hope than anyone had the right to ask of him.
When you finally sat across from him at the table, the silence between you settled like something heavy and sacred, the kind of quiet that felt less like absence and more like the presence of too many things waiting to be said. Your eyes never quite met, both of you studying your plates with the quiet determination of people who understood that a single glance might unravel whatever fragile peace had formed between you. The only sounds in the room were the soft clinking of cutlery against ceramic and the distant whisper of the storm outside, and with each passing second the moment stretched longer, heavier, until it began to feel strangely ceremonial.
For a fleeting second you wondered if this was what the last supper must have felt like. Not the betrayal or even the prophecy, but the knowledge that something sacred was about to end.
Words gathered slowly in your chest as you ate, fragile and uncertain things that wanted desperately to exist, not to beg for forgiveness but simply to acknowledge the truth both of you already carried. You opened your mouth once, ready to offer them before courage abandoned you and before you could try again Clark stood from the table with his empty plate, moving toward the sink with the same calm efficiency he had used all evening.
The sudden movement took your appetite with it.
“I’ll bring a mattress to the living room,” he said as he rolled the sleeves of his shirt back along his forearms. “The rooms are too cold to sleep in. I could take the couch–”
“Haven’t you sacrificed enough for me?” you asked quietly, lifting your gaze to meet his for the first time since sitting down.
Clark’s eyes dropped immediately toward the floor. You had always framed things that way, always seen his kindness as something costly, something he had given up pieces of himself to provide but in Clark’s mind none of it had ever felt like sacrifice. Loving you had been the most natural thing he had ever done, as instinctive as breathing and even now he struggled to understand why you insisted on measuring it like a debt.
His chest rose slowly as he took a long breath but you pushed yourself to your feet before he could answer.
“I’ll do the dishes,” you said quietly, brushing past him as you reached for the sink. The small act gave him the only escape the kitchen offered.
By the time the last plate had been dried and set aside you felt as though every unsaid word had attached itself to your skin, so you retreated to the bathroom under the simple excuse of needing a shower. The water ran hot against your shoulders as you stood beneath it, letting the steady stream wash over you in the desperate hope that it might carry away the things you had never been able to say out loud but words like those were stubborn things. They clung to your skin like birthmarks no matter how hard you scrubbed.
When you stepped out and wiped the fog from the mirror your reflection looked strangely unfamiliar, as though you had been running for so long that you had forgotten what your own face looked like when there was nowhere left to go. The realization settled slowly in your chest that whatever you had been fleeing had finally caught up to you here, in this quiet cabin with the man you had loved enough to leave first.
When you returned to the living room the lights had been turned off, leaving only the gentle glow of the fireplace to illuminate the space. A single mattress rested on the floor at a safe distance from the flames and Clark lay there beneath several blankets he didn’t need but wore anyway as if shielding himself from the quiet devastation of being this close to you again.
In the soft light he looked almost unbearably beautiful.
You crossed the room slowly, the way you had done countless times before, and slipped beneath the blankets beside him with a careful familiarity that neither of you acknowledged aloud. Clark turned onto his side as you settled beside him, instinctively making himself smaller so you could claim space that had once belonged to both of you, except sleep never came.
The fire crackled softly in the silence while the hours moved forward without mercy.
“I think I want you to hate me,” you whispered eventually, the words slipping from your throat before you could stop them.
Clark shifted slightly beside you, the movement confirming what you already suspected, he hadn’t been asleep, not when your heart was beating so loudly beside him, refusing to settle into the forgiving rhythm it once had.
He rolled slowly onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as though preparing himself to listen to another eulogy for something neither of you had ever truly buried.
“Just so I know there’s nothing to come back to if one day I’m too weak to look the other way,” you continued quietly, shaking your head against the pillow. “I didn’t want you to stay because I don’t deserve whatever your presence grants me and you don’t…you didn’t deserve what I did to you.”
Silence stretched between you and when you thought he’d never speak, he did.
“You talk about it like it was some kind of tragedy,” he murmured. “All I could see was the love until I couldn’t…when I knew to look for it you were gone.”
Your breath trembled. “I believed…” you whispered, voice breaking as the memories returned. “It–it was the right thing, I…we’re so different Clark and I don’t ever want you to understand why.” Your head shook slowly as tears slipped into your hairline. “It’s awful knowing love isn’t enough to make people stay and it’s–it’s devastating when it’s the only thing life has ever taught you.” Your voice faltered. “It’s the worst thing in the world…it makes you mean and violent and…and it makes you cruel too and fighting it back takes more effort than I’d like to admit and when you said you wanted me to meet your parents, I just…”
The memory struck with the force of something ancient. You could still see the moment clearly, the quiet excitement in his eyes when he spoke about home, about Kansas, about the people who had shaped the kindness in him you could never quite believe was real. The thought of standing in front of them had terrified you in ways you had never been able to explain, because it meant stepping into a world where you might finally be seen clearly.
“I just couldn’t ignore it anymore,” you sobbed softly. “Nobody in the entire world had ever known what to do with me and then you came along.” Your voice trembled. “I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
Clark moved before the last word finished leaving your mouth, gathering you against his chest with the same instinctive gentleness he had always shown you. Your fingers clutched desperately at the fabric of his shirt as your body shook with quiet sobs, and he held you there without hesitation, understanding with painful clarity the truth he had spent months learning piece by piece.
You had been taught that loneliness was safety. Every person before him had reinforced the same lesson until your heart accepted it as fact, and loving you meant navigating a labyrinth of defenses built long before he arrived. If anyone in the world deserved grace for making mistakes with something as delicate as love, it was you, because no one had ever shown you how to hold it without fear.
“I never meant to hurt you,” you cried. “I just wanted you to save yourself.”
He knew how much it cost you to say these things, how deeply they tore through the walls you had spent your entire life building and hearing them felt like witnessing someone step barefoot across broken glass simply to prove they were trying.
You had spent so many years convincing yourself you weren’t broken but you had always felt you were. Clark rested his forehead gently against yours, closing his eyes for the first time since lying down beside you.
“I could never hate you,” he whispered softly. “But please, please stop running…don’t go where I can’t follow.”
He could reach the farthest corners of the world in seconds but there had always been one place he could never quite reach. Your mind had walls stronger than steel.
He pressed a soft kiss against your forehead before speaking again. “Wherever you are, it’s okay…you can come back from it. Just come home to me and let me show you how people stay.”
Your throat tightened as the words settled inside you.
“I’ve been trying to go home my whole life,” you whispered.
When Clark looked down at you then, your eyes met his without fear for the first time since the storm had trapped you both inside this cabin, and though the moment felt like the beginning of something fragile, it carried the weight of everything that had come before it. His lips found yours in a slow, burning kiss as he held you close against him, the quiet desperation in the gesture revealing a truth neither of you had managed to escape.
Even after everything, you were still the place his heart returned to.
As his mouth moved against yours, the kiss deepened, growing more intense and more desperate. Your hands roamed everywhere, sliding up his broad chest, tangling in his dark hair, tracing the strong lines of his jaw while his fingers gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. The emotional floodgates opened wider, sobs mingled with sighs as the pent-up longing surged between you.
In the heat of it, your hands fumbled lower, hooking into the waistband of your pants. You shoved them down your hips, kicking them off along with your underwear, the fabric tangling briefly under the covers before you sent them away with a frantic nudge. Clark's body heat enveloped you immediately, his thigh pressing between yours. Emboldened, you reached for his pants, tugging at the zipper, your fingers trembling with need.
He caught your wrist gently, his other hand sliding down to cup your hip, intending to touch you, to prepare you with the care he always showed but you shook your head, voice breaking as you met his gaze.
“Let it hurt like I hurt you...let me feel what you felt.” The words tumbled out, laced with guilt and a masochistic plea, but even as you said them, your body betrayed you, your core already slick with arousal, aching from the mere press of his body.
Clark's brow furrowed as concern etched his features, he knew you weren't thinking clearly, lost in the storm of emotions. Without a word, he shifted, guiding you onto your back against the mattress as he settled beside you, his free hand trailing down your stomach to the heat between your thighs. His fingers found your clit immediately, teasing it with slow circles, light pressure that sent an electric shiver racing through your entire body.
You gasped, arching slightly, the sensation hitting you like a revelation. It had been so long since desire had stirred in you this way, since the breakup had left you numb to everything intimate. Your skin prickled with vulnerability, every nerve ending alive and sensitive under his touch. You turned your head to the side, seeking his eyes and when your gazes locked, you reached up to touch his face, your palm cupping his cheek. The love in his eyes poured over you like a balm, shattering something inside. Fresh tears welled up and you choked on a sob, the tenderness overwhelming.
“You don't deserve that, not even from yourself,” Clark murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he lay by your side, his fingers never ceasing their gentle rhythm on your clit. He leaned in to kiss away your tears, his lips brushing your temple, your cheek, while his touch built the pleasure steadily, carefully.
The circling pressure intensified just enough, his thumb joining to rub in firm, consistent strokes. Your breath hitched, hips lifting instinctively toward his hand as waves of heat gathered in your core. Vulnerability washed over you in tandem with the arousal, every circle reminded you of his forgiveness, his choice to stay, to love you through the pain. Your pussy clenched with need, wetness coating his fingers and you clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in lightly as the first orgasm began to crest.
It built slowly at first, a tightening coil that made your thighs quiver under the covers. Then it unfurled, crashing over you in extended pulses, making your clit throb against his touch, each circle drawing out the ecstasy. You cried out softly, body trembling as the pleasure peaked and lingered, waves rolling through you for what felt like forever. Tears mixed with the bliss, your sobs turning to whimpers of release and Clark held you through it.
As the first orgasm ebbed but didn't fully fade, your body still humming with sensitivity, he didn't stop. Instead, with a tender shift, he slipped two fingers inside your pussy, curling them gently against your inner walls while his thumb continued its work on your clit. The intrusion was exquisite, filling you just right and the dual sensation reignited the fire immediately. You were so open, so raw, that even the careful thrust of his fingers made you gasp, your walls fluttering around him.
He watched your face, adjusting his pace to match your breaths, his eyes never leaving yours. The love there anchored you, making the vulnerability feel safe, cherished. Pleasure built again, faster this time, your hips rocking subtly against his hand as his fingers pumped in a slow, loving rhythm that deepened with each pass, grazing that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The second orgasm gathered like a storm, your sensitivity amplifying every slide and press.
When it hit, it was deeper, more consuming, forcing your pussy to clench hard around his fingers, pulling them in as ecstasy rippled outward in long, drawn-out contractions. You arched against the mattress as a keening moan escaped your lips, body shaking under the covers as the waves extended, each one pulling a fresh sob from your throat. Clark kissed your neck, your collarbone, murmuring endearments, his touch never faltering until the last tremors faded, leaving you boneless and spent.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, gathering you close, the fire's warmth and his body heat wrapping around you like a promise of more healing to come.
As the last echoes of your second orgasm faded, leaving you trembling and open in his arms, Clark lifted his hand from between your thighs, his fingers glistening with your arousal. He brought them to his lips without hesitation, sliding them into his mouth, his eyes locked on yours as he tasted you. The flames in the fireplace crackled behind him, their orange glow dancing across his skin, highlighting the raw hunger and tenderness in his expression. You watched, breath catching, as his tongue swirled around his digits, savoring the slick evidence of your pleasure, a low hum vibrating in his throat.
He withdrew them slowly, then leaned closer, pressing those same wet fingers against your lips. You parted them eagerly, sucking them in, your tongue lapping at the salty-sweet tang of yourself mingled with his skin. Clark's free hand cradled the back of your head gently as his mouth found your neck, planting soft, repeated kisses along the sensitive curve, light presses that sent shivers cascading down your spine. Each kiss was a whisper of devotion, his breath warm against your cooling skin, drawing out the intimacy until your cheeks warmed anew.
Finally, he pulled his fingers free from your mouth with a soft pop, his gaze darkening with need. In one fluid motion, he manhandled you by your upper leg, rolling you to the opposite side so your back pressed firmly against his chest. The shift was effortless for him, his strength careful yet commanding, positioning you in the cradle of his body under the covers. Before you could fully settle, he aligned himself and in a single breath, he pushed his cock inside you, stretching your pussy with a delicious burn as he bottomed out in one deep thrust.
Your eyelids fluttered wildly, a gasp escaping as your walls clenched and fluttered around his girth, adjusting to the fullness after so long apart. He was unfairly big, filling you completely, the sensation bordering on overwhelming yet achingly right. Both of you moaned in unison, the sound raw and guttural, forcing a deep groan to rumble from his chest against your back, yours was a high whimper that dissolved into sobs of relief. It had been too long, the distance a cruel thief and now every inch of him reminded you of what you'd missed.
Clark lowered your leg slowly, his hand sliding between your thighs to rest just over your entrance, palm cupping the spot where his cock met your body. He could feel himself moving, the gentle slide in and out and the way your wetness coated him, making each thrust smooth and slick. His other hand snaked between you and the mattress, splaying wide over your stomach, fingers pressing into your soft skin to hold you close, anchoring you as his hips began to rock in a steady rhythm.
Whimpers filled the air between you, yours breathy and broken, his quieter but laced with emotion. He kissed your shoulder, the back of your head, the nape of your neck in soft, lingering touches that matched the careful pace of his movements, each one a seal on the forgiveness you'd both earned. You allowed your eyes to close, surrendering to the sensation, the world narrowing to the heat of his body, the crackle of the fire and the profound connection rebuilding itself thrust by thrust.
A single tear slipped from Clark's eye, tracing down his cheek as he listened to your noises, from the soft cries, to the hitched breaths that mirrored his own ache. He had believed this was lost forever, that he'd never feel you like this again, your pussy so tight and welcoming around him, your wetness easing his way despite the cold seeping through the room's edges. Your skin burned against his, feverish and alive, the chill outside forgotten in the inferno you ignited together, every slide of his cock pulling more slickness from you as your arousal dripped down his shaft, soaking his hand where it rested.
The rhythm built gradually, his thrusts deepening just enough to graze that sensitive spot inside, your pussy fluttering with each pass. Wetness gathered, the lewd sounds of him fucking you softly punctuating your whimpers as your body responded with fresh pulses of heat. Despite the freezing air nipping at the covers, your skin felt like it was on fire, hot and tingling where he touched, the contrast heightening every sensation. Pleasure coiled low in your belly, the beginning of an orgasm stirring as his cock dragged along your walls, his hand feeling the subtle bulge of himself beneath your skin.
As the climb intensified, the tension winding tighter with each careful push, you reached back, placing your hand firmly on his hip, fingers digging in to halt his movement. You wanted this to last, to savor the reunion without rushing to the end, the vulnerability of the moment too precious to let slip away so soon.
He paused immediately, his cock buried deep inside you, throbbing gently against your walls as he caught his breath. The warmth of his body enveloped you from behind, his hand on your stomach holding you steady, the other still cupping where you joined, fingers slick with your combined arousal. The fire's crackle filled the quiet, a soft underscore to your shared panting, the cold air beyond the blankets a distant memory against the heat radiating between you.
He nuzzled into your neck, lips brushing your skin in a tender kiss, waiting for your cue.
“I want to see you,” you murmured, voice husky with emotion, turning your head slightly to meet his gaze over your shoulder. His eyes, dark and full of unspoken promises, softened at your words. Without a word, he eased out of you slowly, the drag of his thick cock leaving you achingly empty, your pussy clenching around the sudden void as a trickle of wetness followed his withdrawal.
Clark shifted with care, his strong hands guiding you as you both maneuvered under the covers. You rolled onto your back, the mattress dipping beneath your weight and he followed, settling between your legs. His body hovered above yours, supported on his forearms to avoid crushing you, the flames casting flickering shadows across his broad shoulders and the planes of his chest. You reached up, cupping his face, pulling him down into a kiss that started soft but deepened quickly as your lips parted, tongues tangling in a slow dance of reconnection. The taste of him, mingled with the faint salt of your earlier essence on his breath, sent fresh sparks through you.
As the kiss intensified, his hips aligned once more, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. He pushed in gradually this time, inch by inch, stretching your pussy wider than before in this new position. You gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss for a moment as he filled you completely. He felt even bigger like this, the angle allowing him to press deeper, his girth rubbing against every sensitive ridge inside you. Your walls fluttered around him, adjusting to the fullness, the sensation bordering on too much yet perfectly overwhelming in a burn that melted into bliss.
All either of you could do was touch and admire in that suspended moment. Your hands roamed his back, tracing the muscles that flexed under your palms, fingers digging into the firm expanse as if to confirm he was real. He gazed down at you, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the peak of your hardened nipples under your shirt and the way your body arched toward him. “
“You're as beautiful as the day I lost you,” he whispered, voice rough with awe, leaning down to kiss you again with soft pecking along your jaw, your collarbone, before returning to your lips. His hands mirrored yours, one sliding up your shirt to cup your breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple, the other bracing beside your head.
He began to move then with a slow controlled thrust that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, his cock dragging along your inner walls with exquisite friction. You whimpered against his mouth, the apologies bubbling up unbidden.
“I'm sorry,” you breathed between kisses, tears pricking at your eyes again as the guilt resurfaced amid the pleasure. “I'm so sorry for everything.” He didn't respond with words, instead, he captured your lips, kissing the apology away with deep, reassuring presses that swallowed your words, his tongue soothing the tremble in yours.
Another thrust, deeper this time and you arched beneath him, your pussy clenching around his length as wetness pooled anew, easing his path. You murmured apologies again when he pulled back for air but he silenced you with another kiss, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm now, fucking you with measured strokes that built the heat between you. His cock filled you over and over, the slick sounds of your arousal mixing with the fire's pops, your bodies slick with sweat despite the room's chill. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, heels digging into his back as if to merge you completely.
Tears spilled over your lashes, trailing down your temples as the emotions swelled. Your fingers threaded through his dark hair, tugging gently while running through the soft strands as you held his gaze.
“I don't deserve you,” you choked out, voice breaking, the vulnerability raw in the dim light. He shook his head slowly, his forehead resting against yours, blue eyes locking onto yours with unwavering intensity.
“My love for you is proof that you do,” he whispered directly to your lips, the words a warm breath that sent shivers through you. Then he kissed you again, pouring that proof into the press of his mouth and grind of his hips.
The climb began in earnest after that, intimate and unhurried at first, his thrusts maintaining that deep, probing pace. Each slide of his cock inside you sent jolts of pleasure radiating from your core, from the way he stretched you, to the head nudging that spot deep within, making your toes curl against the sheets. Your pussy throbbed around him with wetness coating his shaft and dripping down to where his balls brushed your ass with every push. His hand left your breast to trail down your body, fingers finding your clit and circling it lightly, adding layers to the building tension. You moaned into his kiss, hips bucking up to meet him, the friction igniting sparks that traveled up your spine.
He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, sucking gently at the pulse point there, his breath hot against your skin.
“Feel me, I’m right here,” he murmured, voice strained with his own restraint, thrusting harder now.
You felt every thick inch of him pounding into you with a rhythm that matched your racing heart. Your walls fluttered wildly, the pressure coiling tighter in your belly as a familiar ache bloomed meaning the orgasm approached but this one felt different, amplified by the eye contact, whispers and the way his free hand intertwined with yours, pinning it above your head.
Salty tears dripped onto your chest as he fucked you deeper, his cock swelling inside you, signaling his own edge. Your own flowed freely now, mixing with the kisses he peppered across your face, forehead, eyelids and cheeks, each one a balm to your doubts. “I love you, let me show you I want to stay,” he said between thrusts, the words punctuating the wet slap of skin on skin, your pussy so soaked that he glided effortlessly, pulling moans from you with every plunge. The intensity built like a storm, your clit pulsing under his fingers as your inner muscles gripped him tighter, milking his length as the pleasure crested higher.
You cried out, nails raking down his back and leaving red trails on his skin as the orgasm barreled toward you. He didn't let up, driving into you with focused power, his thumb pressing firmer on your clit. He urged you to come, lips brushing your ear and the dam broke. Your pussy clenched hard around his cock as waves of ecstasy crashed through you, intense and all-consuming. You shook beneath him, body arching off the mattress while a keening wail escaped your throat as the contractions rippled through your core, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses.
Clark groaned, the sound guttural and primal, his thrusts faltering as your climax pulled him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching violently as he came inside you for the first time, in hot spurts of cum that flooded your pussy, so much that it filled you to overflowing, the warmth spreading deep within. It was intense and overwhelming, his release mixing with your wetness. The sensation of being filled up sent aftershocks through you, shivers raced down your spine making your limbs tremble uncontrollably and tears streamed as the pleasure peaked, holding you in its grip longer than before.
He shuddered above you, muscles tensing as he emptied himself, rope after thick rope painting your walls, the excess seeping out around his base where you joined. Your bodies quaked together, breaths mingling in ragged gasps, the intimacy of his cum inside you a profound seal on your reunion. He collapsed gently onto his elbows, not crushing you, his forehead pressed to yours as the last tremors faded, both of you slick and spent.
Without pulling out, his cock still semi-hard and plugging you full, Clark shifted carefully. He eased your right leg to the side, guiding it with a gentle hand on your thigh, then drew both your legs together, the position curling you slightly. He rolled to the side, laying down behind you once more, his body spooning yours perfectly, that deep connection maintained as he stayed buried inside. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossing over your chest, pulling you flush against him in a tight hug. He buried his head in the crook of your neck, lips pressing a soft kiss to your damp skin, inhaling your scent mingled with sex and sweat.
Your arms came up to hug his over your chest, fingers interlacing with his, holding him there as if afraid he'd vanish. A shaky breath of relief escaped you, the tension of the past months dissolving in the warmth of his embrace, the subtle throb of him still inside you a comforting reminder of your bond. The fire continued to crackle, the blankets cocooning you both, the cold world outside irrelevant as you lay entwined, hearts slowing in unison while the afterglow wrapped you in quiet peace.
This was not the forgiveness you seeked within yourself yet but the first fragile hour of it, the long beginning of something that would take days, perhaps lifetimes, to mend.
(Told y'all I'd fix it 🙂)
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Clark idea: first time spending the night at his house but it’s completely accidental because she falls asleep on the couch and he’s unsure of what to do, and reader is super clingy and wakes up when he moves her
Last week, Clark stopped a skyscraper from falling onto a hundred helpless civilians using one arm. Tonight, he struggles to move from under your weight.
He is excited to have you asleep on him. This is a boyfriend’s job, to be your pillow, to have you take comfort in his presence so much so that you fall asleep in the middle of a movie you’d been excited to watch. You weren’t particularly tired, as far as he knew, which makes your little snores sweeter to have warming his arm. He feels similarly relaxed when you’re around.
For a while, he has the movie on pause and waits for you to wake up. Then, when it’s clear you’re not dozing but truly sleeping, he changes the channel to watch a different movie and puts the other on record so you can watch it when you wake. He waits, and waits, but seven turns to nine turns to quarter to ten, and he realises he should’ve woken you up. Because now it’s rather late to be taking you home on a work night.
Well, darn, he thinks.
It’ll be alright, he decides eventually. You haven’t stayed the night before, but Clark knows you trust him, and he knows you won’t mind if he indulges himself and lets you sleep. He’ll wake you early in the morning to give you time to get home (hopefully accompanied by him, or one of his heavy coats) and it won’t matter that you stayed.
This, however, introduces a debate. Should he leave you here on the couch with a blanket, or should he carry you to bed? He decides pretty quickly you can’t stay on the couch, it’s just never a comfortable way to sleep. He’ll lay you out in the double bed in his room.
Clark can’t see you minding the cuddling that might happen in sleep, you’d been cuddling when you fell asleep.
How to move you, though. He sucks on his bottom lip while there’s no one to see him, brows pinched together. Slow and steady, an arm under your knees? The princess carry is his only gentle option, really. He can’t get you over his shoulder.
You sniff in your sleep, then comes a long, breathy snore. You make some really funny sounds. Clark’s smiling about them as he gets his hand under your knee and lifts, no effort required to have you against his chest. Your little hiccup sound when you’d first started dozing had been the cutest, but this mumbly whine now at being moved is a close second.
“Noooo…” Your hand screws up in his shirt.
“Let’s go to bed, honey,” he whispers.
You wrap your arm behind his neck, your face smushed awkwardly to his chest. Cords in your back go rigid as he stands up, but a few kind shushes have you relaxing and sniffling again, like you might fall back asleep in his arms.
The bedroom door creaks when he opens it, prompting another disgruntled mumble. “Clark,” you say, sounding annoyed now.
“I know, baby. Just taking you to bed, that’s all. You go on back to sleep.”
“Don’t wanna go home.”
You’re barely audible in his chest. Clark gathers you close in one arm, pinning you close so he can pull back his sheets and comforter. “You’re not going home, you think I could part with you now?” He lays you down in the bed. Your arm is steadfast behind his neck. “Not going anywhere,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead very, very gently, “I’ll get you some water.”
“Bed,” you murmur back. “Clark.”
He likes this side of you. He’s not sure he’s ever heard you whine before, and it’s pathetically soft while you’re too tired to act as you normally would. “Fine,” he says, chuckling, “move over then, my girl. Gosh.”
You actually smile at his teasing, wriggling backwards in the bed to make space. When Clark climbs in, you wrap your arm around him without hesitation, your cold nose pressing into his arm.
“Goodnight, bubby,” you mumble.
Clark giggles like a kid. “Oh, goodnight,” he says, reaching for the switch just to the side of the bed that’ll turn out the lights. Clark doesn’t need the overhead to stare at you. He’s got supervision. “Beautiful. Wake me up if you need anything.”
Oh nothing just thinking about Clark and his controversially young girlfriend after she takes a kickboxing class…
She doesn’t tell him she’s doing it, just gives him a brief little “a couple of my friends are doing a workout class and I thought I’d join them!”
But she comes home with those wraps on her hands, worn and tired, but heart still thumping with adrenaline. She’s soaked in sweat in her little workout set, droplets slowly traveling down the valley between her breasts, tits pushed together so deliciously in her sports bra and his brain short circuits.
She’s chugging water as soon as she gets in, shrugging her jacket off (because she knows he would’ve lectured her for going out in just a workout set in this weather), dismissing his shameless stares and agape mouth with a mumble of “gonna go shower.” And he stands there, staring at the doorframe leading to his bedroom for a good few minutes before his brain catches up with her words.
It was a subtle invitation to join her with the way she looked at him over her shoulder as she disappeared into his room, to wash off in his shower.
Clark’s clothes were ripped off and thrown haphazardly onto the floor as he went, he was naked before he even reached the bathroom.
The sight of her behind the foggy glass made his heart clench, her back towards him, hands scrubbing her hair, and he’s sure there was a smirk on her lips as her plan had worked perfectly.
It’s not long before he’s sneaking in behind her, face tucking into her neck to inhale her scent as his arms wrap around her possessively.
“That was cruel baby,” he murmurs, solely focused on laving his tongue along the soft skin of her jugular.
“What was, Clarkie?” She asks teasingly.
“Not telling me you were doing a boxing class, more importantly not warning me you’d be coming home looking like that.” He almost growls it, teeth grazing her skin with the intent to leave marks.
“Oh baby, I’m sorry,” she giggles. “I’ll make sure to give you a little heads up next time, hm?”
“Please,” he groans. “Y’know what’s even more cruel?”
“What’s that?” She’s breathless now as his hands have traveled up to her chest.
“Not inviting me to watch.”
I hope you guys like this! Sorry for any typos or mistakes I wrote this on my phone and didn’t edit or proof read. I’d love to expand on this if anyone enjoys it, and be sure to check out my Masterlist!
What do you guys want to see from me? I’ve gotten so much love on my Clark and his controversially young girlfriend trope and I love writing for it too!! So thank you so so much.
My inbox is open to everyone, also I’m trying some things out for that trope, but I’m not really good at the smut guys I’m sorry😔 i will definitely try though!
Clark and His Controversially Young Girlfriend Masterlist
Clark Kent, twenty-nine years old, Chief Reporter at Metropolis's Daily Planet; principled, responsible, steady, and quietly reserved for all the good in the world.
And his controversially young girlfriend, twenty-one years old, senior at Met U, and a waitress at the most prestigious country club in the area. She's bright, observant, and three times as energetic as Clark is.
They're just what the other needed. She pushes him to live life to the fullest, and he keeps her grounded. Age, self-restraint, and temptation threaten their relationship as they teeter on the edge of the line between partnership and protection. How did they meet, and will their relationship stand the test of time and judgment? Let's find out.
Introduction: Their Dynamic
Fluff
After the Third Date
Fluff, what happens after the third date, when they both feel giddy with the excitement of a new relationship brewing.
What a Sleepover Looks Like
Fluff, some innuendos to smut
His Love Bug
A tender moment in which we explore the reasoning behind his favorite pet name for her.
Typsy Trouble
Fluff, some innuendos of smut, when his younger girlfriend comes home drunk after a night out with friends.
Do Not Disturb
Angst & fluff, when Clark's responsibilities come before his younger girlfriend, when she desperately needs him. Will their differences, highlighted by their age gap, be detrimental to their relationship?
Scary Movie
Fluff, as the two await the cancellation of their responsibilities due to the weather, his younger girlfriend fights sleep to spend more time with him, while he sits through a horrifying movie just to make her happy.
Thinking about Clark and his controversially young girlfriend again.
She’s got class first thing tomorrow, and he’s got to drive across town to try and make it to work on time. But it’s cold outside and they’re both awaiting the cancellation of their responsibilities due to the weather. So, here they lay together on her full sized bed that his feet almost hang off of, that his broad shoulders spread out across. They’re facing each other, her laptop set between them on the bed playing some odd horror film off of a strange website that he doesn’t trust. He doesn’t care for it, but she seems happy and entertained and that’s all that matters to him.
Her cold feet are tucked between his calves in an attempt to seek warmth, and he keeps turning to look at her more than he’s actually watching the movie. If he’s honest, it disturbs him and he doesn’t care for jumps scares (he’s got a bad startle reflex, what can he say?). Though, he’s reveling in the way her body instinctively searches for him each time she jumps in fear. Or how she’ll let out a whine and bury her face into the bicep beneath her head at particularly gory scenes.
The room is pitch black, only illuminated by the soft blue-white glow of her laptop screen. It casts soft, flickering shadows across the walls, and across his face, catching on the planes of his cheekbones and nose. The wind rattles outside, the winter storm raging on like it’s asking to be letting in, snow falling at tapping against the window ever so softly.
She shivers, nudging her toes further against his skin. He shifts instinctively, knees closing just enough to trap her there, a little smug smile tugging at his lips before he realizes it. He pretends to adjust the blanket instead and pulls it higher over her shoulder.
A jump scare and splatter of blood across the screen makes her jump, a squeal escaping her lips as she frantically grabs onto his shirt, hand bunching up the fabric that rests over his heart. He’s sure she can feel the way his heart flutters at the contact, though he’s not sure she realizes that he’s completely unbothered by the events occurring on her laptop at the moment. His cheeks flush and he feels almost loopy with how giddy he feels when she instinctively reaches for him in moments of fear. His hand snakes its way up to hold hers that still holds onto his shirt like a lifeline, and she visibly relaxes at the touch. He absentmindedly begins drawing shapes with his fingertips along her hand and arm, focusing on the way her heart rate finally returns to a normal pace.
Clark pretends not to notice the way her breathing slows and eyes droop, rather, he breaths in the scent of the shampoo and smell of her skin. It’s comforting, and in a way, it almost begins lulling him to sleep.
“I’m awake,” she murmurs, voice quiet and thick with fatigue.
It’s one of her tells that she’s just a few minutes away from falling asleep. When she’s trying to fight it because she wants to stay awake and spend more time with him, but they both know that phrase does nothing to prevent it.
“I know baby,” he smiles. “It’s ok if you’re not,” he tries.
“Not tired yet though, I’m not sleepy.” She’s lying, he knows this, even without the yawn that punctuates her mumbling.
“I know you’re not, just letting you know it’s ok if you’re are.”
There’s a comfortable silence between the two as she wills herself to stay awake with wide eyes trained on the screen while he watches fondly as said wide eyes flutter halfway closed every few seconds.
“You could stay, you know.” She says. “If classes get canceled, and you don’t have to go into work, you could stay with me.”
“Yeah?” He asks, smile wide and eyes sparkling.
“Mhm.”
“That sounds like a plan, sleepy girl.”
“I’m not sleepy yet, Clark.” She’s lying whines, yet her eyes are completely closed at this point.
“No, you’re wide awake, aren’t you?” He teases, reaching to close her laptop and place it on the bedside table.
“Yeah, I’m nocturnal tonight.”
“Is that so,” he hums, moving closer to her, entrapping her in his warmth.
She doesn’t even an answer, only letting out a content sigh as she turns in his arms to scoot as close to him as possible with her back against his chest. She holds onto his forearms, directing him to hold her tight and close against him and wiggles her hips to get comfortable.
She’s asleep within the minute, letting out her tell tale hum before she finally succumbs to the exhaustion, and he can’t possibly seem to wipe the fond smile off his face: he loves his stubborn girl.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he buries his face in her neck, placing a few kisses across the soft skin as he repeats his love for her over and over again until his eyes eventually begin to flutter closed, head filled with nothing but her.
(this list is mainly ways non-locals can donate but by extension offers a lot of resources and places to volunteer in the Twin Cities + there are specific ways to donate time under the cut which can be adjusted to your local neighborhood)
full credit to cataloo from r/minnesota [x]
🩵Immigrant support
Immigrant Defense Network – coalition of 90+ groups organizing rapid response and collecting evidence.
Immigrant Law Center of MN – free immigration legal representation to low-income immigrants and refugees.
COPAL – advocacy, organizing, phone hotline. Focus on Latine community.
Minnesota Immigrant Rights Action Committee (MIRAC) – education and protest organizing.
Interfaith Coalition on Immigration – advocacy, aid, events.
Monarca MN – training and phone hotline.
Unidos MN – education, protests, advocacy.
Center for Victims of Torture – advocacy and mental health services for immigrants and refugees.
International Institute of Minnesota – refugee resettlement group that provides support and legal help to vulnerable new-to-country families.
Lutheran Social Service of Minnesota – offers services to refugees, including legal aid to non-citizens.
🩵Food support
If local, food donations are welcome, otherwise monetary donations help these types of orgs source what is most needed
VEAP
Second Harvest Heartland
Every Meal
The Food Group
Meals on Wheels MN
Find a local food shelf
🩵Mutual aid funds & community support
Community Aid Network
Twin Cities Trans Mutual Aid
Leo's Tow (Venmo @leostowingmn) is towing cars back to families if a car is stranded when someone is detained.
🩵More links
MN50501 Mutual Aid Linktree – well-organized list of various Twin Cities groups.
Mplsmutualaid Linktree – many neighborhood and individual GoFundMes listed here.
Mpls.St.Paul Magazine – see Food Drives and Fundraisers.
Stand with Minnesota – extensive list of organizations, mutual aid, and crowdfunding campaigns.
🩵Donate blood
Memorial Blood Center declared a blood emergency on Tuesday, Jan 13. MBC is the blood supplier for both tier 1 trauma hospitals in the metro area (Hennepin County Medical Center and North Memorial Health).
American Red Cross
🩵Donate food or other goods
Mpls.St.Paul Magazine – see Food Drives and Fundraisers.
Volunteer your time (under the cut)
🩵Mutual aid
Reach out to your neighbors – especially if you know they are staying home right now – and ask if they need groceries or toiletry items. Offer to pick up prescriptions, give rides, or shovel their driveway. If you know them well, bring them a treat that you know they'll enjoy. Or just ask them how they're doing and let them know you are there to support.
Connect with any of the orgs above and see if they are looking for volunteers.
Connect with a church or mosque in your area. From u/MuddieMaeSuggins: "I know a lot of regular Redditors are not religious (myself included) but like it or not this is a where a lot of community organizing happens, especially in immigrant communities."
Connect with your local school's admin office and/or their PTA. It's ok to reach out even if you don't have kids at the school. PTAs are organizing mutual aid for school families, safe rides, school observers.
🩵Activism
Find an official protest or other event via Indivisible, 50501, FREE AMERICA, or MIRAC. Students at many high schools are staging walk-outs; if your local school is doing this, reach out to school leadership or the PTA and ask how you can support as a community member.
Join the effort to stop Hilton from housing ICE by booking hotel rooms and then cancelling at the last minute. This action can be done from home! The effort is being organized by Sunrise Movement, who are telling activists to target specific hotels one-by-one. More info: SHUT DOWN HILTON
Find people in your area who are actively monitoring ICE and/or stationing themselves in high-traffic areas and ask how you can help. Check for local FB events where people are organizing and just show up.
At minimum, read the COPAL Handbook before you go out to observe. The DFL, Monarca, and other orgs have been hosting online trainings for constitutional observers (though these fill up quickly).
When you see ICE in action, start recording. Be as loud and as disruptive as possible: honk your horn, set off your car alarm, blow your whistle. Let people know that ICE is in the area. If you see someone being detained, try to get their name and a phone number to call their emergency contact.
If you do not feel comfortable observing ICE in person, there are ways you can support from home. Just ask the people who are organizing in your area. I have social anxiety, and I had never participated in any kind of political action before this past Saturday. If I can do it, you can!
Local organizers are requesting that people who help monitor ICE DO NOT participate in 1-to-1 mutual aid efforts, as these can put the families you are helping at risk.
If you have friends/acquaintances who are sympathetic but not politically active, reach out to them. Show them that they're not alone in feeling helpless. Pick a few low-commitment actions from this list and do them together.
clark kent needs exposure therapy to get used to your cat (fluff)
clark kent is a dog person, and not in a casual way. he earnestly tells anyone who cares enough to listen that he just "understands them," in the way that he can recite every obscure fact about collie temperament, in the way where he instinctively crouches and grins widely whenever someone's walking their pup down the street. dogs, in his opinion, are simple. straightforward. loyal, sweet, responsive. he gets them.
your cat, however, is none of those things.
clark had been avoiding the orange demon since he'd stolen your heart and taken over your apartment two months ago. you and clark had been on a date and you'd begged to go visit the shelter. you had a habit of dragging him towards animals whenever you were out together, whether it was farms, petting zoos, or less favorably for clark, cat cafes.
this time, it was an old animal shelter in another city.
when you'd spotted him, the loudest, scrappiest ginger in the whole shelter, yowling and batting at the bars of his cage obnoxiously, clark had immediately tensed behind you. "not that one, hon. he's-"
"perfect," you'd whispered, cutting him off just to crouch down in front of the cat and watch him all mesmerized. "he's perfect."
clark gnawed on his lip, trying to convince you otherwise."well, what about the gray one? she looks a lot… calmer. or the white one, sweet little face on him, huh? that one's nice." but you were already rushing to go fill out adoption papers while the ginger wrapped his paw through the bars and tried to shred clark's shoelaces.
and for two months, clark kept his distance, pretended he was allergic, found excuses to go out on errands whenever the cat was especially feral, which he only was with clark. he turned into an angel around you. he'd pounce on whichever unlucky person who would stop at your door, then would jump into your arms after scolding him.
what a menace.
he's currently sprawled on the couch like a king, which; judging by the way his tail flicks back and forth smugly, he believes he is one. clark doesn't trust him at all. the way those huge yellow eyes fixate on him as clark sits beside you for breakfast makes him wildly uneasy.
you stand up to scrape off the little bits of your food and put it in the dishwasher, getting ready to leave. you'd told clark suddenly this morning you were going to do a few errands, and he'd assumed you were bringing him along. you hadn't corrected him when he got dressed with you. but then, you lean down to peck him on the lips and announce casually, "leaving you two alone today. my boys have to bond sooner or later."
clark stiffens and looks up at you, horrified. "you're what?" his voice cracks on the last word, and his glasses slip down his nose a little. biting on his lower lip and readjusting the frames, he tries to get a clear understanding of the hellish scenario you'd just said he'd be experiencing. "you're leaving me with… with him?"
you just grin, cupping clark's worried face. "he needs to bond with you. you're my boyfriend, he's my baby. figure it out."
clark sputters, "he hates me."
"he doesn't hate you. he's curious. he wants to see what his daddy's doing."
"his daddy...? i’m his daddy now?" clark repeats.
"of course you are. that means he's not gonna hurt you. just… try to keep him entertained. he's picky about who he likes, but i'm sure you'll win him over." your smile is a little too innocent, and Clark's heart sinks in response. the cat's gaze is unflinching. he's sizing up Clark like a predator evaluating its next meal. you just kiss him again, way too unconcerned for his liking, and leave.
the door clicks shut. silence.
clark gets up from the kitchen table, no longer hungry. then, he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch, sitting beside the cat awkwardly. he glances at him. the cat glances back, then yawns, revealing a row of teeth that could shred fabric - and, clark is fairly sure - human flesh.
"okay," clark mutters under his breath, smoothing his sweaty palms over his slacks. "we can do this. just… coexist. i sit here, you sit there."
the cat doesn't agree.
within ten seconds, there's a sudden thud as ginger fur launches itself onto his lap. clark freezes, his entire body going rigid.
"uh, no! no, no, no. you, stay down!" he says frantically, afraid to hold his hands up, so he clenches them at his sides. he will not be touching this creature, afraid it'll tear off a few fingers if he tries to move it off.
the cat is already kneading his thigh with sharp little claws, purring so loud it rattles against his broad thighs. "why are you vibrating?" clark whispers, staring down at the orange blur. "what on earth is that noise?"
the cat responds by butting its head against clark's stomach, catching a loose thread on his soft pj top between tiny teeth. clark jumps, nearly knocking the animal off, so it latches onto him. "no! hey, no biting! this was a gift!" he fumbles, trying to gently pry the thread free, but every time he touches the cat, it just purrs louder and rubs against him harder. it's freaking the fuck out of clark.
as if on cue, the cat climbs higher, scaling his chest like a tree. clark stiffens as whiskers brush against his cheek. he's nuzzling, nuzzling... headbutting clark's cheek, then, the cat licks him with a tongue that matches the consistency of sandpaper. clark jerks back hard. "why would you do that? that's... do you like me or are you trying to taste-test me?"
the cat meows in his face, nuzzling him and purring more. it makes clark feel oddly warm and fuzzy. "…you're mocking me."
the cat doesn't deny it. instead, he curls up directly against Clark's chest and closes his eyes, eager to sleep. hid tail swishes slowly as it rests comfortably against clark's bicep, the rest of the cat's body held securely by clark's strong arms. he gently lays his back down on the couch so the animal can sleep on his chest, and the cat promptly nods off, purring like an engine.
clark sits there for a full five minutes like he's being held hostage. he doesn't move. or breathe too deeply. and he doesn't dare shift the cat.
but then his shoulders slowly relax. his hand, cautious and hesitant, lifts and settles on the ginger's back, offering the creature the smallest, most careful stroke. the cat stirs, stretches, and nips at his hand. he soothes his tongue over the tiny mark instantly, lapping, lapping, before clark yanks his hand away, perturbed. "i don't think you and i are ever going to be friends, buddy." but he doesn't move the cat.
when you come home hours later, clark is doing work in his home office with the cat peering at his work over his shoulder. you burst out laughing at the sight, making clark jump. the cat rushes over to greet his mother. you croon, and clark huffs at the easy replacement the cat makes of him.
you continue giggling as the cat rubs himself against your legs, purring like it's just been handed the world's greatest treat. clark, still trying to recover from the trauma of the last few hours, shoots you a look of wide-eyed disbelief. "i knew it." he mutters, wiping a hand over his face. "you two were plotting against me."
you grin and walk up to him, bending down to scoop up the cat as it happily jumps into your arms, purring and nuzzling you eagerly. "don't be mad at our baby," you tease. "he was just getting to know you. you two have a lot in common, actually."
clark watches you skeptically, hands on his hips. "sure, honey. i felt very connected to him," he says, sarcastically. "great bonding moment." he gestures to his chest, where his shirt is still wrinkled from where the cat had napped on him earlier.
you laugh again, a sweet, teasing sound that always seems to make his heart soften. "he's not that bad once you get used to him." the cat stretches out in your arms, looking between the two of you with lazy eyes, before it rubs its head against your chin, as if saying, "see? I told you he'd warm up." you lean over to kiss his cheek, and clark sighs, resting his head back.
just as clark's starting to think he might finally get a break, the little cat leaps from your arms and lands with a soft thud on his lap again. clark's entire body goes stiff as he curls up comfortably on his lap once more.
"you've got to be kidding me," clark says, looking down in defeat as the cat snuggles into him, this time seemingly determined to stay there. he can't even bring himself to push him off.
you watch this all, trying - and failing - to hide your laughter. "well, looks like you two are getting along just fine!"
see more in my dc masterlist
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I’m lowk also obsessed with prices little housewife. He keeps her tucked away in the country, a nice house with a wrap around porch and lots of yard for the kids to play in. Five bouncing, yelling, giggling children and one on the way. Price needs somewhere calm and quiet to settle when he finally gets home after one of those missions.
His body sore, his mind still racing of every mistake that went wrong during the mission, every life that was lost. He just wants somewhere to settle with his family, coming home to his children hounding him, his wife pulling out fresh muffins from the oven. Spreading his warm palm over the swell of her belly, everything seems a lot easier when he’s home.
Maybe he should retire soon, spend the rest of his days watching his children grow, getting a thick layer of fat over his tummy from how much his wife feeds him, wifey taking his thick cock night after night until baby number seven is on the way.
Synopsis: A security backlog at baggage claim leads two strangers to be in the right place at the wrong time. They talk, wait, and then they leave. Neither of them expected the connection to follow them home.
Warnings: Very subtle mentions of emotional abuse and daddy issues, airports, slow burn, lmk if I miss anything!
Word count: 3.78k
Author's note: May or may not be based on an experience I had the other day...
──────── ౨ৎ ────────
It’s five-something in the morning, and by the time she reaches the airport, she’s already exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix. It’s the kind of exhaustion that settles behind her eyes and refuses to leave, a low, familiar pressure that pulses with each step she takes across the polished floor. The overhead lights are too bright, and she keeps her gaze down, fixed on the laces of her shoes as if that might dull the edges of the world.
She tells herself she can handle it; she always does.
The airport is crowded, louder than it needs to be, overlapping and echoing in a way that makes it difficult to separate one sound from another. A baby cries somewhere to her left while a group laughs too loudly near the coffee stand. She finds some kind of solace at her empty gate; she was early as always. She’s the first person there, and she’s even beaten the airline workers there. She puts on her headphones and turns on some soft music as she reaches into her bag without looking, fingers brushing against the familiar ridges of a pill bottle, the cool clasp of her sunglasses case. Just knowing they’re there steadies her a little. The board says her flight is on time; that’s something, at least. She settles into her seat against the far wall, angling her body away from the brightest lights, and the pressure at the base of her skull eases slightly, or maybe she’s just learned how to ignore it better over the years. She leans her head back and closes her eyes for a moment, breathing slowly, counting each inhale and exhale as her therapist taught her.
In.
Out.
She almost lets herself relax.
Then her eyes open and drift to the clock on the wall, 7:30 - huh, no one is here yet, not a single person, and she’s due to board in 15 minutes. She stands and gathers her things before dragging herself over to the help desk, which is still void of any employees. Her eyes land on the screen above the desk just in time to see the word CANCELLED.
For a second, she just stares at it.
Her chest tightens, the dull ache behind her eyes sharpening in protest, as if the word itself carries an impossible wait. She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, grounding herself, reminding herself not to cry - not here, not over this. But how can it just be cancelled? With no announcement or explanation?
It’s fine, she tells herself. It has to be.
She refreshes the airline app on her phone once, then again. The screen flickers, loads, and delivers the verdict without ceremony: no available flights. She scrolls, heart sinking with each swipe. Tomorrow - nothing, the next day - nothing. The rest of the weekend might not exist—nothing available on any airline for days.
Tuesday night. Four days away.
Her breath catches, sharp and shallow, and the pressure in her head flares in response, as if her body is keeping score of every minor inconvenience. She slumps back down into the nearest chair, palms flat against her thighs, grounding herself in the feel of the seat beneath her. Around her, the airport continues as if nothing has happened; people walk past her gate without looking. The board stays the same.
No announcement ever comes—no apology, nor an explanation.
Eventually, she stands because she doesn’t know what else to do. A hesitant call is made to her father, who couldn’t sound any more inconvenienced before he shortly hangs up. She sighs, and her phone buzzes with a message she doesn’t want to read but does anyway, because she always does. There’s no sympathy in it, no concern; just instruction. An Uber was ordered on her behalf, and a demand to pay him back. A reminder that this inconvenience was, somehow, her responsibility.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Clark Kent wakes before his alarm, as he usually does.
Fort Lauderdale is already warm, sunlight creeping through the translucent curtains and brushing the room in gold. He lies still for a moment, listening to the hum of traffic, the rush of the ocean, the elevated heartbeat of a jogger passing below - the rhythm of a city starting a new day.
He rolls out of bed and pads across the room. He feels truly rested for the first time in a long time. The coffee machine is terrible, but serviceable. He drinks it black anyway, standing by the window and watching people set up their towels at the hotel’s beach.
The story he came down here for is almost finished. The lead panned out, mostly, enough to justify the trip, at least. And only a handful of Superman-related emergencies filled his time here, yet he still considered it a vacation. He taps out a few notes on his phone, frowning slightly, already reorganizing the headline in his head. There’s more to it, there always is, but it can wait until he’s back home.
Clark showers quickly, letting the water run a little longer than necessary until the steam fogs the mirror, until his reflection blurs into something softer around the edges. He dresses simply—linen shorts, worn sneakers; and, after a brief pause of consideration, pulls on the Hawaiian shirt he bought at the gift shop the day before - Tommy Bahama, apparently. A little expensive for his taste, but he decided to spoil himself just this once. It’s blue, patterned with white and yellow flowers; he buttons it carefully, smiling to himself as he does.
It’s ridiculous. He knows that, yet he wears it anyway.
Breakfast is unremarkable in the best way—eggs, soggy French toast, fruit that tastes better than it has any right to. He eats outside, seated at a small glass table on the veranda, the breeze from the nearby beach lifts the edge of his shirt now and then, cool against his skin, and he lets himself linger longer than he usually would.
When he’s finished, Clark moves to settle into a beach chair that has sunk unevenly into the sand. He pulls out a leather notebook from his bag, the pages already worn soft from use. He smooths it open with one broad hand and begins to write.
The pen moves steadily, familiar and sure. He prefers it this way–ink and paper, thoughts slowing just enough to settle into something honest. He crosses out a line, rewrites it cleaner. Adjusts a phrase. He lets the sound of the beach fill the spaces between sentences: waves breaking against the shore, birds singing, the distant laughter of a girls’ trip down the shore.
The article takes shape beneath his fingers, annoyingly neat and careful. Facts balanced with feeling. Humanity threaded through the truth, like it always is with him.
Every so often, he glances up from the page, eyes tracing the horizon where the ocean meets the sky. There’s a lightness in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been missing, a sense of quiet rightness he doesn’t question.
When he finishes, he closes the notebook and rests his palm over it, just for a moment.
That can wait until he’s home, too.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
By the time she gets back to the house, the sun has risen, heat pressing down on her shoulders like a heavy hand. She barely has time to set her bag down before she’s being told to hurry up, get changed, and get moving. To the beach, of all places. As if she isn’t already running on fumes.
She doesn’t argue, because she never does.
The drive is short, filled with her little sister’s complaints and giggles all blended into one.
The sand is blindingly white, the light reflecting off it so harshly it makes her head throb. She keeps her sunglasses on, even when it earns her a comment she pretends not to hear. At least the soft roar of the waves calms her shaky hands.
She counts the minutes, sips water when she remembers, tells herself she just has to make it to the airport.
And of course she plays volleyball with her little sister and her friend, and of course she gives up her sunglasses because her little sister couldn’t see the ball. And of course, she spoke louder than necessary to shield the girl’s ears from conversations she shouldn’t be hearing.
When it’s finally time to leave, there’s no break, no pause to reset. She goes straight from salt and sun into the backseat of another Uber, skin still warm, hair sticky from the ocean air, and the sound of her little sister’s cries echoing in her ears. The driver talks on the phone the entire way there. The radio is blasting, and she presses her forehead lightly to the cool window, watching the city blur past.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Clark’s flight is late; he wanted to squeeze in as much beach time as he could before he returned to a snow-covered Metropolis. He triple-checks the time, then his gate, then the weather; it’s a habit more than a concern. Everything looks fine, on time.
Good.
Clark takes a speedy shower after his time at the beach, dressing simply and warmly, and checks out without fuss. The front desk clerk smiles at him like she has all week, a little brighter than necessary, and he smiles back. It’s polite, unassuming, maybe a little sheepish. He slings his bag over his shoulder and steps back out into the heat.
The drive to the airport is smooth, and he watches the palm trees blur past, making small talk with the driver, who he learns is a single father. However, his mind is already halfway in the air.
He has no reason to think this trip will be any different from the dozens that came before. No reason to think that somewhere in another terminal, someone’s entire day is quietly unraveling.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
The Fort Lauderdale airport is another maze, another set of lights and lines and screens. By the time she makes it through security, she feels hollowed out, like everything sharp inside her has been worn down by friction alone. She finds her gate; it's packed, but she eventually spots a spot on the floor to settle in and charge her phone.
She tells herself she can handle this part, too.
And for a while, she does.
Her gate gets changed around a few times, but she doesn’t mind. And the flight is late. Not catastrophically so–just enough to stretch the day thinner, to make every minute feel grueling. She sits curled into herself near the gate, phone charging at her feet, eyes closed behind her sunglasses.
When the flight finally boards, she’s forced to check her bag, which she honestly doesn’t mind; it's one less thing for her to lug around. She’s in the aisle seat, curling away to allow passengers to move past her. She doesn’t sleep; she never really does on planes. Instead, she counts the hours by the dimming cabin lights and ice chips used to dull her air sickness.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Clark’s fight is uneventful in the best way.
He boards early, stowing his bag overhead with superhuman ease, and settles into his seat with a small sense of satisfaction. He assists multiple women in stowing their bags with a sheepish smile before he finally settles into his seat. He has snacks – probably too many. A chewy chocolate chip granola bar, a bag of Goldfish, and some plantain chips, not to mention the two cups of apple juice that he will surely regret later as he lies awake in bed. Old habits die hard.
The family beside him is traveling together, a father and a young boy who asks thoughtful questions about everything from turbulence to Superheroes. Clark answers each one patiently, smiling when the father mouths a silent thank you over his son’s head. Clark can’t help but chuckle when the child unknowingly asks if turbulence is just Superman shaking hands with the plane.
Once they’re in the air, he scrolls through the in-flight options and lands on a familiar comedy, something light and predictable. He watches with only one earbud in, laughing quietly to himself in such a Clark way, careful not to disturb anyone. Outside the window, clouds stretch endlessly, bright and forgiving.
It’s easy, this part. He leans back, relaxed, thinking abently about getting home, about unpacking, about nothing in particular at all.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
They land in Metropolis just before eleven.
The plane taxis longer than necessary, and it’s another thirty minutes before they can get off the plane. People stand quickly, crowding the aisle, overhead bins slamming open, and children crying. She suddenly feels grateful for having to check her bag. By the time she steps off the jet bridge, the throbbing in her head has subsided.
It’s a long walk to the train to baggage claim, one in which an elderly woman recruits her to help with her bags. The bag is heavy on her shoulder: she can’t wait to get home.
Six stops later, and she’s helping the woman off the train and guiding her towards the ride share area, before she makes her own way to pick up her bag.
Baggage claim is worse.
Hundreds of people crowd around a single carousel, all of them pressed shoulder to shoulder, staring at the unmoving belt like it might respond to collective will alone. The heat is immediate, clinging, and she feels sweat gather at the back of her neck beneath her hair. It’s not long before her sweater is thrown off and her hair is held up by a paintbrush.
She stops short of the crowd, overwhelmed by the sheer number of bodies. Her flight number isn’t even on the board, and her stomach drops.
She edges closer, then farther away again, caught between wanting answers and needing space. After a few minutes of pacing, the girl who sat next to her on her flight finds her, breathless and sympathetic.
“People’ve been waiting for hours,” she says quietly. “Nothing’s come out yet.”
That’s when frustration sharpens into something brittle.
She thanks the girl and turns, scanning the room for somewhere, anywhere, quieter. She moves towards the wall, trying to catch her breath and set her bag down, yet the frustrated people surround her. She closes her eyes and breathes. When she opens them again, she notices him.
He’s standing a few feet away, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his pants, his black shirt doesn’t look warm enough for the Metropolis snow, and his red cap stands out in the crowd of people. Bright red with yellow writing, Smallville Crows. He’s tall. All broad-shouldered and built. There’s something unmistakably calm about him, even here, even now, amidst the chaos of whatever problem had occurred. He catches her looking and smiles, not false or practiced, just easy.
He begins weaving through the crowd, which proves to be relatively easy when you’re six-foot-four and incredibly built. “This place is a mess,” he says, nodding towards the crowd. “What do you think the odds are that I make my shuttle that leaves in four minutes?”
She huffs a quiet laugh before she can stop herself. “No shot.”
His smile widens.
“The girl I sat next to spoke to someone. People have been waiting for hours.” She sighs.
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”
He thanks her, genuinely, and walks off, swallowed almost immediately by the crowd. She watches him go longer than she means to, then looks away, annoyed with herself. It was nothing, just small talk. She has bigger things to worry about.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Clark doesn’t mean to linger. He tells himself that as he steps away, weaving back into the press of bodies, adjusting the straps of his bag on his shoulders. He’s already done what he came to do – shared information, offered reassurance. That’s enough. It’s more than enough considering they’re complete strangers.
And yet… He finds himself stopping near the far wall, pretending to check his phone while his attention drifts back toward where she’s standing. She looks much smaller now, somehow, shoulders drawn in, like she’s bracing against something more than just the crowd of angry people. Clark has learned, over time, to notice that sort of thing. It’s not x-ray vision or super-hearing, just care.
He exhales slowly.
Don’t hover, he tells himself. That’s worse.
Still, when a raised voice carries across the room, and she flinches, eyes searching curiously, it's barely perceptible, yet his jaw tightens.
He turns his attention outward instead, scanning the room, listening. Conversations overlap in messy layers; complaints, confusion, anger – until a thread of useful information finally surfaces—a security backlog, a delay, but not a dead end.
It's not much, but it’s something.
And Clark decides, quietly, it’s only his duty to relay this information back to her. Or maybe it’s an excuse to talk to her again.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Twenty minutes pass—maybe more.
The air grows heavier as the crowd doubles in size.
The crowd shifts again, growing restless. There are two crying babies within earshot, and countless complaining parents.
She’s standing near one of the pillars now, arm crossed loosely over her chest, trying to stay upright without locking her knees. The pressure behind her eyes has crept back in, dull but insistent, and she presses her thumb into the side of her palm in an attempt to ground herself.
“Hey.”
She looks up. It’s him again – red cap slightly askew now, arms of his shirt crinkled and pushed further up his biceps like he’s been pacing. He looks relieved, like he’s been searching and found what he was hoping for.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just–” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “This place is chaos, and you seemed… a little less than that.”
She snorts despite herself. “That’s a generous assessment.”
He smiles at that, warm and easy. “Fair. Still, though, I don’t know how you’re still awake.”
“I don’t either, to be honest,” she smiles.
There seems to be a commotion near the designated carousel, a worker making an announcement that’s too muffled by the crowd to make any difference.
He nods, “I talked to one of the airline folks,” he says. “Which mostly involved walking all the way down to the Delta check-in to see if anyone knew anything, and waiting until someone felt brave enough to acknowledge me.”
“And how did that trip work out for you?” She grins playfully.
“And apparently, there’s been a security issue with another flight’s baggage, and they’re trying to clear it before sending any bags out. The woman said it should be another thirty minutes at least, it’s slow, but it's something.” He shrugs. “Figured I’d pass that along. No pressure to be optimistic or anything.”
“That actually helps,” she admits. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He shifts his weight, clearly deciding whether to linger or to give you space. “I’ll, uh— I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”
She nods. “Thank you. That’d be great.
They stand together for a beat longer than necessary, then he gives her a small wave and disappears once again.
𓆝𓆟𓆞𓆝𓆟
Forty-five minutes crawl by.
Eventually, the noise becomes too much, and she gives up on standing. She walks farther away, seeking to escape the mob, and settles onto the edge of another carousel, bag plopped down on the floor beside her as she stretches her legs out. The metal that cages in the belt is cold through the fabric of her sweats; it feels good in contrast to the sweat that dwells on her skin. She’s just grateful she didn’t have to settle onto the floor.
“That doesn’t look comfortable.”
She looks up to find him again, this time he’s holding two bottles of water and a packet of pretzels, held out like an offering.
“I’m not above bribery,” he adds, placing the cool water bottle into her hand. “For your pain and suffering.”
She giggles quietly and hesitantly accepts it. “Oh, you really didn’t have to; you’re probably out seven hundred bucks.” She teases.
“I know,” he says simply. “But I wanted to, and my wallet will recover one day.”
He sits beside her without crowding, leaving the polite space between them. And for a moment, they just exist; the carousel still beneath them.
“So,” he says eventually, twisting the cap off his water. “Were you going home, or escaping Metropolis?”
“Coming home, thank god,” she answers. “Definitely not escaping.”
He nods. “Yeah, same.”
They talk about small things at first. The bad turbulence on their flight, how bad delays have been lately, the weather, because, of course Clark Kent talks about the weather, and somehow manages to sound charming while doing so.
She tells him she hates airports, he admits he finds solace within them.
“I like trains better, though,” he says thoughtfully. “They feel… honest. Like they’re not pretending to be calm like TSA workers.”
She smiles at that. “That’s a good way to put it.”
An hour passes without either of the two noticing.
They talk about nothing and everything all at the same time; the worst flights they’ve ever been on, do they sleep easily on flights, and the strange intimacy of being stranded with strangers. He listens more than he talks, asks gentle questions, and laughs easily.
“So, uh…” The carousel finally jolts to life beneath them, and they both look up at the same time.
“Well,” she says. “Showtime.”
They both surge into the mass of people, and she’s disappointed to find that he is no longer a step behind her when she turns back.
Another hour drags by. She’s just about ready to leave the bag here and buy all new clothes, just when she thinks she’s imagined him, when he appears again, breathless but smiling, eyes bright behind his glasses, with a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
“Good news!” He smiles, dimples shining through his exhaustion. “Our bags are coming out!”
Her shoulders sag in utter relief. “Oh my gosh, you’re serious?”
“Cross my heart,” he smiles, it's hesitant this time. “Need a hand getting your bag?”
She shakes her head, managing a slight grin as she waves her hand in dismissal. “Oh, no, no, thank you. That’s so sweet though, you’ve done more than enough, really.”
He bobs his head awkwardly. “Yeah, of course.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… there.
“Happy New Year, sorry about your shuttle.”
“Happy New Year,” he echoes.
And then he’s gone – swallowed by the same crowd he emerged from hours ago like a guardian angel, leaving behind only the strange certainty that something almost happened tonight.
Clark doesn’t realize until he’s halfway down the terminal; he didn’t ask her the most crucial question.
