[kte-alxxndr]

lt.rooster mr.tshelby henrycavill s.holmes c.murphy

so why make a new masterlist?

because i want to have easier access to revisit the stories i love.

mobile view only 📱

[godmadeaterribleerror]

seeing red

✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦

✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 10.5k✦

✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦

Clark has been acting strange all week.

He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.

“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.

“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.

He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

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[danitecx]

Could we have like a ‘at work’ nsfw thing, or a drunk reader or maybe like a work trip? not sure but im so glad requests at open!

Heatwave in Montana (+18)

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: A work trip to Montana was supposed to be simple: secure an impossible interview for the Daily Planet. But after too much wine, one hotel room, and months of unresolved tension, you realize Clark Kent has become far more dangerous to your heart than any assignment ever could.

Warnings: 18+ Explicit Sexual Content, Unprotected Sex, Explicit Language, Multiple Orgasms, Heavy Sexual Tension

WC: 11,100 words approx.

The work trip had only one objective: to get businessman Jonathan Hitman to grant an interview to discuss the massive investment he had made for technological advancement in Metropolis. This was no ordinary investment—we're talking about millions of dollars allocated to improving communication networks, smart transportation systems, and even clean energy for the entire city. That was why Perry White, the editor-in-chief of the Daily Planet, had placed all his bets on this mission. Hitman was a difficult man, the kind who rarely agreed to speak with the press, and when he did, it was because he himself chose the journalist. So the only way to get close to him was to travel to Montana, where an extremely exclusive conference of businessmen was taking place—the kind that not just anyone could attend. And there you would be, waiting for the right moment to ask him for a few minutes.

Perry was very direct, as he always was. He didn't beat around the bush or use pretty words; he got straight to the point because time at the newspaper was gold. He called you into his office, with that desk always littered with papers and half-empty coffee cups, and said without even fully looking up:

"An interview—that will put it on the front page, and it needs to be there," he said before sending you off, in that tone that left no room for a "no" in response.

You accepted, because after all, it was work. And work paid the bills, the rent on your apartment, the food, and those little indulgences you treated yourself to from time to time. Besides, it wasn't the first time they had sent you on a complicated mission. You had already done harder things, like interviewing furious politicians or covering protests where people threw things at you. So you steeled yourself with patience, packed your suitcase, and flew to Montana. Somehow, after hours of travel, boring conferences, and handshakes with people you would forget by the next minute, you ended up in an elegant restaurant after dinner. It was one of those places with dim lighting, white tablecloths, and crystal glasses so thin they looked like they would shatter with just a breath. There were many people there, all of them major businessmen, company owners, men and women in expensive suits with measured smiles. And of course, Jonathan Hitman was there, at the center of it all, surrounded by people who wanted to sell him something or ask for a favor. You had also been invited, like all the conference attendees, but you had the luck to be seated at that table, right next to the man you needed to convince. It was pure chance, or perhaps a sign that things might go well.

But that wasn't the real problem. Oh no, of course not. The real problem had arrived much earlier, and it had nothing to do with interviews or important businessmen. Your problem had arrived yesterday—well, actually a few days ago, when you had your period. And now, to your misfortune, your phase was ovulation. You knew that phase wasn't good for you; it never had been. You were single, you lived alone, you had a huge king-size bed all to yourself, and normally you could take advantage of those days to come home, take off your clothes as soon as you walked in, put on something comfortable, and "relieve stress" without anyone seeing you. But you hadn't been able to do that because of the work trip. You had been in hotels, on planes, in conference rooms, sharing a room with a colleague or sleeping poorly due to the time change. And somehow, you hated that stage of the month with all your soul. You believed that women found men attractive even when they really weren't. You had read piles of articles on evolutionary psychology, like the ovulatory shift hypothesis, which said that during those days, women felt more attracted to men with pronounced masculine traits—strong jaws, broad shoulders, and deep voices. Even men who had previously seemed plain to you, with nothing special, now had marked features, as if someone had passed a beauty filter over them. But to your bad luck, only one woman shared the table with you in that restaurant. The other six were men, pure businessmen in elegant suits and expensive wedding rings, including the big one, the important one, the one you had to convince for the interview. And despite that, despite there being so many men around, your gaze was only on the man beside you. The man who adjusted his glasses from time to time, pushing them up with a finger. The man whose arm brushed against yours when he leaned over to get wine, or when he laughed at some bad joke. The man who smiled and quickly lowered his gaze, as if embarrassed to be seen smiling.

Your gaze was on Clark. And that made things worse.

It was your second year at the Daily Planet. You had been there a while now, long enough to know almost everyone in the newsroom. And in fact, it wasn't the first time something like this had happened with him. Before working at the Planet, you had a clear rule: no getting involved with people from work. It was a rule you had set for yourself after a bad experience at a previous newspaper, where things got complicated and you ended up changing jobs. So when you arrived at the Planet, you decided you would just ignore everyone in that sense, that they would be only colleagues, nothing more. But then a month passed, and one day Clark approached you. He told you that Perry had asked for you both to collaborate on a series of articles about scientific topics. You looked at him, looked at his features, his square jaw, his eyes so clear a blue that they seemed to shine under the fluorescent light of the office, and you swore your own eyes lit up when you saw him. You don't know if it was real or just your imagination, but something happened. You didn't stop thinking about him for days. You smiled for no reason, got distracted staring at the ceiling, remembering how he had said your name. Until your ovulation passed, and then everything went back to normal. You looked at him, and he was just Clark, the kind colleague, the shy guy with glasses. But the assignments kept bringing you together. Perry paired you up often because, according to him, you made a good team. You stayed late at the office, drinking coffee while editing notes. He helped you with the science topics that sometimes got complicated for you, and you helped him with writing interviews, which he wasn't as good at. And then another month came, and another, and Clark owned your thoughts during those days. Only during those days. But it felt so real, so intense, that it seemed like it would last forever.

So that day was the same. It started from the moment you took the flight to Montana. Clark sat next to you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You watched his profile as he read a document—his defined jaw, that little dimple that formed on his cheek when he smiled. Then, when he crossed glances with you, you noticed a slight blush on his cheeks, a rosy color that was barely visible but that you caught instantly. That always happened; you noticed the little things about Clark. No one else saw them, surely, but you did. Now, seated beside you after the conference, in that luxurious restaurant, he brushed his shoulder against yours again, and a shiver ran down your spine. You took your wine glass with a trembling hand, trying to hide it, and saw how he also took his with his large hand, veins visible under the skin, long and careful fingers. He was a man with such an innocent face, with that way of adjusting his glasses and laughing softly, but with a body so... perfect, so broad-shouldered, that you couldn't think only good things about him. Your mind wandered to other places, to other things, to images that made you press your legs together under the table.

He was smiling, laughing, even though you yourself knew the jokes at that table weren't really that funny. They were rich men's jokes—about money, about yacht trips, about things you couldn't care less about. But you had to laugh if you wanted that interview, so you put on a fake smile and nodded along, while inside you could only think about Clark, about his leg so close to yours, about his elbow brushing your arm.

"So you both work for the Daily Planet," said businessman Hitman, looking intently at the two of you. He had a well-trimmed beard and a gold ring on his pinky finger. His gaze was intense, the kind that makes you feel like he's reading your mind.

You inwardly lamented. You had drunk nearly six glasses of wine to control your thoughts about Clark, but it hadn't worked. If anything, the alcohol had only made you hotter, made your skin more sensitive, made every brush from Clark feel like a small explosion. Even so, you made an effort. You looked professional—after all, you worked at the newsroom and they spoke your name with recognition because you had built a career before arriving at the Planet. You had worked at small newspapers, at local magazines, until a year after joining the Planet, you had already made a name for yourself in journalism.

"Yes, of course," you answered with a polite smile, trying to keep your voice from trembling. Beside you, Clark also nodded, adjusting his glasses with that characteristic gesture of his.

"I remember you now," a man on the other side of the table suddenly said. He was a gray-haired gentleman with two days' worth of stubble and a curious look. He stared at you, and you looked back without understanding at first, raising an eyebrow. The man smiled, as if he had found a piece of a puzzle. "You're the woman who interviewed the president of Wayne Industries, Bruce Wayne, two years ago. Right after he announced that multimillion-dollar investment in renewable energy. It was a very long interview; it came out in all the international newspapers."

Jonathan Hitman, who until that moment had been looking at his wine glass with boredom, lifted his head and looked at you with interest. His eyes settled on you in a new way, as if he were only now truly seeing you.

"Wayne Industries?" Hitman asked, leaning forward slightly. "That man never gives interviews. How did you get him to agree?"

You took a sip of wine to buy time, to calm your nerves. You could feel Clark's gaze beside you, also attentive, also curious. You nodded gently, trying to seem modest but confident.

"That was me," you said, and your voice came out firmer than you expected. "I did that interview when I was working in Italy, at a newsroom there. It took me three months to get it, but in the end Bruce Wayne agreed because he was interested in the angle I wanted to take—no scandals, no talk about his personal life, just the technological side and social investment."

"Incredible," said another businessman, a young one in a blue suit. "I read that interview too. It was very well written, very detailed. You asked questions no one else had dared to ask."

"And with very few words, you got him to explain complicated things in a simple way," added a woman at the far end, the only other woman at the table. She smiled at you with respect.

Hitman nodded slowly, as if he were evaluating you. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze was no longer bored but curious. You were achieving something; you could feel it.

Then the woman who had spoken earlier, the only other woman besides you at the table, pointed at Clark with a nod of her head. She wore an elegant black dress and a pearl necklace that reflected the candlelight.

"And you," she said, looking at Clark, "you're the one who interviews Superman, right? The Daily Planet journalist who always gets the exclusive stories about the man of steel. I've seen your byline on several articles."

There was a silence at the table. Hitman looked at both of you, first at you, then at Clark, with an expression that mixed surprise and skepticism. He raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't quite believe it.

"Really?" Hitman asked, and his tone was questioning, as if he were testing your word. "You interview Superman? The one who flies through the skies of Metropolis that no one can pin down for more than five minutes?"

Clark adjusted his glasses with a quick motion, and for a second you thought you saw something strange in his eyes, like an odd glimmer that vanished instantly. He nodded calmly, with that tranquil way he had of doing things.

"Yes, I've been fortunate enough to interview him several times," Clark said, in his soft, measured voice. "He's someone who… trusts me, for some reason. I suppose he likes the way I tell the stories."

You nodded as well, without hesitation. It was true; Clark was the only journalist who could get Superman to speak. No one knew how he did it, but he did it. And that had earned him considerable fame within the newspaper, though he never boasted about it.

Hitman looked at both of you in silence for a moment. The noise of the restaurant continued around you—the clinking of glasses, the laughter from other tables—but in that moment, all of it seemed to disappear. The businessman had his fingers interlaced on the table, and his expression shifted from skepticism to something resembling decision.

"Then you have your interview," he said finally, in a firm voice. "Tomorrow, my assistant will send you the address of my hotel. We need to meet and get this interview done. But I want it to be long, I want it to be detailed—none of those half-page pieces other newspapers run."

He said all of this while looking at both of you, but his gaze lingered on you a couple of seconds longer than on Clark. Especially on you. As if you were the one who had truly convinced him. Maybe it was the Bruce Wayne thing, maybe it was your way of speaking—you didn't know. But you smiled, professionally, nothing more. Without showing the immense relief you felt inside, nor the way your heart was beating fast, nor the heat you still felt in your chest from having Clark so close.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hitman," you said, and your smile was perfect, trained by years of dealing with difficult people. "We won't let you down."

Hitman nodded one last time, stood up, and the other businessmen did the same. They said goodbye with handshakes and polite phrases, and then he left, accompanied by an assistant carrying a black briefcase. The others at the table started talking among themselves, complimenting you because Hitman never granted interviews, telling you it was the first time in years he had agreed to speak with the press. Someone said you must be very talented; another said it was a matter of luck. But you only nodded without really listening. Because Clark had brushed your arm again, this time unintentionally, as he stood up from his chair, and all your attention was on that small point of contact, on that spark you felt on your skin, and you knew the night was not yet over.

Clark rose from his chair with a smooth motion, stretching his legs a bit after so many hours of sitting. He adjusted his glasses with that familiar gesture, running a finger over the bridge of his nose, and then leaned slightly toward you. His mouth drew close to your ear, so close that you felt his warm breath graze your skin, and when he spoke, it was in a whisper, low, only for you, as if what he was about to say were a secret he couldn't share with anyone else at that table full of people.

"I think it's late; we should get some rest, don't you think? We'll get what Perry wants," Clark said, and his voice sounded so near that it sent a shiver down your entire spine, from the nape of your neck to the base of your back.

He was already standing, looking down at you with those blue eyes that seemed to shine even in the restaurant's dim light. You looked up to see him, and his closeness made you blush instantly. You felt the heat rise up your neck, up your cheeks, to the tips of your ears. You nodded, quickly—perhaps too quickly—because you didn't trust your voice at that moment. You knew that if you opened your mouth, what would come out would be a nervous stammer or something worse, something that would betray everything running through your mind.

When Clark turned to retrieve his jacket from the back of his chair, you saw your opportunity. You took advantage of the fact that no one was watching you. The others at the table were too busy talking among themselves, laughing at something a bald businessman had said, exchanging business cards. So you downed the wine glass still in front of you in one gulp, feeling the cool liquid go down your throat. But it wasn't enough. Next to it was another glass, the one you had ordered for a toast at the beginning of dinner and had barely touched. Without thinking twice, you drank that one entirely as well. Bad idea. Very bad idea. The wine hit you all at once, like a hot wave that blurred your vision slightly and made your legs feel a bit weaker than usual.

You stood up from your chair and felt even more nervous. The alcohol hadn't calmed you; it had only made everything more intense: the restaurant lights seemed brighter, the sounds of conversations louder, and Clark's presence—waiting for you a couple of steps away—more overwhelming. You wobbled for just a second as you got to your feet, but long enough for Clark to look at you with a small smile, as if he had noticed your two extra glasses. He didn't say anything; he just waited for you patiently, with that tranquil way he had of being in the world, as if nothing ever rushed him.

You left the restaurant and the Montana night enveloped you. The air was cool, much cooler than inside, and it helped clear your head a little. But only a little. You began walking down the sidewalk toward the hotel, and you saw some people ahead and others behind. All the guests would be going to the same hotel, of course. That hotel was close to where the conference was held and also close to where businessman Hitman was staying. Hitman was staying at a luxury hotel, one of those exclusive places not just anyone could enter, with a private entrance and black cars parked outside. Unlike where you were staying. As you walked, with the sound of footsteps on the pavement and the occasional laughter from the people around you, you remembered the hotel Perry had booked for you. It wasn't the best, that was for sure. It was expensive—yes, because Montana during conference season wasn't cheap—but it had few amenities: small rooms, thin walls, and worst of all, you only had one room with two beds, not two rooms with each person having their own space. At first, it hadn't bothered you. When Perry told you that you would be sharing a room, you were more focused on getting the interview, on impressing Hitman, on doing your job well. You had nodded without giving it much thought, thinking that after all, you were coworkers, two adults, nothing out of this world. But that was before. Before your ovulation became this monster you felt inside you, before every brush from Clark burned your skin, before you couldn't stop looking at his hands, his neck, the way he moved.

Your sensitivity had sharpened so much that you blushed again just thinking about it. You walked beside Clark, a step apart, but that step felt like an eternity. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye; he surely noticed your red face, but he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he smiled that wide, genuine smile that appeared on his face so rarely, the one that brought out that little dimple on his left cheek.

"We did it," Clark said, and his voice sounded proud, happy, as if he truly valued what they had accomplished together at that dinner.

You smiled, nothing more, nodding as you continued walking. The cool air moved your hair, and for a second you managed to think clearly.

"Yes, I think… now we just need to focus on doing it well," you added, and your voice came out a little shaky, but not as much as you expected. You were proud of yourself for having maintained your composure during dinner, for having said the right things, for having gotten Hitman to agree. That was what mattered, that was what you would remember tomorrow. Or so you tried to tell yourself.

Clark nodded, and for the rest of the walk, he talked about unimportant things. The weather, how the cold in Montana felt different than in Metropolis. The conference, some speaker who had said something funny. You listened without really hearing, because your mind was elsewhere. You watched his profile as he walked, the way the streetlights illuminated his face, and you realized he had no idea how you felt. He spoke so calmly, so unaware of the storm inside you, that you felt guilty. Guilty for thinking of him that way, for wishing his arm would brush yours again, for imagining things you shouldn't imagine about a coworker. He was just being kind, just doing his job, and there you were, cheeks burning and heart pounding as if you had run a marathon.

You arrived at the hotel. It wasn't the luxury of where Hitman was staying, but it wasn't bad either. It had a wide entrance with a slightly worn red carpet and a neon sign that flickered softly. You entered and looked around. In the lobby there were several people; most had attended the conference. You recognized them by their suits and the credentials some still wore around their necks. There was a group of older men laughing near a small fountain, and a woman in a shiny dress talking on the phone in a corner. The noise of conversations bounced off the faux marble walls, creating a soft echo.

You entered with Clark, and he walked toward the elevators. He pressed the button with one long finger, and they waited in silence. The lobby hallway felt warm after the cold outside, and the heat made the wine feel stronger in your head. When the elevator door opened with a chime, you stepped inside with him, and more people started getting in behind you. There were many, too many for the size of the cab. Hurried people, tired people, people who just wanted to get to their rooms and sleep. They piled in, crowding together, and you felt the space grow smaller by the second.

Then Clark acted. Without saying a word, without making any fuss, he took your waist with one hand. But it wasn't just any touch. His fingers settled on your hip with a gentle firmness, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he positioned you in front of him, carefully turning you so that the people still entering wouldn't hurt you. You ended up facing his chest. So close that you could see the fabric of his shirt—a dark blue that fit him perfectly—and beneath the fabric you could guess the shape of his muscles. Your heart beat so hard, so fast, that you couldn't even hear the sounds of the elevator. Everything was a dull throb in your ears.

His perfume flooded your nostrils. It wasn't a strong scent, the kind you could smell from yards away. It was something softer—like real soap, clean, fresh. But mixed with something that could only be him, something that made you close your eyes for a second to breathe deeper. It got worse when he tilted his head down, close to your ear again, and whispered:

"Carefully."

Two words. Just two. But your senses got lost there. In his low voice, in his warm breath, in the way his hand still rested on your waist as if it were the most natural place in the world. You kept your eyes open by sheer force of will, but you saw nothing other than his chest, the rhythm of his breathing, the way it rose and fell gently. You were supposed to be thinking about the interview, about Hitman, about Perry, about everything you had accomplished. But you couldn't. The only thing that existed was Clark, his hand on your hip, the heat seeping through the fabric of your dress.

You were on the eighth floor of the hotel. The elevator climbed slowly, stopping at each floor to let someone off. At every stop, the little jolt of the elevator made Clark squeeze your waist a bit tighter, as if to steady you, to keep you from moving. And you wished that ride would last forever, while at the same time wanting to run away so your heart would stop beating so wildly.

When the elevator reached the fourth floor, where several people were getting off, there was a sudden jolt. Nothing dangerous, nothing serious—just that little jerk that old elevators sometimes make when braking. But that movement made Clark squeeze your waist harder, pulling you a little closer against him. You closed your eyes. You closed them tightly, biting your lower lip to keep from making any noise, to keep from gasping, to keep from betraying what was happening inside you. The heat of his body enveloped yours, and you felt every inch where he touched you as if it were a brand of fire.

Then the woman standing next to you—an older woman in a fur coat with dyed blonde hair—started moving to get out. She was getting off on that same floor, seeming to be in a hurry. She pushed her way through the crowd without much courtesy, and to get out quickly, she bumped Clark with her shoulder. Clark, who was holding you, shifted slightly from the shove, and in that movement, his hand slipped down. It wasn't intentional. You knew that. It was the woman's push, the jostling, the lack of space. But his hand slid from your waist downward, grazing your backside for barely a second. One second. That was all. But that second felt like an hour.

You opened your eyes and felt them fill with tears. Not from sadness, but from everything. From the shame, the guilt, the longing, the wine in your head, the exhaustion—everything you had been holding in for hours. Your eyes were glassy, bright, and you felt a lump in your throat. You gasped involuntarily, a small sound that escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Quickly, very quickly, you pretended to cough. You brought a fist to your mouth and coughed twice, hard, to cover the gasp, so that no one would notice, so that Clark would think it was just a tickle in your throat.

Clark didn't say anything at first. His hand returned to your waist, but this time with less firmness, as if he weren't sure whether he should keep touching you. His fingers trembled slightly—or maybe that was your imagination. Then he lowered his head to your ear again, and his voice came out in a whisper so low you could barely hear it over the noise of the elevator.

"Sorry," he whispered, and his voice sounded strange. It wasn't the calm Clark of always. There was something in his tone, something tense, something restrained. As if he, too, were feeling things he didn't know how to name.

The elevator kept climbing. On the fifth floor, two men got off. On the sixth, no one. On the seventh, a young couple pecking each other on the cheek. And you were still there, pressed against Clark, with his hand on your waist, with his apology floating in the air between you.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime on the eighth floor. The metallic sound traveled down the empty hallway as the white ceiling lights flickered faintly, as if the hotel were also tired at this hour of the night. You stepped out first, with quick but slightly unsteady steps, because the wine was still doing its work in your system. You walked down the carpeted hallway, feeling the soft texture under your shoes, and reached the room you had been assigned. You inserted the key—that plastic card that sometimes failed—and had to try twice until the little light turned green and you heard the click of the lock.

You walked in and brought your hands to your head for a second, just to organize your thoughts, just to remember that you had to breathe. You left your things on the bed—your bag fell onto the white bedspread with a dull thud—and you wobbled slightly as you released the weight. But you were perfectly sober, you knew that well. The wine hadn't clouded your judgment, not entirely. What was happening was that your senses were running at a thousand miles an hour, as if someone had turned up the volume on everything you felt. Every noise, every light, every brush of your clothes against your skin felt amplified, more real than it should have been. You sighed deeply, bringing a hand to your chest, and out of the corner of your eye, you looked at Clark.

He was behind you, closing the door carefully so it wouldn't make noise. He was taking off his jacket—that dark blue suit that fit him so well—and hung it on the coat rack by the entrance. His shoulders looked so broad without the jacket on, and the long-sleeved shirt he wore underneath clung to his arms in a way that made you have to look away. You couldn't look. You couldn't. You approached the mirror that was above the room's desk—a large mirror with a dark wooden frame—and looked at your face. Nothing out of place. Your cheeks were flushed, yes, but that could be the wine or the heat of dinner. Your hair was a little messy, but nothing serious. You bit your lip, something you did when you were nervous, and told yourself that you had to get control of yourself. That you were a professional. That the next day you had a very important interview with Hitman. That you couldn't let a simple phase of the month ruin everything you had built.

You turned to say something to him, to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between you, and then you saw him. Clark was standing a few steps away, staring at you. But it wasn't just any look. His cheeks were red, very red, as if he too had drunk too much wine, even though you knew he had only had two glasses. His blue eyes shone behind his glasses, and his hands were still at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them. You didn't understand why he was looking at you like that, with such intensity, as if he were studying every one of your movements, every little gesture you made.

You smiled, trying to show him that everything was fine. That nothing was wrong. That the thing in the elevator had been an accident and was already forgotten. A wide smile, the best you could muster at that moment, even though inside you felt like the butterflies in your stomach were about to fly right out of your mouth.

"I'll put on my pajamas," you said, pointing toward the bathroom with your finger. The finger was trembling. You saw it tremble, and you hoped Clark hadn't noticed, but of course he noticed. He noticed everything. He always noticed everything.

You took a step toward the bathroom, intending to lock yourself in there for a few minutes, breathe deeply, splash water on your face, remember who you were and what you were doing there. But you didn't get far. Clark reached out his arm and gently took your arm. He didn't hold you tightly, it wasn't a rough grip, it was just a touch, but that touch stopped you cold. His fingers encircled your wrist, and you could feel the warmth of his skin even through the fabric of your blouse. You looked at him without understanding, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you drunk?" Clark asked. His voice sounded strange, deeper than usual, as if the words had difficulty coming out. His eyes didn't leave yours.

You looked at him without understanding at first. The question seemed odd, out of place. You had drunk, yes, but you weren't drunk. You were perfectly aware of everything: the beating of your heart, the way his hand was still on your arm, the silence that had become so heavy you could almost touch it.

"What?" you asked, and your voice came out higher than usual, like a squeak.

Clark took a deep breath, as if he were preparing to say something important. His chest inflated and deflated slowly, and when he spoke again, he did so carefully, measuring every word.

"I need to know if you're drunk," he said again. His tone was strange, tense, and you looked at him more closely. Then you saw him blush. Not just his cheeks—his ears too, even a little of his neck. He smiled, but it was a nervous, trembling smile, nothing like the calm smile he usually had. "No… don't misunderstand. I want to make sure that… I don't… confuse things," he said, as if it cost him effort, as if he were building the sentence brick by brick in his head before releasing it.

"Confuse the…? I'm not drunk," you answered, and you looked at him with wide eyes. You could feel your pulse in your wrist, where he was still touching you, and you knew he could feel it too. It was impossible that he couldn't.

Clark nodded, but he didn't let go of your arm. Instead, his thumb traced a small circle on your skin, almost unintentionally, as if it were an automatic gesture. Then he lowered his gaze for a moment, as if gathering courage, and when he looked up again, his eyes had a different gleam.

"No… I'm sorry about what happened in the elevator… don't think that… I… the woman bumped me and my hand slipped," Clark assured you, and his voice sounded hurried, as if he were afraid you might think badly of him. He brought his free hand to the back of his neck, a gesture he made when he was nervous, and ran his fingers through his hair.

You shook your head. A quick, almost abrupt motion.

"I know, Clark. You don't have to… even if it had been… I… that's the least of it," you said, and you felt the words tripping over each other, all wanting to come out at once. You swallowed and continued, without thinking, because if you thought too much you would regret it. "What you did, I mean, I'm worse because I've been thinking about other versions of you."

The silence that followed was so deep that you could hear the hum of the minibar under the desk. You realized in the very second the words left your mouth that you shouldn't have mentioned that. Your eyes opened wide as saucers, and you felt the blood rush to your face all at once, from your chest to the roots of your hair.

"Maybe I am a little drunk," you corrected quickly, raising your free hand as if you were defending yourself from something, "but I'm of sound mind, and I know you're a good person, and… don't make me talk… God, I'm talking too much," you said, and your voice sounded nervous, almost on the verge of hysterical laughter.

Clark didn't smile. On the contrary, his expression became more serious, more intense. He took a step toward you, and without realizing it, you took one step back. He didn't let go of your arm, and his other hand also lifted, as if he wanted to hold you but didn't dare.

"What are you talking about?" Clark asked, and his voice was now a deep whisper. He interrogated you with his gaze, with those blue eyes that seemed to look inside you, that seemed to want to pull the truth out of you by force but with tenderness. "What other versions… of me? What have you been thinking?"

You stepped back again, and another step, as he advanced slowly, as if he were following a trail. You didn't realize where you were going because you were too focused on his eyes, on his mouth, on the way he moved toward you. Your back hit something cold and hard. The wall. You had backed up to the far wall of the room, right next to the bed that had been assigned to you. You were trapped between the beige wallpaper and Clark's body, which was now so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.

You looked at him. You couldn't help looking at his lips, parted, moist, so close that if you tilted your head a little you could…

No.

You couldn't.

You shouldn't.

"I… it's work… it's work," you repeated, as if it were a mantra, as if you didn't want to forget it. The words came out on their own, mechanical, while your mind filled with images you shouldn't have. Your voice trembled. "It's work and…"

You didn't finish the sentence. You couldn't. Because Clark did something you had never seen him do. He brought his hands to his face, slowly, as if he were making an important decision, and took off his glasses. He folded them carefully, with those long, firm fingers, and set them on the nightstand a step away. Without his glasses, his eyes looked bigger, brighter, and his face seemed more open, more vulnerable. He looked at you intently, without filters, without the little glass shield he always wore. And in that gaze, there was something that chilled your blood and boiled it at the same time.

You didn't think. You couldn't think. Your body moved before your head. You clasped your trembling hands together and took hold of the fabric of his shirt. You grabbed it tightly, making a fist against his chest, and pulled him toward you. There was no time to hesitate, to ask, for anything. Your lips found his, and you kissed him.

It was a messy, clumsy kiss, full of an urgency you didn't know you had. Your teeth clashed with his at first, because neither of you had calculated the angle well, but quickly you found a rhythm. His lips were soft, softer than you had imagined, and they tasted slightly of wine and something else, something that could only be him. You slipped your tongue in without thinking, and he responded immediately, as if he had been waiting for that signal all night. The kiss became wet, hot, full of little gasps that escaped your throat without you being able to control them. His hands found your waist again, but this time it wasn't an accidental brush. He held you firmly, pressing you against the wall, and you felt his entire body against yours: his firm chest, his legs against yours, the way his heart beat as fast as yours.

Suddenly, Clark separated his lips from yours. The cold air of the room hit your wet mouth and made you shiver. He was agitated, breathing heavily, and his eyes were half-closed, lost, as if he had just woken from a dream. His cheeks were burning, and his lips were red, shiny.

"I think you're drunk," Clark said, his voice broken, barely a thread of sound. It didn't sound like an accusation; it sounded like a desperate attempt to find an excuse, to put on the brakes, to remind himself that he couldn't do what he so badly wanted to do.

You didn't let go of him. Your hands were still clutching his shirt, and you could feel the fabric wrinkling under your fingers. You kissed him again, shorter this time, just a quick brush, but with the same intensity. When you separated your lips, you spoke quickly, before fear could get the better of you, before you could regret it.

"Clark, it was because of you," you said, and your voice was a hoarse whisper, different from how you had sounded before. Your eyes filled with an honesty that hurt. "I haven't stopped thinking about you since we arrived, and I decided to drink, but the alcohol just messed me up and…"

You were trembling. Your whole body was trembling. You couldn't finish the sentence because you didn't know how to explain what you were feeling—that mix of shame and desire, of wanting to run and wanting to stay glued to him forever. You looked at him, and there was a strand of saliva between you, a little shiny bridge that broke when he moved his face slightly further away. It was intimate, too intimate, and you felt like you were dying of embarrassment, but you also felt like there was nowhere else in the world you wanted to be.

Clark looked at you. He truly looked at you, with those blue eyes that were now dark, dilated, full of something you had never seen in him. Something that was not the kind coworker, the shy boy, the serious journalist. It was something else. It was hunger. It was desire held back for too long. Without saying a word, he brought his face close to yours again, but this time slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You didn't pull away. His lips brushed yours once, softly, like a question. You answered by pressing against him, and then the kiss changed.

It wasn't messy this time. It was deep, confident, full of something you had both been keeping inside. His hands traveled up your back; one tangled in your hair, and the other settled on your hip, squeezing. The kiss proved that his desire was mutual, that it wasn't just in your head, that all those times you had thought that maybe he felt something too, it wasn't your imagination. Clark kissed you as if he had been waiting for you, as if he had wanted to do it for months, since that first time Perry had put you both together on a project. His tongue found yours, and the kiss grew deeper, wetter, and you let out a low moan that was lost between his lips. It was real. It was all real.

Clark kissed your neck. It wasn't a shy or quick kiss; it was something slow, deep, as if he wanted to savor every little piece of your skin. His lips settled right where your neck meets your shoulder—that sensitive area you didn't even know you liked so much—and he sucked gently. Your body reacted before your mind could process it: a shiver ran from the nape of your neck to the tips of your toes, and your hands rose on their own, searching for something to hold onto. They found his hair. Your fingers tangled in his dark curls—those curls you had so often glanced at sideways in the office, wondering how they would feel to the touch. They were soft, much softer than you had imagined, and they had a texture that made you want to squeeze them, mess them up, lose yourself in them.

You enjoyed everything. Every caress, every brush, the way his mouth moved across your neck, leaving a wet, hot trail. You gasped near his ear, unable to contain yourself, and felt him tremble at the sound. Your breath hit his skin, and every little moan that escaped your mouth made Clark hold you tighter, as if he were afraid you would disappear.

Clark wasn't just in love with you. You knew that somehow; you felt it in the way he looked at you, in how his hands trembled when he touched you. But there was something else—something he knew and you didn't. Clark could smell your ovulation. He had done so from the first moment you met at the airport, before taking the flight to Montana. His sense of smell was a thousand times better than a human's, thanks to his Kryptonian origin—something you had no idea about.

Ever since you arrived at the Daily Planet, he had noticed that there were certain days when you looked prettier. Your hair looked neater, shinier, as if it had its own light. Your eyes sparkled differently, and there was something about your skin, your scent, that drew him like a magnet. He couldn't explain it, but he knew it. Your body spoke a language that only he could hear, and that language told him you were in your fertile days, that something inside you was calling to his most primal instinct.

It must have been his Kryptonian gene, the one that made him different from all humans, the one that sharpened his senses to impossible levels. You had cast a spell on him just by standing there in front of him, with your suitcase in one hand and your ticket in the other, smiling nervously because the flight had been delayed. That night, when he saw you in that red dress—that dark wine red that clung to your skin as if it had been made for you—he couldn't help but see you as so beautiful. His eyes involuntarily dropped to the curve of your breasts, to the way the fabric marked every one of your movements, and he felt guilty. He felt bad for looking at you like that, for thinking of you that way when you were only coworkers. But now, with his hand beneath your breasts as he sighed, with you so close he could feel every beat of your heart, he didn't care about anything. Nothing he had thought before, none of the rules, none of the warnings he had given himself.

"Oh, Clark," you said, and your voice was a hoarse whisper, full of a need you barely recognized. "How much I've needed you."

The words came out on their own, unfiltered, without thinking. You didn't care how they sounded, didn't care if it was too soon or if you should hold something back. Because in that moment, with his arms around you and his mouth on your skin, everything you hadn't said for months collapsed like a house of cards. You had needed him. On every one of those ovulation days when you couldn't stop thinking about him, on every night when you were alone in your king-size bed imagining what it would feel like to have him beside you. You had needed him and hadn't known how to tell him.

Clark pulled his mouth away from your neck just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, bright, and his cheeks were still red. He brought one hand to your back, sliding his fingers until he found the zipper of your dress. The little metal clasp—the one you had pulled up so carefully before dinner—now gave way under his fingers. He pulled back a little more to look at you, to ask you without words if what he was about to do was okay. You nodded. You didn't hesitate for a second. There was nothing in the world you wanted more than that.

You felt the zipper go down your back. The metallic sound was small, but in the silence of the room it sounded enormous. His fingers traced your spine as the zipper opened, and you felt each one of his knuckles brush your skin. The dress began to loosen, to lose its shape, and then Clark ran his hands over your shoulders, sliding the fabric down with a slowness that drove you crazy. The curve of your back was exposed first, feeling the cool air of the room on your hot skin. Then the dress fell, sliding over your shoulders, and your breasts were revealed. The red fabric bunched at your waist, and you stood there, in front of him, torso bare and heart beating so hard that surely he could hear it.

Clark nearly lost his breath. His eyes traveled over your body as if it were the first time he had ever seen a woman, as if he had never seen anything so perfect. His mouth opened slightly, and he had to swallow before he could do anything. The dress fell completely, forming a red circle at your feet, and Clark kissed you again, but this time it was different. He kissed you while lifting you, picking you up off the floor as if you weighed nothing, as if you were made of feathers. You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, as if your body knew exactly what to do. And then you felt it. The bulge in his pants, pressed against your intimate area, so close you could feel his warmth even through the fabric. You moaned at the feeling—a low moan lost in the kiss—and squeezed him tighter with your legs, pulling him even closer, seeking more contact, more pressure.

Clark walked toward the bed without letting you go, without stopping kissing you. You felt his chest against yours, the warm skin of his arms around you, and when he felt the edge of the mattress against his legs, he let you fall gently onto the bed. The white bedspread wrinkled beneath your back, and Clark stood in front of you for only a second—long enough to bring his hands to the collar of his shirt and undo the buttons. He did it quickly, almost desperately, and when the fabric fell away to reveal his chest, you lost your breath. It wasn't just that he had muscles; it was the way they were shaped, the perfection of every line, every curve.

He leaned over you, and his mouth found yours again, but only for a moment. Then he began to move lower, kissing your chin, your jaw, the base of your neck. He kept going down until he reached your breasts, and when his mouth enveloped one of them, you closed your eyes tightly. His tongue made slow circles around your nipple, and his lips sucked gently, sending waves of pleasure from your chest to the rest of your body. While his mouth worked on your breast, you felt his fingers. They traveled down your stomach, brushed the waistband of your underwear, and then kept going down until they found your entrance. You were so wet that you felt your vaginal lips parting easily, welcoming his fingers. He didn't insert one, didn't insert two. He ran three fingers over your entrance, brushing it, playing with it, feeling how wet you were without actually entering. The mere brush of his fingers against your sensitive skin made you arch your back, spread your legs a little more, seek more. You gasped. A hoarse gasp that filled the room.

Then Clark inserted his fingers. One first, slowly, feeling how he opened you up. You were so wet that he entered without resistance, and you felt every centimeter of his finger inside you. Then a second, and the stretch was delicious, exactly what you needed. He moved them slowly at first, preparing you, getting you used to the sensation. His mouth was still on your breast, sucking, gently biting, and his fingers moved inside you in small circles, searching for that spot that would make you tremble. He found it quickly. When his fingers touched that place, your entire body tensed, and a long, sharp moan escaped your mouth.

He kept moving, faster now, in and out, and you felt your whole body tighten like a string about to snap. The pressure grew and grew, and you couldn't think, you could only feel.

"So wet for me," you heard him whisper.

His fingers inside you, his mouth returning to your breast, his other hand on your hip holding you tight. Then it came. Your climax exploded like a giant wave that swept you away, shaking you entirely. You gasped so much you ran out of air, your back arched off the bed, and your legs trembled around Clark's waist. You lost track of time, of space, of everything. There was only that immense pleasure that traveled from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head, making you vibrate from within.

Clark left your breast, pulled his fingers slowly out of you, and you watched as he looked at them, shiny with your juices. Your body was still trembling, shaken by small contractions, lost in ecstasy, when you saw his mouth go lower. You didn't think he would do that. But Clark went lower, and lower, until his face was between your legs. His mouth went straight to your entrance, and the sensation of his hot, wet tongue touching that sensitive area made you moan so loudly that you had to put your trembling hand over your mouth. You bit the palm of your hand to keep from screaming, because the walls of that hotel were very thin, very simple, and the last thing you wanted was for someone to come interrupt you. Not now. Please, not now.

His tongue licked from your entrance to your center, slowly, as if he were tasting something delicious. He closed his eyes as he did it, as if he wanted to concentrate on the flavor, on the sensation, on you.

"You taste so good, better than I imagined," Clark said.

You put your free hand in his hair, tangling your fingers in his curls again, and squeezed when his tongue entered. He sucked your juices, drank from you as if he were thirsty, and he didn't stop. You were still trembling from the previous climax, but you felt another one approaching. Another one. Your hips trembled uncontrollably, moving on their own against his mouth, seeking more.

His tongue made circles, sometimes entering, sometimes licking, and his lips sucked that small part that made you see stars. You trembled when his tongue entered again, deeper, sucking everything you could give him, and the second climax came faster than you expected. Your thighs closed around his head involuntarily, and you felt your body shake again—another wave of pleasure that left you breathless, thoughtless, with nothing but his name on your lips.

"Clark," you said against your hand, just a whisper, but he heard you. He always heard you. And he kept sucking, kept licking, until you felt the third one approaching, and you couldn't take any more, but you also didn't want him to stop.

You didn't realize when Clark took off his pants and his underwear. You were too lost in the pleasure, in the way his tongue kept moving between your legs, in how your hips trembled on their own against his mouth. The third climax came like a wave that completely swept you away, shaking your entire body, making you squeeze your thighs around his head while you bit your hand to keep from screaming. Your eyes squeezed shut and stars exploded behind your eyelids. When you managed to open them again, Clark was above you, and you didn't remember seeing him move.

But you felt him. You felt him very clearly.

His member was hard, brushing your entrance. The tip was red, shiny, dripping, needy. Every time he moved slightly, the head of his penis brushed your vaginal lips and made you shudder. He was so hot, so close, that you could feel every beat of his blood against your skin. Clark gasped, and that gasp mixed with yours as he leaned in to kiss you. His lips found yours in a deep, messy kiss, and you moaned as you felt his member move again, brushing your entrance, teasing you, making you want more. But you kept kissing him, your tongue intertwined with his, tasting the trace of you that still lingered on his lips.

You reached your hand down without thinking, without hesitating. You slid it between his body and yours, and your fingers found his member. It was thick, thicker than you had imagined. Hot, hard, and so wet at the tip that your hand slipped easily. Clark felt your hand around him and moaned against your lips. It was a low, hoarse moan that you felt vibrate from his chest to your mouth. His hands, which were braced on the sheet on either side of your head to keep his body from falling completely onto you, gripped the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. He was holding back; you could feel it. He was making an enormous effort not to let go completely, not to crush you against the mattress and take what he wanted.

But you didn't want him to hold back.

You moved your hand up and down slowly, feeling every centimeter of him, the texture of his skin, the veins that stood out under your fingers. You caressed him slowly, enjoying how he trembled every time you reached the tip, the little sounds that came from his throat. Then you brought his member to your entrance. You didn't insert it; you just played with it. You ran the hot red tip between your vaginal lips, up and down, feeling how it got wet with your juices, how it slipped easily. You had it right there, at the door, and every time it brushed your clitoris, you trembled all over. You were the desperate one. You were the one who couldn't wait a second longer.

You positioned his member at your entrance. The head barely pressed, and you already felt your body welcoming it, your muscles opening to receive him. Clark looked at you. His eyes were dark, bright, and in them was something you had never seen before. Fear, perhaps. Or concern. Or both.

"I don't have a condom," he said in a whisper. His voice trembled, and it wasn't from cold.

You looked at him. You didn't hesitate. There were no doubts in your body, no doubts in your mind. You had waited for this moment without knowing it; you had desired it for so long, and now that you had it there, brushing against you, hot, needy, you weren't going to let a piece of plastic get in the way. Not tonight. Not with him.

"Fuck me, Clark," you begged, and your voice sounded so needy you barely recognized yourself. You brushed his member against your entrance again, soaking it even more, feeling the tip sink in barely a centimeter. "Fill me tonight, please. I need it. I've needed you so much."

You guided him. You took his member in your hand and directed it toward your entrance, squeezing gently to let him in. The head pressed, and your body opened for him. When he entered you, both of you gasped at the same time. You felt him fill you, how every centimeter entered slowly, opening you, getting used to you. He felt how you squeezed him, how your walls enveloped him, hot and wet. And in that moment, Clark kissed you. His lips found yours in a deep, slow kiss, as if time had stopped. Both of you kissed while he sank completely into you, while you felt him reach the deepest part, unable to go further. You ran out of air, but you didn't want to separate your mouth from his.

He began to move. At first it was slow, unhurried, giving you time to adjust to his size, to get used to how he filled you. Each thrust was gentle, measured, as if he feared breaking you. But you didn't want gentle. You didn't want slow. You wanted everything. You wanted to feel sore the next day, you wanted bruises on your hips from how tightly he had held you.

"That's it, you can take it," Clark said in your ear, and his voice was a deep whisper that ran through your entire body. His hot breath hit your skin, and every word he said made you squeeze him tighter.

"Oh, Clark," you moaned, and your hands went up to his back, scratching him gently, feeling the muscles moving under his skin. "Give me everything. I've wanted it so much. So much."

Then he started. It wasn't slow, it wasn't gentle. Clark began to thrust harder, faster, deeper. Each slap of his hips against yours made the bed creak, the headboard hit the wall, your body move upward with each thrust. He took your jaw with one hand, squeezing gently so you would look at him, and kissed you again. It was a messy kiss, full of teeth and tongue, while he kept moving inside you. Then he lowered his face to your neck and kissed you there, right where you had dreamed of him kissing you, and the pleasure was so much that you didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

One of your legs was stretched out to the side, foot planted on the bed, and the other leg Clark had. His hand circled your thigh, squeezing, lifting it a little higher so he could bury himself deeper, reach that spot that made you see stars. The scene was exquisite. You looked up at him from below, his body covering yours, his face buried in your neck, his hips moving in a rhythm that drove you crazy. You moaned so much you went hoarse, each moan mixing with the sound of bodies colliding, with the wetness trickling down your thighs, with the smell of sweat and sex that filled the room.

You had an orgasm in the middle of that fierce onslaught. It came without warning, like a lightning bolt that split you in two. Your walls tightened around him, your legs trembled, and a muffled cry escaped your mouth before you could cover it. Clark felt you squeeze him, felt you come around him, and he slowed down. His thrusts became slower, gentler, just to let you tremble, to let you enjoy every second of your orgasm without it being too much. His lips kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, while your body shook in small spasms.

When you were ready, when the tremors calmed and you were breathing normally again, Clark began to move again. He started over, first slow and then faster and faster. His hips slapped against yours in a rhythm that hypnotized you. He hid his face in your breasts or your neck—you weren't sure—you only felt his hot breath against your skin, his muffled moans vibrating in your chest. You felt him tense. His body went rigid on top of yours, his muscles hardened, and his thrusts became shorter, faster, more desperate. He moaned your name. It wasn't a normal moan; it was deeper, hoarser, as if he were using the last drop of air left in his lungs. That sound, that way of saying your name, made you feel another orgasm. The fourth, the fifth—you had lost count. But you felt it approaching, growing from the deepest part of your belly.

Then it happened. Clark held you so tightly you could barely breathe. His arms wrapped around you and pressed you against him as if he wanted you to be one person. He sped up so much that his movements became blurry, fast, chaotic. And at the last moment, when you felt you couldn't take any more, that the orgasm was about to explode, Clark buried himself in you to the deepest point. He stayed there, pressed against you, not moving, and you felt him fill inside you. Warm, liquid, abundant. His body trembled on top of yours, and that tremor triggered yours. You shared the orgasm. You came around him while he came inside you, and it was so intense, so perfect, that for a second the entire world disappeared. Only the two of you existed—your bodies pressed together, your ragged breathing, and the sensation of having arrived somewhere neither of you had ever been before.

The orgasm slowly dissolved, like a wave that reaches the shore and recedes, leaving only a deep calm. Your body was still trembling with small spasms—those you can't control—and you felt everything: Clark's heat on top of you, the weight of his body pressing you gently against the mattress, the way his ragged breath hit your neck. Little by little, his chest rose and fell more slowly, and his arms, which had held you so tightly before, gradually relaxed.

Clark didn't move. He didn't want to separate from you. Instead, he held you as if you really were a couple, as if you had been sleeping together for years and not just hours earlier being coworkers who exchanged awkward glances in the office. He buried his head in your neck, right in that hollow where your shoulder meets your neck, and stayed there. His nose brushed your skin, and you felt his warm, calm breath. He didn't say anything. There was no need. His arms wrapped around you completely; one of his arms went under your neck like an improvised pillow, while the other hand rested on your hip, caressing you with slow, gentle thumb strokes.

You were tired. Very tired. Your legs were still trembling a little, and you felt the muscles in your belly slightly sore from all the squeezing, from moving in rhythm with him. But it was a good pain—the kind that reminds you that you've done something you've wanted to do for a long time. You closed your eyes and curled up against Clark, feeling his arms around you, feeling his warmth envelop you like a blanket. Your head rested against his chest, and you could hear the beats of his heart—slow and strong, like a drum lulling you.

Your mind began to wander, as it does when you are about to fall asleep. You thought about the work trip, about the interview with Hitman the next day, about everything you had accomplished that night. And you thought about what had just happened. Maybe it wasn't so bad, you told yourself. Maybe that was also part of the trip—a way to relieve stress amid all the pressure. Perry always said you had to relax to perform better, and you had certainly relaxed. A small smile formed on your lips as you thought that. It wasn't an excuse, not really, but in that moment, with the heaviness of sleep on your eyelids, it seemed like a reasonable way to look at things. It wasn't love, it wasn't anything complicated. Just two people who needed each other at a given moment, who found each other and gave each other what the other was asking for without words. That was all. Or that's what you tried to believe so you wouldn't be scared by how intense everything had been.

Clark kissed your shoulder. It was a soft kiss, barely a brush of lips on your skin, and then another, and another, on the same spot. His kisses were slow, lazy, as if he were savoring the moment without hurry. After a few seconds, his mouth went still on your skin, and you felt his breathing become deeper, more regular. He had fallen asleep. He had fallen asleep on top of you, with his head buried in your neck and his arms around you as if he never wanted to let you go.

You didn't move. You didn't want to wake him. Besides, you were too comfortable to think about moving. The heat of his body kept you warm, and the darkness of the room enveloped you like a caress. Exhaustion won, and as you listened to his calm breathing, you felt your own eyes closing on their own. You no longer thought about anything. Not about the interview, not about Perry, not about Hitman. Only about the weight of Clark on your body, his arms around you, the scent of his skin, the softness of his breathing. And so, little by little, you let yourself be carried off to sleep, curled up against him, feeling safer than you had felt in a long time.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko @ilocuras24

[kissmyglxck]

‘Im Gonna Kill Jimmy’ - Clark Kent

— In which, jimmys potty mouth about his first time overstimulating his recent fling intrigues Clark & gets you in trouble.

Wc: 3.52k

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI) , cunnilingus, overstimulation, clark lowkey a freak, squirting!, first time for everything, p in v, slight dacryphilia (crying k!nk), use of nicknames, & smut.

৻ꪆ I was ovulating so bad while writing this bye. (Listening to my freak playlist didn’t help neither).

Clark had been distracted all day at the daily planet. But it wasn’t his fault, it was jimmys.

It wasn’t like jimmy meant to corrupt the man’s slightly innocent and sweet mind, but you know what they say; curiosity kills the cat.

It all started once jimmy began rambling on about his ‘smoking hot’ date he had last night. And clark being the good friend he was, he always chose to listen to what any of his friends had to tell him, even if they were crazy.

As jimmy rambled on, a sentence suddenly struck Clark. “She couldn’t stop shaking even after she came,” referring to the fun they had after leaving this really grotesque bar. Clark was more than intrigued now, his eyebrows quirking as he continued to type against his keyboard.

His tone was questionable—almost disturbed. “Go on..” eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

Jimmy could tell Clark was getting a little weirded out, but it was guy talk. Surely Clark had been through one of these conversations before—right?

“And so after she came, she asked for more, which I had never done by the way, and I just did,” he shrugged, finishing his sorting with the papers in his hands. “I just kept going.”

Clark stopped mid typing and turned his head toward him. “You what..?” He spun his chair to fully face him, Jimmy just nodded as if this was a normal thing. “Mhm, yeah. What, you never kept going after you and your girlfriend finished? Or while she finished?” Jimmys brows scrunching.

“No..?” Clark shook his head slowly as if it was an obvious thing. Jimmy just halted turning toward him slowly. “So you and— like never?” He was in utter disbelief as if was a common everyday thing. “Dude no, I just said no.” Clark explained before turning back toward his desk.

“You gotta try it with her Clark!” Jimmys eyes lighting up at the thought of his friend doing something intimate as if it was Clark’s first time. Clark’s eyes widen, turning toward him. “What—!? No, no, I will not ask my girlfriend if I can..if I can..”

“Overstimulate her.” Jimmy finishes.

“Thank you,” Clark huffs. “Overstimulate her. That’s embarrassing. Especially if that’s not her kinda thing.” - “but you don’t know thats not.” Jimmy shrugged.

“Jimmy, im not asking her that.” Clark’s voice was stern as he glared back at him. “Okay,” jimmy threw his arms up turning back toward his desk. “Jimmy.” Clark tilted his head.

“I didn’t say anything!”

Clark just turned back into his desk, cheeks and ears finally flushing freely. That was a crazy thing to even consider, but it did pique his interest. What would he even say if he were to ask you? ‘hey sweetheart, yeah, heard this crazy story from Jimmy today and I wanted to ask if you’d let me overstimulate you?’ God he was gonna choke slam Jimmy if he ever had a reason to.

That was forbidden to even do to women back on krypton, women were only allowed to do that to their husbands. Well— when it still existed..

He shook his head, just typing bullshit into a blank document while trying to clear his head of the suggestion. He did wonder though—what would you look like in that moment?

༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚

By the time he made it home, the thought was still clouding his mind, even as he shut his eyes, he kept making visual representations. What the hell was he thinking?

He didn’t even know if you’d enjoy something like that. Would you judge him for it or would you secretly or love the feeling proudly?

When he walked through the door it smelled of vanilla and there you were, sitting on the couch in this worn out Batman shirt clark bought a while ago, leg crossed over the other as you read, palm squished against your cheek, and toes wiggling in your socks.

His chest instantly filled with warmth upon seeing you. His favorite girl.

“Hi baby,” you greet, not even looking up from the book since you knew it was him. You always knew it was him when he came home by the sound of his oxfords or hero boots.

Clark fully stepped inside removing his jacket, eyes already full of hunger although he tried (horribly) to mask it. “Hey sweetheart,” He began heading toward the room, but not without placing a kiss on your head as he passed the couch.

He could feel the hard on growing in his pants.

Gosh clark, get it together.

As he emerged from the room, blouse unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, he couldn’t help but look at you. God, what would you even look like in that predicament? He’d bet you look so pretty all fucked out and swol—

“You’re staring again.” You look up from your phone with no intent look, just acknowledging it, knocking him out of his thoughts.

“Can’t help it,” he answers simply, voice low and much rougher than he intended for it to be.

He sat beside you, hand trailing over one of your legs as he pulled one over his lap with ease, leaving you straddling his lap. His big and calloused hands sliding underneath your (his) shirt to rub circles on your thighs.

Your phone was off and thrown onto the far end of the couch at this point.

He just looked at you, eyes filled with admiration and fondness as he leaned in closer. You smile, a smile that quickly turned into a soft sigh as your lips found his, humming into his mouth as the kiss deepened fast. His tongue teased, running over yours more often, hands palming your ass through the thin fabric of your panties as he bit down on your bottom lip.

“Mm, Clark—“

“B-been thinking about you all day,” he murmured against your lips, kissing against your jaw, his bulge already straining against his slacks.

You tilt your head back, amused expression on your face as you smirk. “Obviously,” you giggle, pressing down on him slightly. “What’s going on with you huh?”

He hesitated, cheeks and ears flushing almost immediately before he spoke. “Can I tell you something?” he mumbles. “Anything.” You hum, hands resting on the back of his neck.

“Well..today at work, Jimmy was telling me about how his date went the other night,” Clark began. Your brows furrowed as you tilted your head. “Uh huh..?”

“And uhm..” he cleared his throat, scratching the back his neck. “Uh..well, he told me how he made his date cum more than once..like over and over,” he finally confesses, as if he did it.

“An-and he said she was shaking a lot too…like so much that she—squirted..” his voice lowering as he continued, every word filling him with embarrassment.

You just blinked, then just burst into complete laughter while your head sat on his shoulder. Why the hell would jimmy talk about something like that around your boyfriend?

Clark just sat there with his eyes narrowed as you lifted your head. “Whys that funny?”

“You seriously let Jimmy Olsen corrupt your brain? Out of all people?”

“I didn’t intend to!” Clark threw his arms up, eyes slightly widening. “He just started talking so I had to listen!”

“Clark, you don’t have to listen to him just because he’s your friend.” You cross your arms to which he huffs. “I know that,” he muttered, not agreeing with you deep down while his hands rested on your thighs. “I only brought it up because..well- I uh—I wanted to try it. With you.”

Well that was uncalled for.

Your laughter instantly died at his tone, stomach doing flips. Clark had never been this open about what he wanted when it came to sex or being intimate in general with you, so you just blinked before slowly nodding. “..okay.”

You lean in for a kiss, pulling back ever so slightly just to tease a bit before actually catching his mouth in a warm and passionate kiss.

He hummed against your lips, hands roaming as he squeezed your thighs and ass to try and pull you impossibly closer. He shifted, hips grinding to meet yours before lifting the both of you from the couch, headed to the bedroom—not once breaking the kiss.

Your legs wrapped around him in an instant, moaning into his mouth as your hands roam his hair whilst he laid the both of you down.

He was quick. Swiftly pulling off your damp panties while you unbuttoned his slacks (he took the belt off earlier since this was his goal).

But he was getting a bit too eager to know just what this would be like, so he ripped his blouse open, buttons flying everywhere before he removed it and threw it wherever before pouncing on you again.

The kiss deepened further, tongue swirling against yours before he pulled back to attack your neck. His hand ran underneath your shirt, fondling with one of your nipples, squeezing and twirling just to elicit whimpers from your mouth. He pulled away, hand traveling down your body toward your hot and wet core.

He teased, index finger grazing over your folds which made you whine quietly and he just knew he was gonna love this.

He ran his thumb over your clit teasingly before he slid two thick digits into your fluttering cunt, a gasp flying from your mouth almost instantly.

“A-anh..”

He caught your lips again, kissing you like he was afraid it’d be his last time. Whenever you two got intimate your moans got him hard, even the smallest whines made him excited.

Your back arched, hips bucking into his hand, and you bit your lip so hard it could’ve bled. But Clark noticed your half assed moans, deciding to curl his fingers against your gummy walls. You whine automatically, rolling your hips against his fingers. “A-annh, fuck!”

His fingers plunged in and out of your pulsing entrance, pace starting to become unbearable although he just started, forcing choked moans and cries out of your mouth.

All he wanted to do was make his pretty girl feel good. And that’s what he was going to do.

He pulled his fingers out, a pop! following after. His thumb circled your clit, teasing before rubbing against your slit with his middle finger, flicking away.

“H-haa shiitt!” Your eyes rolled back as you whimpered, completely melted underneath Clark’s huge figure.

“Shh,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, “Stop cursin’ so much sweetheart,” he murmured against your skin as he slid his fingers back inside, being completely relentless as he twirled and scissored his fingers.

“O-oohh!” You cry out, grabbing his wrist. “M-m’not trying tooo!” Head pressing back against the pillow. “Fuck Clark!” You whine, hands searching for anything to grip onto as your back continuously arched off the bed.

This was driving him insane and he wasn’t even the one being touched right now.

He could tell you were close, he could literally see right through you. But that never stopped him from tearing up your insides, just made him angle his fingers a direction that made you squeal out, thighs closing around his hand as you held onto his wrist as if that was going to stop anything.

He had never done you like this.

He was quick to pull your legs apart again, curling his fingers even deeper than before. “Hnng—yesyes, m’coming—C-clark!”

Your thighs trembled as you saw white, squeezing his fingers so hard they might’ve been at risk of falling off.

You pant as your high came down, ready to push him away, but his head was already dipping down your body. You blink, wanting to say something but the thoughts quickly forgotten as he flattened his tongue against your pussy.

You whimpered loudly, his arms locking around your thighs.

“H-mph..c-clark wait..” You felt weird, so sensitive, and he just— just kept going.

His tongue swirled against your clit, nibbling on it softly as your body jerks into his mouth. He just smiled and you could tell, and it was fucking killing you.

He ate even slower, eliciting even louder and desperate moans from your lips. You fought your hardest not to grip his hair, arms just squirming around as you got lost in bliss.

He pulled your legs over his shoulders, groaning loudly. Did you always taste this good; this sweet?

You looked down for just a second, glancing at him and man, he was gone. Not once did he glance up at you, just kept eating. Eating like a man starved.

The sight made you even wetter, god, you’d fuck him right now if you could.

Your feet flexed helplessly against his shoulders as you cried out, hands finally flying toward his hair. You were so conflicted on whether or not to grip his pretty curls. Clark practically growled at the feeling of your hands in his hair but that quickly led to a groan once he felt you not pulling on it.

His tongue worked faster, dragging countless moans out of you, giving you a reason to pull on his hair.

What eventually got you to pull on it was when he began to stick his tongue in and out of your hole, making your back arch off the bed once more as both your hands became tight and full of soft coils.

“O-oh ye-yeahh..!” Your second orgasm flooded and washed over you as saw white for the second time, liquids oozing right onto Clark’s tongue. You whined at just how pretty he looked, dazed as if he was the one in your position right now. “O-okay, okay, m’done I—“

But Clark was nowhere near done himself.

He pushed your fluids back into your aching hole, sucking off whatever was left on his fingers.

“M’not done,” he breathed, licking his lips. Your cheeks heated, propped up on your elbows. “Wha?!” You pant faintly. “Im not done.” He repeats, looking you dead in the eye.

You almost—almost replied with something slick but he’s faster, licking a long stride from your entrance to your clit. “ungh!” You fall back down against the mattress, tugging on his hair.

Your thighs shook, wanting nothing more than to close around his head. But he wouldn’t let you do that, not because he’d get mad, but because he was stronger than you, and he knew you liked the size difference between the two of you.

He was slurping you up so good, your fingers ran through his hair as your hips shot up, crying out as you bit your lip. “Shit..”

You blink vigorously, teary eyed as you tried looking down at him.

You caught a glimpse before it got too blurry; his cheeks flushed and his jaw just moving continuously.

This was gonna be a long night.

༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚ ༝༚༝༚

You were four rounds in now, all sweaty and your joints sore, and an aching cunt that was killing you with its constant throbbing. But clark wasnt fazed.

He was more..confused. Why hadn’t you reacted how he wanted yet? I mean yeah, he did drag four orgasms out of you, but he could drag way more outta you any other night if he wanted to with no problem!

He huffed, sitting up from in between your legs, chin and lips glistening. “Am I doing something wrong?” His voice full of actual concern.

You lay in front of him, limp but still full of energy and he could tell. Damned sexy extraterrestrial.

“Huh..?” You managed to breathe out, completely dazed. “Like— like why aren’t you-“ he made a fountain gesture with his hands. You shake your head.

“I dunno clark, you’re doing great obviously, I’m just not..” you mumble as you look at him. He was dumbfounded and irritated, man he really did not like this feeling.

“Uhm..uh, okay. Okay, hang tight sweetheart.” He got up from the bed, pulling you back up toward the headboard and pulled a pillow to the side.

He hovered over you once he was done, hands sprawled out right next to the sides of your head. “Maybe you just need some— some dick,” he murmured, pulling his slacks all the way down his legs as well as his boxers.

“Wait- what? No..clark-“

“It’s okay,” he kissed the corner of your mouth, rubbing his flustered cock in a bit of frustration. “Im gonna get you there, I promise.” His tone full of determination as he aligned his tip with your entrance.

And like always, the stretch was great. You cried out instantly, pushing him away which just made him grab your arm and put it over your head.

“u-unn..clark..” you whine, looking up at him, not even knowing what your doing to him in that moment. He bit back a pitiful groan, pushing inside even more.

“Gosh,” he growled. “damnit...pussys squeezing me so..well.” He gritted, bottoming out as he slammed his hips. You felt the air knocked out of your lungs as your eyes rolled back immediately.

He grabbed your thighs, pushing them against your torso as he placed your legs over his shoulders.

He was slow at first..but as time went on, he became faster and way more aggressive:

“Hold your legs,” he instructed as he aligned his tip again. “Baby I—“ - “hold ‘em. Please.” His tone firm with you for the first time ever. You whimper weakly, bringing your hands underneath your thighs, pulling them toward your breast, knees hitting your chest.

“Thank you pretty girl.” He smiled, grabbing the pillow he left to the side and placing it underneath your back.

That fucking smile.

He slid back into you with a pitiful moan, and honestly, it felt way different this time.

His hips rocked slowly, like he was actually feeling it this time. And there you were underneath him, mouth slack, tears streaming down your cheeks, lips so pretty and swollen.

“Mmn-“ he bites down on your shoulder, rocking much, much deeper than he was before, kissing your cervix.

“S’too much..goddammit clark—“ you hiss and he rolled his hips again, slowly speeding up.

You were throbbing so much, so sore, aching as if he wasn’t inside you right now.

Your back arched against the pillow, hair sticking to your skin at this point. You held him closer, clenching around him like you were scared he was gonna start levitating or something (it’s possible).

“Hnngh..” your skin felt like it was on fire, everything was hot, nerves lit up. He sped up, bottom lip in his mouth. He was focused.

So focused on just how good he knew he could make you feel.

Your arms found their way around his neck, pulling him closer, his lips hovering above yours. You pulled him down even more, kissing him sloppily and full of love as you cried into his mouth, his pace speeding up and slowing down in rhythm, hitting that soft gummy spot in your walls repeatedly.

“M’right here baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Right here.” He laid a kiss upon your cheek as you cried out desperately.

Everything about him made you melt.

You shook your head, tears welling your eyes again as you felt that knot building in your stomach. “Don’t stop,” you cry out. “Please don’t stop.”

But then— you felt too full.

The pressure was unbearable, your eyes widening quickly as you tried pushing him away. “C-clark, no, no. Wait— I gotta-gotta pee!”

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going, pushing deeper just to make your whimper in ecstasy.

“Clark, please, I can’t hold-“

You tried squirming away, babbling on about how it was too much, but clark kept rolling his damn hips, kissing your ankles. The pressure felt so tight, you begged him to stop, your voice breaking with every cry. “C-cant hold—hgh—hold it!” You stammer, eyes repeatedly rolling back.

“Clark!” A high, broken moan ripped from your chest, the pressure finally giving way, hot streams gushing out of your pussy with each thrust. Some of it shot up onto his washboard abs, and fuck you just knew he had the biggest smile on his face right now.

Your thighs shook violently, tears stinging your face as you attempted to hide it. “Aahnn—fuhh-!” you cried, clawing at his forearms, but the sounds only grew louder as he continued to thrust into you with no problem.

“Golly,” clark just groaned, his balls slapping against you one last time before he finally came, spilling hot loads into your puffy walls.

He collapsed on top of you, huffing slowly, trying to catch his breath. You lie beneath him, completely limp and spent.

“You did amazing sweetie..so good baby.” He cooed, lifting up ever so slightly to press a kiss to your temple.

You hum softly from his kiss, shaking uncontrollably, body twitching everywhere you could think of.

It gets quiet for a moment and Clark decides to be first to break it: “You uh..you think you can do that again but on my tongue this time pretty girl?” He murmurs, voice lowering with each word.

You just look at him, dumbfounded. Just blinking. “Im gonna fucking kill Jimmy.” You deadpan.

He winced, his voice faint now. “Please?”

kissmyglxck — don’t copy my work, ask to translate, & if you recreate anything pls tag me <3

[sillyrabbit81]

Prying

Summary: When your husband Sy finds out you work with August Walker he isn't happy, but even in your wildest dreams, you would never have guessed why. (Slight AU)

Pairing: Captain Syverson x Female Reader, with special guest August Walker.

Word Count: Approx. 4.7k

Warnings: Smut, Dubious Consent/ Non Consent, reluctant reader, jealousy, rivalry, non consensual voyeurism, semi-public sex, workplace sexual harassment, p in v sex, fingering, spit kink, male masturbation, cream pie, breeding kink, praise kink, implied cuckold kink, mentions of mmf threesome, dominant behaviour, fear of cheating (I think thats it)

This is different to my usual stories, please read the warnings and be responsible for your own reading.

Authors Note: This story started out from an ask I got over six months ago. I tried a few times to make it work, but I just couldn't get it right. When I went through my old stories to find snippets for my milestone celebration, I stumbled on this forgotten, half finished fic and suddenly the story clicked into place and I was almost able to finish it. I got stuck at the end and thanks to @nashibirne I was able to settle on an ending. If you enjoy the ending, you have her to thank because without her to bounce ideas off I never would have been able to get it done. She is an amazing writer, check out her masterlist !

Edited by me, there will be errors.

Masterlist

Milestone Celebration Masterlist

Your calves burn as you stand in the elevator. Seeking relief you lift one foot out of your heel and bringing it behind your other leg, you rub your calf. It slides easily over the curve of your leg, the stockings reduce the friction but impede none of the pressure. It feels heavenly and you repeat the process with your other foot. You moan softly as you close your eyes and rub your hand over your neck. Thank fuck it’s Friday.

“Tough week?” your companion asks.

Opening your eyes, you glance at August. “You could say that.”

“You look like you could do with some stress relief, a massage, or a drink,” August says in his playful flirty tone you know so well. “Or a weekend at my beach house…”

“Give it a rest, Walker,” you say sharply, but you can’t stop the corners of your mouth lifting into a smile. “It’s never worked before, it's not going to work now.”

Walker takes an easy stride towards you, invading your personal space with intention, until you can feel his warm breath on your cheek. “But my dear Mrs Syverson, it’s so fun to try.”

You laugh at him, and he grins. You like August. In the couple of months you'd worked with August you had quickly understood that he was playing with you. Technically he is your boss, along with the other partners in the private security firm, and apparently he’d never heard of sexual harassment before. He repeatedly oversteps your boundaries, but damn him, you enjoy his obvious attempts at seduction. It feels nice to have a man like him flirt with you and you allow it because he had never actually touched you in an overtly sexual manner. It had become a game, he would make outrageous advances and you would turn him down. He had a reputation, there were only a handful of women in the building under the age of fifty who he hadn’t slept with. From all reports he was very good in bed, some said he was a little kinky, but he never let a woman leave unsatisfied, which is probably why he got away with it. But from what you heard too, once someone tells him no, he backs off, so it was curious that he kept playing this game with you.

“I could decide I need to take you to my next conference,” August smirks. “I could find something for you to do, I’m sure.”

“Let me guess, you’d forget to ask Nate to book another room and we’d be forced to share?”

“Mrs Syverson, you wound me,” August holds a hand to his heart and takes a half staggering step backwards, “I’m much more subtle than that.”

The elevator announces its arrival to the lower basement carpark with a ping and you step out laughing and waving goodbye. August nods, his smirk back as he starts walking towards his car.

He stops abruptly and says, “Your car isn’t here.”

“Oh no! Are you serious?” you say, covering your mouth to hide your grin. “Oh my God August, someone call the police!”

August’s mouth draws into a tight line and his moustache quivers as he says, “Very funny.”

“Awww, August, my car is being serviced. I appreciate your concern though, it was very sweet of you.”

“There’s a lot of words that could be used to describe me Mrs Syverson, but sweet isn’t one of them.”

“No I suppose it's not,” you say. “Flirtatious, deviant, lewd…”

“You act as if they are insults, I take each one as a compliment,” August grins.

You open your mouth to reply but you hear your name and you turn quickly to see Sy walking over. You smile as he approaches, your heart leaping as he makes his way over to you with determined strides. Big and brutish, even in civilian clothing, he looks every bit the elite soldier he is, despite his promotion to Major that kept him locked to a desk most of the time.

“Hey bub,” you say. As he gets closer you are about to ask if he remembers August but before you get the chance he is cupping your cheeks and pressing his lips to yours.

You melt into his kiss, you almost have no choice. Sy’s mouth moves over yours like it is trying to have all of you at once. He forces his tongue into your mouth roughly, filling your mouth with it, you almost can’t breathe. His hand cups the back of your head, while the other grabs your ass, pulling you close enough you feel the heat of his skin through your clothes. You are instantly aroused, you love when he gets dominant on you, but this is different, more savage, more primal, more uninhibited, you love how close he appears to losing all control.

August clears his throat and you push away from Sy; you had actually forgotten he is still standing there and you’re suddenly embarrassed by the intimate display you had put on in front of him.

Sy’s chest rumbles as he breaks your kiss, “Missed ya today.”

“I miss you every day,” you reply without missing a beat. You keep your low though, not wanting August to hear. Sy moves in for another kiss and you quickly say, “Sy, babe, you remember August.”

“Walker,” Sy says in greeting, but he doesn’t even look at him. Odd, Sy is never rude like that, and especially to men he knew from his active duty days.

“Syverson,” August says and you detect amusement in his voice, that same niggling, teasing tone he uses on you sometimes when he knows he’s pushing close to the boundary of acceptable flirting. “How long has it been? Five years?”

“‘Bout that,” Sy replies, finally looking at August. He keeps a possessive arm around you, his fingers dig into your waist.

“It’s good to see you’re doing well for yourself,” August looks pointedly at you before turning his attention back to Sy. “We should catch up.”

You look at August like he has three heads. Catch up? He doesn’t seem the type to spend any time hanging out with male friends. What would they do? Go for some hot wings and watch a game?

Sy scoffs, and when he speaks his tone is dark and fulI malice, “Name the time and place and I’ll be there.”

This was getting out of hand. Clearly something had happened when they’d met before and knowing the nature of Sy’s time in Special Forces, you were probably never going to find out.

“Well, this has been fun,” you say, flashing August your teeth. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, August. Let’s go home, Sy.”

August’s eyes brighten as your husband's eyes grow dark. “Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, the work function I told you about.”

Beneath the scruff of his regrowth Sy tightened his jaw, you could almost hear his bones cracking under the pressure. “I forgot.”

“Yes,” August says with a hint of smugness. “You know, Sy, you should come along.”

“You know somethin’, Walker? Maybe I will.”

“Good,” August says. “I look forward to it.”

Sy’s teeth feel like they’re going to crack as he clenches his jaw. He fucking hates being at these kinds of things. He would have stayed home if he thought for even one second he could trust that slimy asshole August Walker to keep his hands off you. Sy takes a long swig of his Jack and coke before slamming it on the bar and ordering another and staring in your direction again.

Walker has his fucking hand on your lower back again, leaning into your ear and Sy swears he can see the asshole’s lips touch your skin as he speaks. Sy wants to kill that wannabe, 70s porn star looking, mother fucker. He had never wanted to murder anyone more in his life. The problem is, he had a chance to do so years ago, he should have done it, was a hair's breadth away from pulling the trigger when Walker had identified himself.

They had their first interaction in Iraq years ago when the former CIA Agent was running an operation that overlapped with one of his own and they had been forced to work together. Sy scoffed at the memory, there was no together, the fucker had come in, taken over the operation. Sy hated the man he became when Walker was around; something about him was rotten and that corruption seemed to worm its way under Sy’s skin. When Walker had finally left, Sy had been relieved, that man was so full of chaos, Sy found it hard to believe they were on the same side.

When Sy met you a few years later, he was grateful. He wanted to settle down, wanted to move on from his past and forget the shit he had done. To him, you were pure, unsullied by life, your open joy and curiosity roused in him a positivity he desperately craved. You had a great relationship, Sy had never shown any degree of jealousy, he trusted you, trusted your goodness. However, the second he knew Walker was in your orbit, that faithfulness in you slowly chipped away until he thought he might lose his damn mind.

Sy had first become suspicious when you were hired for a position in a private security company way above your experience level. He had been happy for you, until you told him who was part of the hiring process.

“There was this guy with an unusual first name and he had this outlandish pornstar moustache. His last name was Wallace or something… Anyway he asked if I was any relation to you and I told them you were my husband. He seemed happy and wanted me to say hi to you. But I can’t remember his goddamn name.”

For the first time in his marriage to you, Sy felt a stab of fear that he’d lose you. “Was it Walker?” he asked, his coldness had put a chill into your bones. “August Walker?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you said. From the look in his eyes, you could see they were more than just a passing acquaintance. “Did you serve with him?” you ventured to ask.

“No, he’s CIA. Or was, if he’s in the private sector now.” Sy was pensive. You knew he wanted to say more so you waited for him to speak and when he did, it surprised you. “I don’t want you taking the job.”

“What? Why?” Sy had never stood in the way of your career before.

“Because he’s…” Sy didn’t know how to put in words the bad vibes he got from Walker. But he had a feeling that you only got hired for the job because of him. Walker liked to play games, manipulate people. Would Walker destroy you just to fuck with him some more? Sy believed he would. But looking at you, seeing how happy you were getting the job and he took it back. “No, Sugar,” Sy said, pulling you into a hug. “Take the job. I’m real happy for you.”

Sitting at the bar, Sy wished with every bone in his body he could go back to that moment. He would have told you not to take the job and you would have done it. It was too late now. If he asked you now, you would dismiss his concerns as simple jealousy, nothing more.

And you would be right. Sy is jealous as fuck. If he ground his teeth any harder he would crack them. He watches as Walker smiles at you and picks a bit of fluff off your shoulder and lets his fingers linger on your bare skin. Sy doesn’t notice the way you give August a warning look, all he sees is Walker's eyes darting over to make sure Sy is watching.

Sy’s hands turn into fists. The fragile glass tumbler cracks under the pressure and his drink leaks onto the bar. Feeling milliseconds from a total loss of all control Sy knows he has to do something. His heart thunders in his chest, his blood pressure rising so high he feels its throbbing palpitations everywhere, most ferociously in his rigid and achy cock. Adrenaline, violence, and carnal fervour pumps like poison in veins and if he doesn't get a release soon Sy thinks he will kill Walker to exorcise his obsession. The problem is Sy has no doubt that Walker was at least as capable of killing him as he is.

Memories infect Sy’s thoughts. Scores of women he’d fucked are replaced by visions of you with Walker, as if he were in hell and his punishment was to watch you with him. Forced to watch impotently as your head is thrown back in ecstatic liquidity, your body open and willing, your perfect hidden centre, once Sy’s and Sy’s alone, now weeping for the attention of another. And worse, images of August pleasing you, burying his head into you, defiling your sacred core with his tongue, your pure sex adulterated and wilfully given to another, the gift that you promised only to Sy.

Though he hates it, though he rages against it, though he fights it with every bone in his body, Sy can’t stop his arousal from growing. Furious and ashamed he strides over to you standing as tall as he can with all of his murderous attention focussed on Walker; the one he blames because he can't bear to blame himself, can't abide to admit that he likes watching another man touch you.

It takes everything Sy has not to punch Walker’s goddamn face in and make his pretty boy features into a fucking Picasso. Instead, he’d deal with his frustrations another way.

“Mind if I have a word with you, Darlin’?” Sy asks.

It is not a request, his fingers grip your wrist already as he attempts to pull you away. You let yourself be led away when August speaks.

“Major Syverson,” August says. The honorific sounds like an insult when coming from August. “So glad you could make it. Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Walker,” Sy spat. “Likewise.” Sy’s face twists with a horrific grin. The air between them is electric, a single spark could set off an explosion that you have no doubt would end up in serious injury, if not death.

“Are you stealing away your charming wife?” August asks facetiously. “You won’t keep her long will you? I still want her.”

Sy growls and you decide to step in, laying a hand on August’s arm, “Excuse us, August. I’ll be back soon to help with the speeches.”

“Sure,” August says with a suggestive smile. “Who am I to stand between lovers?”

“Wife, Walker,” Sy grunts with a venomous snarl. “She’s my fuckin’ wife.”

August nods with a smirk. “She is,” he concedes.

Still growling, you lead Sy away. He keeps glaring over his shoulder at August mumbling, “Goddamn mother fucker.”

“Sy, don’t,” you say. “What is with you lately? What the hell is going on between you two.”

“He’s trying to get in your fuckin’ pants.”

“You think I’d let him? Besides, he’s just playing, he doesn’t really think I’d do it.”

Without acknowledging your words, Sy swiftly turns the tables and he leads you to the restrooms. He takes you inside one of the two unisex single stalls off the main hall and locks the door. Still muttering profanities he pushes you against the far wall, capturing your throat in his hand while the other frantically bundles up your dress.

“Sy, what are you doing?” you ask, your voice rising in fear. “I can't do this here, I’m working.”

He barely looks at you, and doesn’t react to your protests at all. “Hush now, don’t make me gag you,” Sy warns and you gasp in shock. This isn’t the way he normally acts. Yeah he is rough, and prone to want you whenever the fancy takes him, but it is obvious he isn’t only motivated by lust. This is a pissing contest between two alpha’s, something that started long before you were in the picture. It barely even has anything to do with you.

“I’m done with his shit, he’s going to know you’re fuckin’ mine,” Sy snarled, finding your panties and pulling them aside, the thin lacy material digs into your skin as he twists them and the sickening sound of ripping fabric echoes off the tiled walls. “He’s gonna know I ain’t allowin’ him to take what’s mine, not this time. He’s gonna smell me on you, he’s gonna know I fucked you senseless and that you fuckin’ loved it.”

Sy spit on his fingers, the sight makes you clench as he roughly seeks your core. You cry out as he thrusts two fingers straight into you, forcing apart your tight unready muscles. You watch Sy’s eyes closed as he feels you clamp down on him.

He presses his forehead into yours, and growls, “I’m gonna fuck you, gonna come inside you and you’re going to get fat with my baby. Then he will fuckin’ know that this,” he jerks his fingers inside you, drawing you to him, “Belongs to me.”

“Sy,” you cry. You feel yourself start to get wet and it surprises you. For all his roughness, he has never been this brutal, this fucking savage. This is a side you have never seen of your husband. And to your shame, you love it.

He kisses you as he works your core. His tongue is strong and demanding, filling your mouth so much you can hardly breathe. He grunts as his fingers pump in rapid frenzy, his palm smacks your clit, the roughened skin the perfect texture and you quickly approach peak.

“This belongs to me, don’t it?” Sy demands.

You’re so confused. This isn’t Sy’s usual dominance, his usual rough touch; this primal, masculine possessiveness is something else. He has never claimed ownership of you like this, and if you had been asked an hour ago if you would have stood for it, the answer would have been no. But now, now you want more.

“I’m yours, Sy,” you moan your reply, surrendering yourself to his needs, wilfully giving up and submitting. Your hands dig into his shoulders as you try and hold yourself up as you start to shake around his intrusive fingers.

“Yeah, you are,” Sy says. “You’re my fuckin’ wife. He can't have you. Not you. Never you.”

You fall apart under his touch and you can’t stop crying out his name as your body undulates around his fingers.His hand covers your mouth, muffling your shouts of pleasure as he continues fucking you, keeping your orgasm going for as long as you can.

You can’t remember coming that hard in years and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Sy, his smug grin says it all. “No one makes you come like that, do they Sugar?”

Falling into him and wrapping your arms around his neck, you shake your head. Sy removes his hand from your mouth and you murmur, “Just you, Sy.”

His pants fall to the floor, the buckle of his belt hits the tiles with a loud clang and you moan in anticipation.

“Tell me how much ya want me, baby,” Sy murmurs in your ear, his voice rough as his ragged breath saws his throat and his teeth nip your neck.

Panting hot with burning desire you whisper back, “I want you, Sy. I want you inside me. I want to feel a part of you grow inside me. I want your baby.”

“Fuck yeah you do. I’m gonna fill you up,” Sy puts his hands around your thighs and lifts you onto his hips and presses his chest against yours, holding you against the tiles. “Then next time that asshole touches you, all you’ll be thinkin’ about is my come leakin’ out of your pretty little cunt.”

Without warning he enters you with a brutality that shocks you, stretching, tearing at your pussy almost painfully and you shout.

His huge paw covers your mouth, “I told ya to be quiet,” he growls.

The lock starts to turn. At first you think you must be imagining it, then the door starts to open.

“Sy!” you cry into his hand, the sound so thoroughly muffled by his heavy calloused palm, he doesn’t even look at you.

August's head peeks around the door and you shout against Sy’s hand, pawing at him, slapping desperately at his shoulder.

“Fuck baby, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You whimper into Sy’s hand as tears well in your eyes. It’s no use, he’s too strong for you and although you know you’re going to be fired you surrender, it’s too late, August has seen everything.

Although embarrassed and horrified at being caught, you lift your eyes to your boss. August grins, lifting a finger to his lips, gesturing to you to be quiet as he gently closes the door turning the lock. You blink stupidly as you watch August unzip his pants.

Holy shit.

He’s not here to fire you. Oh God, Sy was right.

“That’s it, baby. That’s my good girl,” Sy coos. His lips suck on your earlobe, “Just relax and let your ol’ man have his way with you.”

You let out a sob, and there’s nothing you can do as August lifts his leviathan cock from his pants. Your eyes widen and he raises his eyebrows as he shows himself off to you. Jesus, he’s as big as Sy and you moan as unbidden the thought of the two of them taking you at once is thrust into your minds eye.

This is so wrong, you know it is, but you can’t stop the thought of taking August’s thick, pulsing cock into your mouth as Sy fucks you from behind. As if he can read your thoughts, August grins looking you in the eyes as he grips himself and tugs roughly at his cock. For a moment, his gaze wanders and he rakes over Sy’s legs and ass as your husband’s body surges into you. You wonder if… no… August’s eyes are back on yours and he bites on his lip.

“Atta girl.” Sy presses wet hungry kisses into your cheek. “Feels good don’t it?”

You whimper, tearing your eyes from August and look into the clear blue ones of your husband. God, the desperation, the possessiveness, the need burned darkly, in his gaze.

“You’re fucking mine, you got that, baby?” He presses his forehead against yours like he’s forcing his will into your brain. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you go, you hear me?”

You nod. Fuck, he’s never been like this. Ever. You get a glimpse of August and your eyes roll as you lean into Sy. It shames you how much you like being watched, and not just watched, watched by your boss, by August fucking Walker.

“Yeah you’re fuckin’ mine. No ones ever fucked your cunt this good have they baby?”

You shake your head, your eyes slide shut as Sy dips his head into the cleavage of your dress, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your breasts. The familiar heat of an approaching release blossoms between your legs and you open your eyes and see August working his cock, watching you, his face a picture of depraved rapture as his lips part with a low moan.

Sy’s head snaps up. Fuck! He must have heard. His eyes are wide and he starts to turn his head searching for the errant sound. As if by a strange instinct you can’t control you put your hand to his cheek and keep him looking at you. You plead at him with your eyes, squeeze tight around his cock as your orgasm keeps building. You can hear your muffled cries of pleasure and so can Sy.

“Fuck it, I don’t give a fuck if anyone hears. I wanna hear ya come, baby.” Sy drops his hand from your mouth. Suddenly loud, your cries echo off the tiles and you bite your lip trying to suppress the loudest of moans.

You pull Sy’s mouth to yours as you close in on the edge, and although you know it’s wrong, although you know it’s sinful, you meet August's eyes. He smiles, oh God, he knows, he fucking knows you like him watching you. His grin turns sacriligious as his hand becomes furious and he mouths, “come, come, fucking come.”

It hits you like lightning and you raise your lips from Sy’s as you yield to your pleasure. The swelling of Sy between your legs and the bite in your shoulder announces Sy’s hit his peak too. Your bliss hazy eyes seek August and you watch as he holds a small towel in front of himself. He grits his teeth, his lip is curled into a snarl, his face reddens and his whole body tightens as he releases into it. His eyes never leave yours.

Sy leans his head into the crook of your neck, his lips are tender against your skin. “Baby…” he murmurs with a hint of regret in his voice. Sweating and panting he wraps his arms around you. “My good girl.”

You wrap your arms around him, running your hand over his head like you know he likes, as you try and process what just happened. Sy pulled out of you gently, already you could feel your combined releases seeping from your no doubt gaping, ruined core as he lowered you to your feet.

“You ok, baby?” he asks gently, lifting his pants from the ground and righting himself.

Your eyes flick to August quickly seeing him still standing there. His cock is back in his pants and he’s leaning lazily against the wall, one ankle crossed casually over the other. He looks like he’s going to make no attempt at all to sneak out undetected. Ice pumps through your heart as he opens his mouth.

“You still fuck like a neanderthal Syverson. No subtlety at all.”

You gasp and look at Sy. He chuffs, “You still get hard watchin’ me.”

Sy tightens his belt. He reaches up and places his hand on your cheek as he kisses your temple tenderly. Then turns to August, raising himself to his full height. What the fuck is going on here? Has this happened before? Sy takes a step towards August and you hold your breath as August pushes himself off the wall with a smirk. Your eyes dart between them, and while you're deathly afraid one or the other will throw a punch, you cannot deny the way your oversensitive clit begins to throb.

“You know, this is as close as you’ll ever get to her,” Sy says. There’s a strange coolness to his voice, it's soft and on the surface benign, but you know him well enough to detect a dangerous edge in his tone.

August hums and shrugs, “We’ll see.” He turns his back on Sy and reaches for the door, but stops and looks over his shoulder. “You know, I came in here for your wife, but I almost forgot how good it is to see you in action.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Sy growls.

August chuckles, and nods his head, “Mrs Syverson, I’ll see you outside.”

When August closes the door, you let out a breath, gasping as you try and take control of your thrumming heartbeat. You look at Sy, stricken and sick in your stomach, confused by the competing arousal and dread you feel.

“What…?” you can’t even begin to form the question.

Sy holds your face in his big hands and makes you look at him. “Baby, I’m sorry. This shit started long before I met you. I…” he swallows and a shadow of shame darkens his eyes, “We used to tag team girls back in the day.”

“What?” Your jaw drops. “You… you said, you’d never…”

“I know what I said, and it’s true, I ain’t been with him. It was… just the girl… took turns and shit.”

You’re surprised, but after what you just witnessed you aren’t shocked. You don’t think anything will ever shock you again. You want to be angry with Sy, you want to scream and smack his goddamn face for putting you in this position, but if you’re honest with yourself, you want to do it again.

“Baby?” Sy says, his voice is small and vulnerable as his brows lift as if he’s pleading. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. “You’d never let him touch you, right?’

Your eyes are drawn to the door August just left through, and you shake your head, “Not unless you want me to.”

[ohtobeleah]

Mind Over Matter // Bradley Bradshaw

Summary: Your mind is not your own when you’re exposed to a kind of ‘Sex Pollen’ your date spiked your drink with. But the worst part of it all is that Rooster takes advantage of your willingness to give your body to him, knowing damn well that you’d never truly want to.

Warnings: Date rape. Sexual assault/harassment. Bradley Bradshaw x F!reader. Brief Smut. 18+ Content ahead. Mentions of non consent. Sex pollen. Move over Dark!Bob—Dark!Rooster is in the building.

Word Count: 5.1k

Author Note: Day Six of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Mind Control. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“If you grip that beer any tighter Rooster you’re gonna need stitches.” Bradley didn’t register what Jake had meant at first, but when he looked down to see that his hand was squeezed so tightly around the amber bottle of his Budweiser, he released some pressure. His knuckles immediately felt the release as he readjusted his shoulders and took a sip.

It didn’t take a degree in aerospace physics to understand why Bradley Bradshaw was so worked up. And you didn’t have to have twenty twenty vision to see where Rooster's harsh gaze was so heavily trained upon. 

“Bliss has really gotten under your feathers this time, hasn’t she?” Jake chuckled to himself as he raised his beer to his lips. The two aviators sat at one of the small bar tables off near the pool table, just waiting for the rest of the crew to stumble in haphazardly for Friday night beers. 

“You’d think with her dad being the former Commander of the Pacific Fleet she’d have a little more brains.” Rooster was seething, he’d never seen such reckless flying before. “I need to find out who her health care proxy is before she nosedives into the Pacific.” So he’d hatched a plan. A deceptive and devious plan. 

It had been a rough day to say the very least. Rooster had torn shreds off you on the tarmac in front of your entire TopGun class for a maneuver you pulled that wasn’t sanctioned. Uncle Mav would have liked it. Rooster not so much. He has this stick wedged up his arse so tight that it stops him from having any type of fun. 

Bradley didn’t regret it at the time, but the longer he sat across the Hard Deck watching you laugh and twirl your hair alongside some douche from admin he’d never bothered to properly learn the name of, he regretted it more and more. He’d prefer it if it was him. Come to think of it—the longer Bradley stared, the more he knew he was all in on this. But that guy…..Adam, man Rooster owed him. Big time. 

“Who’s your health care proxy?” Jake asked all the while his own gaze fell to the pretty brunette helping Penny behind the bar. He didn’t even know her name yet but he knew he was taking her home tonight. That was for sure. 

“I never filled out the forms.” Bradley sighed. “I handed them back when I realised I didn’t have anyone to put down—I’ve just never really bothered to fill them out even when Mav came back into my life.” 

“Oh—that’s a bad plan.” Jake's health care proxy was Javy. They’d been eachother’s since the academy. Thankfully they’d never had to be that for one another. 

“You can be mine.” Bradley shrugged as he finished his beer, still watching the way you laughed and smiled with the guy sitting next to you over at the bar. You probably didn’t even know that Rooster had a thing for you—he never let it show. Even when you were kids. Hell you probably never saw any of this coming, he’d been told to keep it as unsuspecting as possible. 

But when you caught his eyeline and didn’t look away as the guy you’d been entertaining came down to kiss your neck so openly right there at the bar, he wondered if you were putting on a show just to get back at him for the way he’d scolded you. Perhaps you liked him more than you led on. 

This whole student teacher dynamic wasn’t working out. You knew the minute you saw Bradley Bradshaw during your induction class that this was going to be a rough stint. 

“Your health care proxy? Really?” Jake’s voice brought Rooster's mind back to the real world before it could run off into Neverland with the idea that in some alternate universe the two of you might have been a good pair. But for as long as the world had been spinning—you and Rooster were butting heads. Constantly and forever getting on each other's last nerve. Until he’d decided to take matters into his own hands and accepted a proposal.

“Well I mean Phoenix already has Bob and Fanboy so she’s already got enough to take care of.” Bradley was barely in the conversation, he was still eyeing you off as you politely excused yourself to use the bathroom. That’s what Bradley assumed you were doing when you got up. “So yeah—be my guest man.” 

“You want extraordinary measures or should I just unplug you.” Jake was actually pretty flattered. He and Rooster had come a long way. Now he was his health care proxy. That was a pretty big deal. 

“Use your judgment, I’m going to hell anyway.” Bradley frowned as he answered Jake, what was this guy up to? Rooster watched as he looked to his left and then to his right and then to see what Penny and Marli were up to. 

Of course Bradley knew the new bartender's name. 

Then, Rooster's heart sank into his stomach, for a second he forgot how to breathe as he watched the man from admin slip something into your drink. The liquid vile was gone in a split second and before Bradley could even begin to process what he was witnessing in real time—the deed had already been gone. 

The fucker spiked your drink. Yep, it was time. 

“Oh fuck did he just?” Jake couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Ain’t no way—“ 

“I’m gonna kill him.” Bradley jumped to his feet so fast the feet of the stool he sat on dragged against the wooden floorboards and made a high pitched squeaking sound. He had to make it look believable. 

“Not if I kill him first.'' Jake added as he stood to his feet. The pair were fast on their feet as they made a direct line for where the man sat by your drink. 

“Hey fellas.” Penny cooed as she cleaned a few empties off the bar. “Another round?” 

“Yes please, and ring that damn bell while you're at it.” Rooster smirked as his hands came down to clamp around the man who’d been far too friendly with you for the majority of the night. “Old mate here just spiked Blisters drink—“ Everyone sitting in the general proximity went silent as the revelation was brought to light. 

“Ain’t that right son.” Jake added, as cock sure as ever. “Get your arse up outta that damn chair before I drag you of it myself.” 

“What the hell are you two clowns going on about?” The man argued as he stood and puffed his chest at Jake. He shrugged Roosters hands off his shoulders rather aggressively in the process. Penny already had her phone out ready to dile the cops. She had a zero tolerance policy for inappropriate misconduct in her bar. 

“We both saw you, you spiked Bliss’s cocktail with something. Show me your pockets.” It was an order, Bradley wasn’t messing around. When it came to your safety he didn’t mess around. Unless it was him. Hence why he’d been so harsh on you earlier in the day. “Come on—if you’ve got nothing to hide man I’d suggest emptying your—“ 

“Bradshaw? Seresin?” Your voice cut through the harshness of the situation. “What’s going on?” It was a question no one really wanted to answer truthfully as everyone turned to look at you.

“I’ll get you a fresh drink, Bliss.” Marli answered as politely as she possibly could as she took the drink you’d just ordered away from the bar. You hadn’t yet had a single sip. 

“These two lunatics just came over here and accused me of spiking your drink!” Adam growled, he had been caught red handed but he wasn’t going down without a fight. He knew what had been discussed earlier. “You know, you two are lucky that I don’t press charges for assault!” 

“You spiked her damn drink I saw you!” Bradley hissed as he balled his knuckles into tight balls. He was trying so hard to not knock this guy out right then and there at the bar. That would be taking things too far—that wasn’t part of the deal.

“Adam?” You asked softly. You’d managed to sandwich yourself between Bradley and Jake for a little more protection. “Is that true? Did you put something in my drink?” 

A lul fell over the conversation as Adam tried to think light on his feet. He was sweating, Rooster could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he tried to remain as calm and stoic as he could. 

“Adam?”

“I put something in your drink but it wasn’t what theses two fucking morons think it is!” That was all Penny needed to dial the local authorities and it was all Bradley Bradshaw needed to smash his fist into Adam's face with a growl that was ever so primal. Huh—guess the deal was kinda off. 

“Rooster!” You tried to argue but Jake held you back. 

“Come on, step outside with me.” You reluctantly went with Jake as he guided you out of the bar and sat you down on one of the chairs. He normally wasn’t this attentive towards you but somewhere along the line he’d fallen into the vacant big brother roll. “Do you feel alright?” His hand was on your forehead before you could even shoo him away. 

“I’m fine! I didn’t have any of the damn drink.” You couldn’t begin to explain your embarrassment. The one guy you’d entertained the idea of going home with in a very long time, spiked your drink. “Can I just go home? I’ll never be able to show my face here again.” 

“Hey, it’s not your fault he did that Bliss.” Jake's gentle but reaffirming tone had your heart settling inside your chest for all but five seconds before Bradley was storming out with two small and empty glass vials in his hand. 

“What the hell were you thinking hangin’ around that fucking guy?” Rooster spat. “Huh?” 

“I’m sorry?” You thought you’d heard him wrong as Jake rose to his feet from being crouched in front of you assessing your features. “What? You think I knew he was going to try and date rape me?” 

“He’s got a reputation, Bliss! You’d know that if you ever fucking listened!” That much was true, but you always just assumed whatever Rooster said about anyone who wasn’t himself was just his manipulative tactics to get you to stay on the straight and narrow. 

“Bradshaw—“ Jake tried to intervene. “Take it easy man, she feels fine, besides she didn’t have any of whatever that guy tried to spike her with.” 

“Yeah well I’ve got two empty vials here and I only saw him dump one so he could have spiked a drink earlier in the night.” The revelation took the breath right out of your lungs. Up until that very moment you thought it had just been a super close call. But now, as Rooster held up two empty bottles—you knew you’d already been drugged. 

“I need to go h-home.” You stumbled over your worlds as you stood to your feet. “Thanks for being observant.” You pressed your lips together in a fine line as panic rose in your chest. “I uh—I’ll see you guys on Monday.” 

“Blister—“ Rooster grabbed at your wrist as you walked past him. The callsign he gave you made your entire body tense. Blisters always show up after the hard work is done. He didn’t think you were a team player. He didn’t think you were a good enough pilot to be a Kazanksy. He didn’t respect you, he didn’t see you as an equal. He never had and never would. 

And that’s why as much as you loved Bradley Bradshaw you’d never let yourself go down that road. He wasn’t good for you. That much was clear. 

“I’ll drive you home, god knows what Yellow Jacket even is—“ He read the label on the small bottles. He knew enough to know what was going to happen next, he just didn’t know to what extent x

“I’ll drive you home and maybe even to the emergency room to get your stomach pumped.” 

“I don’t need your help.” You hissed back as you ripped your wrist out of Bradley’s grasp. “But thankyou for the offer, I’ll see you both on Monday.” 

“Kazansky, don’t be stupid—“ Bradley followed you down into the gravelly carpark. “I’m taking you home, if something happens to you.” Before Bradley could explain his concern you turned to face him once more. Jake watched the entire thing unfold from the front deck. 

“Why the hell do you care?” You snapped in a panic filled rage, “Why Rooster? Why do you care about what happens to me now, when all you’ve ever done is consistently shown me that you could care less!” It wasn’t the truth. Bradley had always cared about you. You were unfortunately his favorite person. But you were Bliss Kazanksy, the untouchable, off limits, touch her and I’ll kill you, daughter of Tom Kazanksy. Even dead that man scared the ever living Christ from Rooster. “You’ve never cared, so please, for the love of whatever fucking god you choose to believe in don’t start now.” But he didn’t scare him enough to not orchestrate this undercover operation of sorts. 

Bradley could have tried to stop you—he should have. In the grand schemes of things he really should have. But his ego was far too big and far too strong to let him. 

“You know what, fine.” He tossed the vials on the ground and all you did was watch them roll towards your feet. “You’re right.” Jake sighed and shook his head as he went back into the Hard Deck. The pair of you were blind. “I could care less, really.”

“Jerk.” You’d been calling Bradley a Jerk since highschool. All Rooster did was run his hands across his face. He was over this, over this back and forth bullshit the two of you did. He wanted to wash his hand’s clean of this situation. You wanted to go it alone? so be it. 

“Maybe—“ Rooster shrugged as he put his hands in the pockets of his jeans to fish out his keys. He just wanted to go home. “But I wasn’t the one who fucking drugged you.” 

Oh how that was an outright lie. 

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Bradley went home and immediately, despite his burning rage, looked up all that he could find on Yellow Jacket. His stomach felt like it had been twisted into heavy knots reading about it. His length however, strained against the sweatpants he wore just thinking about it. 

“Jesus—“ He sighed to himself as he sat at his desk in front of his computer screen reading about how it was originally an ancient herbal medicine to help underpopulated areas increase their birth rates. During the First World War however, it was developed into a bio weapon. Used against women in their childbearing years to help increase the population as numbers substantially declined. 

Apparently it disappeared there for a while. But some guy figured out how to synthetically replicate the toxin and this one was ten times worse. As far as date rape drugs go this one was nearly leathal. 

It caused the victims labido to increase to extreme heights and nothing would cure the craving for desire until it was met. Bradley felt sick. He could barely read on, but he felt like he had to, for your sake. 

It had become a popular date rape drug because it made the victim compliant. It made them willing and in most cases it made them initiate the act. Without sex—without that sweet relief of an orgasm brought on by another person—symptoms such as fevers, headaches, yellow tinged eyes, burst blood vessels and erratic seizures were all side effects. 

But the worst part about the drug that Bradley had discovered was that there was no known antidote. Even if he had taken you to the hospital, the only thing that could help would be intercourse. 

It was mind control at its very worst, and it was here—in North Island. Probably pumping through your veins. He hoped. 

Those exposed, according to a report posted only a month ago that Bradley read in his web surfing session, shows that ninety eight percent of victims didn’t want to engage in any sexual activity. But because of the nature of the act, the willingness in the moment from victims, it was incredibly hard to get a conviction. 

“Jesus Christ—“ Rooster wasn't sure how much time he had spent reading up on this horrid drug, but the sound of panicked knuckles banging against his front door broke him out of his research. The three empty beers from his fridge told him it could have been hours or forty five minutes on a bad night. And boy had tonight been bad.

When the knocking didn't let up, Bradley moved through his living room to open the front door. He couldn't say he was all that shocked to see you. But he was shocked to notice the yellow tinge in your eyes. Fuck. 

“Bliss–” Bradleys eyes were nearly blown out of his skull at the sight of you. “Are you alright?” He knew. He knew instantly that you weren't alright. With Yellow eyes and skin that looked hot and flustered to the touch, you were surely in pain. 

“Somethings wrong with me.” You replied as you pushed past Bradley into his home. “Somethings wrong with me–” The feeling of his skin brushing against your burned, why did he have to parade around shirtless in his own home? 

“Hey hey, tell me what's wrong.” Bradley held you still in the front hallway of his humble abode. This was it, what he’d been waiting for. “Bliss.” He was trying to catch your gaze, but the way the yellow haze danced across your eyes was hard to miss. You were there, but you weren’t there. The lights were on but no one was home. At the wheel was an electric labido. 

“I went home.” You started as you swallowed nervously. The last thing you ever thought you'd do was to tell Bradley Bradshaw about how you got yourself off. “And–and I was feeling a little weird, but like I really, really needed to just get myself off.” Rooster's throat constricted at the thought. He wasn't going to deny he hadn’t thought about what you looked like while you came. But listening to you talk about it made his cock twitch in his sweats. Even giving the circumstances. “So I did, but–but the second I uh–came, I was in so much pain. It hurt, burned even and now i'm sweating and I can't breathe and my body feels like it's not my own and–” 

“Bliss?” Bradley saw the look in your eyes. He could hardly recognise you right now. There was something behind them that was screaming he was in trouble. Big trouble. But you were the one in danger. 

“I need you to touch me, because when I touch myself it burns, it gets worse.” Bradleys hands fell from your arms as he stood before you, he couldn't, even if it was the only thing that could stop the drug currently controlling your mind from killing you. He knew this wasn't you talking. He’d be taking advantage. Rooster had found himself between a rock and a hard place. Regardless of his course of action–he was the bad guy either way. But he always wanted to be the bad guy, he always wanted to be yours. 

“I can't.” He sighed as you whined. Your knees were practically giving in from the pain. “I can't help you Y/n I'm sorry–but I can't.” Your eyes welled with tears, the pain was all too much to mask. It was consuming you entirely and nothing you tried had worked. If anything it just made the pain worse. You needed to get fucked. 

“Rooster please!--” You cried, tears fell freely down your cheeks. “I dont know whats wrong with me but I need you.” 

“Surely there is someone else you can go to for this?” It was the last stitch effort to get you out of this mess without having to do it himself. “Hangman–?” It killed him to suggest it but Rooster would rather him be the bad guy then himself. He knew whoever it was you'd end up hating the next morning. And you already hated him enough for one lifetime. “What about Hunk? The WSO?” 

“I don't want anyone but you.” It was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “I've been in love with you since we were kids, Rooster, and I need you to fuck me right now because I’m scared if you don’t my heads going to explode.” You cried in the hallways before Bradley. On the inside you were desperate for your lips to stop moving. You were outing yourself and your deepest darkest secret. But you needed Bradley and needed him bad. 

“It's the Yellow Jacket talking, Bliss.” Bradley sighed to himself as he tucked your hair behind your ear and wiped away your tears. “You don't love me.” He wished you did, he wished he didn’t have to go to these lengths to get you to love him, to need him, to want him. 

“Please kiss me.” You begged as you leaned into Bradley touch. It soothed your skin under his palm like nothing ever could. His touch alone made everything hurt less even if it was the most gentle and the most fleeting of touches. “Rooster, I need you.” 

“Again, it's the Yellow Jacket–” 

“So fucking do something to help me!” You snapped. “God if you know what's happening to me then help me!” It was sheer desperation to feel relief you couldn't give yourself. “Am I not good enough to take advantage of? Huh? Is that it Bradshaw?” You hissed as you shoved at Roosters chest. “Am I not even good enough to be used?” 

“Stop it.” Rooster took the chest beating, but he gripped at your wrists to stop you eventually. “Bliss, cut it out!” He was losing his ability to control his emotions. He was losing his ability to not want to take advantage of you right now. Because here you were–in his home, horny as you ever would be begging him to fuck you. But even with that drug controlling your mind, he couldn't. “Stop!” 

“Fuck me and ill stop.” It was your attempt to get what you needed as your lips came up to press themselves against Bradley's neck. He froze in response as his length all but hardened to new heights. “I'll be such a good girl for you.” It came out as a mumble against Bradley's skin as you trailed your lips down his neck towards his collarbone. “I'll let you do whatever you want–” 

It's just the drug talking, it's just the drug talking, it's just the drug talking, Rooster had to remind himself over and over as your hands slowly but surely ran down his chest, down his torso and settled at the waistband of his sweats. His own still held your wrists tight. He wanted this, he wanted you. 

“Whatever you want Roo, it’ll be between you and me.” You were seducing him and it was working. Bradley Bradshaw thought he had more willpower than this. But you were like a siren singing an enhancing song to a lone sailor on the sea. Desperate and ready for him. “I need you so badly Roo, please fuck me like all the girls I know you pretend are me.”  

Like Bradley had told Jake earlier in the night, he was going to hell. Because before you could snake your hand inside his sweats, Bradley was pushing you up against the nearest wall and attaching his lips to yours in a feverish kiss that knocked the wind right out of your lungs. 

“Would you just shut the fuck up already?” Rooster growled as his tongue danced with yours. And maybe it was his ego swinging, or maybe it was you, but flashes or every fight, every battle the two of you had ever had came back to him in a blur. 

“Oh god, you feel so good.” It was the relief you had been chasing, a touch that was more than just your own. “Roos—“ Bradley trained his hands all over your body, making light work of the crew neck jumper you wore and the sweats that pooled into a ball of fabric at your feet. There had been no time for underwear. “Please—I just need you inside me, my head is spinning.” 

“I know, I know it hurts and I know you’re only saying these things because you can’t help it but Bliss I swear if you don’t stop talking I’m not gonna be able to stop.” But diesel is desire and Bradley Bradshaw was playing with fire. Truthfully, he didn’t want you to stop telling him all the things he’d think of in the dead of the night. 

“I’ll shut up when you fuck me so good I can’t speak—“ You urged Bradley to pick you up by the backs of the knees after he’d rid himself of his clothes. Both naked in his hallway pressed up against one another. “God I want you—“ 

Bradley could see just how yellow your eyes truly were in the dimly lit hall. He knew this was going to end badly as he pumped his first up and down his throbbing length. 

“Are you sure you want this?” He knew that the yes that came next was still a no. He knew you well enough to know this wasn’t you, this wasn’t something you’d ever want or do. Not with him anyway. 

‘No! No, let me die! I don’t want any of this!’ 

“Yes, yes I want you.” It turned into something bigger though—somewhere through the yellow haze you had a sense you’d been betrayed. On the inside you were screaming, begging Rooster to see that in reality you didn’t want this. None of this was really your talking. 

‘Don’t do this to me—please Rooster.’

You loved Rooster—but you didn’t love him enough to put aside your valid concerns. He wasn’t good enough for you, and you weren’t even on his radar. 

“Tell me when to stop.” Is all he said before the angry and throbbed head of his hard length was pressing into your sex. It felt like a knife digging into your soul but the fluttering feeling of euphoria washed over you for the first time since your body had been exposed to the mind controlling poison. “Bliss, oh my god baby you feel like heaven.” 

All you wanted to do was cry out into the void of the night. Hell had frozen over, your entire world was collapsing around you and yet all you could do was sink your nails into Bradley’s shoulders and drool as he buried himself to the hilt in your dripping pussy. 

“More—“ It was like your entire body had been lit up. “Fuck me, Rooster.” 

“I know baby I know.” It was the teasing tone, the all knowing smirk that Bradley was wearing that made your heart sink into your stomach. The last thing you remembered before your vison went completely black was Braldeys lips against your flushed neck as his hips fucked into you slowly. The sound of your arousal coating his cock would haunt you forever. 

“I’m gonna take care of you Bliss, don’t you worry.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Your body felt like it had been run over by a freight train as you laid splayed out, completely naked on top of the bedding of what you could only assume was Bradley’s queen sized bed. 

Everything hurt, every muscle, every fibre of your being hurt. But the thing that hurt the most was the way your heart ached inside your chest. How could Rooster do this? How could he use your body the way he did, how could he justify his actions, his choices. He knew you weren’t in your right state of mind—he should have known better than to believe you wanted him to do the things he did. 

“You’re awake?” It was Bradley's voice that had you turning to face him by the bedroom door as you sat up. “I wasn’t sure how long you were gonna be out for, but I thought coffee would be a good place to start.” 

“Why?” You didn’t have anything else to say as tears welled in your eyes. You needed to leave, get as far away from Bradley Bradshaw as you possibly could. Sure he wasn’t the one who drugged you and sure you were the one who showed up at his house—but you didn’t want any of this. Even if the drugs made it seem like you did. “Why did you listen to me? You know me, you knew I wouldn’t have—“ You barely had a chance to finish your sentence before Rooster was stepping into his bedroom again. 

He didn’t speak as he handed you the coffee cup, full of coffee just the way he knew you liked. He watched silently as you took a sip, drinking down the brown liquid like it was your very lifeline. He smirked with a wild grin as he fished out another empty vial of Yellow Jacket and sat it next to you on his bed. 

That's when you looked down at your coffee and saw it, the fizz. No. No it couldn’t be—Rooster wouldn’t. Would he? 

“Because when Adam told me he’d spike you with this new drug that he came across it was really hard to resist.” Rooster tilted your chin so you were looking at him with wide, heartbroken eyes. “It was all his idea, the set up, the confrontation, everything—“ Bradley admitted as he smirked, pushing some stray hair’s behind your ear as your heart raced to the point you swore it was about to break through your chest. “He told me to make it look believable, so that no one would suspect a thing, I didn’t even know what this stuff was or what it did but he assured me, you’d be such a needy little thing.” Braldey had never sounded less like himself than he did in those few moments when you realised this was all his doing. “And I’m going to hell anyway, so why not take you with me.”

“No—“ It was a never ending hell. “Rooster you wouldn’t.” You tried to comprehend the situation, the danger you were in. “You wouldn’t—“

“I did.” Bradley replied calmly as he brought your head forward so that he could leave a lingering kiss upon your forehead. 

“And now that I know just how feral this shit makes you, I don't think I’ll ever stop dosing you baby.”  ***~***~***~****~***~***~***~***~**

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers s @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

[kryptidfiles]

Straight To The Good Part

David!Clark Kent x Fiance!Female!Reader

Tags: FLUFF, ROMANTIC CLARK, SOFT CLARK, Mentions of Sex, Established Relationship, You Get Shit Done, Elopement, Slice of Life, Jimmy knows is Clark Kent is Superman, Lois knows Clark Kent is Superman, The Kents Make An Appearance, Lois is Exasperated

It starts as Jimmy’s well-meaning project to document your engagement year. It quickly turns into something real when Clark has the chance to watch an early edit of the cut. Between secret plans, quiet laughter, and stolen moments, you and Clark discover that love just can't wait for perfect timing. “I don’t want to wait anymore.” “For what?” “For the rest of it.” “So… you’re thinking about getting straight to the good part, too?”

wc 9k | main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries

I actually cried writing this 🤧

.

It started with sunlight.

The window caught the morning’s clean, golden warmth, and it flared against the ring on your left hand as you reached for your coffee. Clark’s ring. He had forged it himself, molten metal shaped by careful hands, modest enough to look ordinary but strong enough to survive anything.

Clark tried not to stare, but his eyes kept finding it. Kept finding you.

The sight of it—of you, wearing it—still left him short of breath.

You were at Townhouse, tucked on a quiet corner just off Centennial Avenue. It always smelled faintly of coffee and sugar, sunlight spilling through wide front windows onto polished wood tables. Every table held a small glass vase—always fresh flowers, never quite the same mix twice.

The DeLuca's, a married couple who had run the place for over twenty years, knew most of their regulars by name. But you and Clark were their favorites. Or that's what Clark told himself. They saved your usual table by the window when they saw his tall frame and mop of curly hair, already knowing your orders before you sat down—your black coffee, Clark’s hot chocolate, your shared plate of pancakes, no matter the season.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was home in the way only certain places could be—cozy, constant, a little timeless. The walls were lined with framed photos of brunches and small celebrations; you and Clark had probably been in a few without realizing it.

For most people, Townhouse was a weekend treat. For you and Clark, it had quietly become the backdrop to an entire relationship—where first anniversaries were celebrated, job promotions toasted, and the engagement announced with shaky hands and shining eyes over syrup and sunlight.

You sat close, shoulders brushing. Across the table, Jimmy leaned back in his chair, his Canon camera perched between his hands like an extra limb, grin bright enough to rival the sunlight.

“So,” Jimmy said, after drawing out the suspense with theatrical flair, “as your best man, I’ve decided on my wedding gift.”

Clark’s instincts braced for impact. “Jimmy…”

“No, no, hear me out!” Jimmy waved a hand. “This is going to be great. I’m documenting your entire engagement year. A full behind-the-scenes reel. Tasteful, cinematic, very you. Think of it as—” he gestured dramatically, “—the Planet Exclusive: The Kents Before the Kents.”

You lit up immediately, excited and amused. “You’re serious?”

Jimmy beamed. “Totally! I’ve got the gear, the editing setup, the eye for romance—Lois says I’m the Scorsese of engagement videos. I’ll follow you two around for a bit, capture the magic—dates, holidays, all the stuff people love in those sentimental reels. You’ll thank me at the anniversary dinner when you’re sobbing into your champagne.”

Clark’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, pancake sliding off. “You’re going to follow us around?”

Somewhere toward the back of the restaurant, a small private room door opened and closed, followed by a burst of laughter and cheers from a mid-morning celebration. Clark glanced toward the sound—another milestone, another story being marked in this same little restaurant.

Jimmy held up both palms, getting his attention again. “Not all the time! Respectable distance, promise. I’ll keep it documentary-style. Voice-over narration, tasteful montages, none of that intrusive paparazzi nonsense. I’ll even edit out any…” He glanced at Clark meaningfully. “…suspiciously fast costume changes. Scout’s honor. Think of it like a nature doc. National Geographic, but with feelings.”

You laughed, the sound easy and bright, and Clark’s jaw softened before he could stop it. He leaned back in his chair, half-defeated, half-enchanted. You reached for his hand and squeezed once.

“Oh, this will be so fun,” you breathed. “I've always wanted something like this!”

He glanced down at your joined hands, your ring glinting between your fingers. The soft whorl of your thumb against his skin anchored him; it always did.

“Clark, you just focus on us, okay?” you gushed. “Because it’ll be nice to see ourselves from someone else’s perspective for once. You’re always the one behind the saving, the fixing. Let someone else do the documenting.”

He studied your face, your words, reading between the lines. He knew—painfully—that you had grown up in a home without many photographs or home videos, that moments weren’t captured the way they were in his own childhood. And now, with your parents gone, there was no one to fill in those gaps.

Watching you smile, animated and full of life, he realized that this little project—Jimmy’s camera, the endless candid footage—could give you a kind of permanence you never had before. A record of joy, of love, of ordinary and extraordinary moments alike.

Something in him unwound at that, the knot in his chest easing.

Jimmy was already fumbling with his camera. “Just a test shot! Don’t mind me. Keep doing whatever adorable thing you were just doing.”

Clark shot him an amused look over his glasses. “You mean eating breakfast?”

“Exactly! Authenticity sells.”

You snorted into your cup, whispering, “Come on, Clark. Smile for the documentary.”

He did. Awkwardly at first, the corner of his mouth twitching up in self-conscious protest. But then you tilted your head toward him, brushing your shoulder against his bicep, and the smile caught—real this time, soft and unguarded.

Jimmy lowered the camera a beat later, eyebrows raised. “See? This is gold. Natural chemistry. I can already hear the background music.”

Clark groaned. “You’re going to make a montage, aren’t you?”

“Oh, several, just ‘cause you asked. Maybe a slow-mo section, too.”

You giggled, leaning in just enough that Clark could feel the warmth of you against him. “You’re doomed, baby.”

“Completely,” he agreed, but his tone carried more affection than complaint.

Jimmy kept filming while you talked—little domestic rhythms that Clark barely noticed until he saw Jimmy’s lens catch them: your fingers circling the rim of your mug when you were thinking, the way your lips pursed when you were trying not to smile too big, how you unconsciously leaned toward him whenever someone else laughed.

To anyone else, they would have seemed trivial. To Clark, they were everything.

He wondered if that was what Jimmy would see in the footage later—not Superman, not the Daily Planet’s mild-mannered reporter, just this quiet thread of a life he was building with you.

“Okay,” Clark said finally, setting down his fork. “You win. One year of your project. But you stick to your promise—respectable distance. No helicopter shots. No hidden mics.”

Jimmy clapped once, triumphant. “Scout’s honor! This is going to be beautiful, man.”

Clark buried his face in his hands, and you burst out laughing, your voice ringing across the café like a bell. When he looked up again, Jimmy had the camera tilted just so—sunlight in your hair, your laughter blooming, the ring gleaming with life.

And for a fleeting moment, Clark didn’t mind being caught on film like this.

Because when he saw the footage later, he knew—he would see what Jimmy saw.

He would see you.

.

It’s only been five months, and Clark’s beginning to realize how often you make him smile—how often you make him feel.

Jimmy promised to keep a respectable distance, but “respectable” still meant everywhere. Every aisle, every café corner, every shadowed street: there was always that faint red blink of Jimmy’s camera. 

And always, you.

.

There were the drop-offs. 

You started visiting the Planet on your days off. Sometimes you brought a homemade meal, sometimes take-out from Mali’s, sometimes just coffee and that mischievous tilt of your smile that made Clark forget deadlines. Jimmy lurked near the bullpen printer, pretending to adjust camera settings while everyone pretended not to notice.

Clark watched you approach his desk, the shy little smile you gave when he leaned down to kiss you in front of colleagues, the way you slid your hand over his arm before setting down lunch. He pretended not to notice the camera, though the tips of his ears always went pink, and he thanked you softly, the way he always did, like gratitude was a habit he could never outgrow.

Jimmy’s lens hummed softly. Clark tried to type, but your fingers sneaked one French fry up to his lips, and his composure dissolved. 

Later, when Jimmy sent him a still frame — your head tipped toward Clark’s shoulder, sunlight striping both of you — Clark stared far longer than he cared to admit.

.

Then there were the pick-ups. Dusk in Metropolis, the air biting with early-winter chill. Clark met you outside Metropolis General, your shift badge still clipped to your scrubs, taking your work bag wordlessly. Jimmy trailed half a block behind, camera half-hidden in his coat.

You talked about your day; Clark talked about deadlines. The city hummed around you. At one crosswalk, a gust tore your scarf loose. Before he could think, Clark caught it mid-air, tying it back around your neck. You didn’t even blink at the speed — just grinned and said, “My hero.”

Jimmy caught it, of course. The footage showed nothing impossible, only a blur of motion and the quiet way Clark looked at you afterward, as if the world’s noise had thinned to silence.

.

Your apartment looked like a Hallmark set gone wrong — countertops dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg, you half-laughing, half-scolding. Clark’s apron reading KISS THE COOK because Jimmy thought it was funny, but you took it literally. 

Jimmy had set up a tripod for your “holiday prep vlog.” Clark tried to fold pie crust with surgical precision.

“Loosen up, honey,” you said. “It’s pie, not a Pulitzer submission.”

Jimmy’s commentary drifted from the kitchen. “Our couple demonstrates patience under pastry pressure.”

You flicked flour at Clark; he retaliated with whipped cream. Jimmy declared it cinematic gold.

Then came packing for Smallville for Thanksgiving weekend. Clark folded clothes with geometric precision; you threw your sweaters in without regard. You teased him for over-organizing; he teased you for bringing three scarves for a two-day trip. Somewhere in the middle of it, he kissed you — quick, unthinking, but caught on camera anyway.

Then, Jimmy mentioned Martha and Jonathan getting bonus footage. Clark froze mid-zipper as you straddled your overpacked suitcase.

“You will not harass my parents.”

“Okay, two things: one, harass is a strong term. Two: they’re thrilled! Your mom’s already got her old camera out!”

Clark groaned into his hands, but at the farmhouse that weekend, he endured it with a kind of helpless love, because he knew every frame would capture you laughing between his parents and the Kansas sunset kissing your face, utterly at ease.

.

For Christmas Eve, you insisted on a mistletoe. Jimmy hovered with his camera until Clark sighed, helpless, drawing you close and kissing you — deeply, slowly, genuinely, filmed through the twinkle of tree lights. Jimmy whooped, “That’s the cover shot!”

It was supposed to be playful, staged. Then it wasn’t. Jimmy cleared his throat and pretended to adjust focus while you giggled against Clark’s chest. 

Later, Clark replayed the night in his mind: the warmth of your laughter, the glow of the lights on your face, the way you kissed his jaw softly before whispering, “Merry Christmas, baby.”

.

New Year’s Eve. You both counted down at Jimmy’s rooftop, mingling with his neighbors.

Pop! 

A stray cork hurtled toward your face before anyone could react — Clark’s hand was there, lightning-fast. Everyone cheered.

Jimmy’s camera wobbled. “Dude, you never cease to amaze me.”

Clark shrugged, deadpan. “Eh, fast reflexes.”

You looked up at him, admiring. “That’s one way to put it.”

Midnight hit. You tugged him down by the collar and kissed him, radiant in the fireworks’ glow — hair messy, cheeks flushed. Clark’s chest ached in the best way.

.

Jimmy mercifully gave you both Valentine’s Day off—he had a date himself. But the next morning, he cornered Clark at the Planet, camera rolling.

“So, Big Guy… had a fun night?”

Clark nearly drops his coffee. “Jimmy! Good gosh, where’d you come from?”

“Just answer the question! Need to know if the doc needs, you know, a censored segment.”

Before Clark could scold him, his phone buzzed. Your name. As if you had a sixth sense. He answered, smiling.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Your voice, sleep-rough, teased: “Hi, honey. I’m incredibly sore this morning. Guess we over-did it. Five times? Sheesh, so happy I got to sleep in today. See you later for lunch?”

Clark went scarlet. Jimmy’s jaw dropped.

“Y-yes, sweetheart. Later. Uh… you’re on speaker,” Clark said tightly, repeatedly clearing his throat. 

The rustle of sheets, and you cackled. “Jimmy, did you get that on film?”

“...I might.”

Clark hung up in a blur of mortification before you could say anything else.

Lois passed by, muttering, “You two are gonna be insufferable when you’re married.”

Jimmy held back what sounded like a strangled cough, “They’re insufferable now!”

Clark had a feeling that clip — his red-eared glare over his glasses at the camera — became Jimmy’s favorite blooper.

.

The footage got softer — domestic, unassuming, human.

You and Clark stood side by side in aprons that read METROPOLIS CARES, serving meals at the soup kitchen. Your hands brushed while sneaking smiles. Jimmy hovered near the donations table, balancing the camera between stacks of bread.

“Maybe more serving, less filming?” Clark suggested.

“Are you kidding?” Jimmy whispered back. “Look at you two—coordinated angels in hairnets.”

You rolled your eyes, smile hidden behind a surgical mask. Clark pretended not to blush when your hand squeezed his forearm.

When a child slipped and spilled his soup, Clark’s hand moved faster than the camera could follow — steadying the bowl before a single drop hit the floor. He passed it back with an easy grin, gentle enough that no one thought twice. Jimmy’s camera found that gesture.

“Super reflexes, huh?” Jimmy muttered.

Clark cleared his throat. “Reporter reflexes.”

You giggled and gave him a knowing look. “Sure, sweetheart.”

That night, Clark lay awake thinking about how your laughter had echoed through that tiled hall — how simple it felt to help, side by side. He had saved cities. But this? This felt like the kind of saving that lasted.

.

You and Clark grocery-shopped on a random Saturday, Jimmy pushing the cart like a third wheel. You debated cereal brands like philosophers. Tasted grapes together. Clark snuck in a box of hot chocolate; you added an extra box when you noticed.

“Notice the domestic synchronization — unspoken communication in the produce aisle,” Jimmy narrated.

You threw an apple at him with a teasing grin.

In the baby section, Clark picked up a tiny pair of mittens, placing them in his large palm with that quiet, careful concentration. You lingered next to him, scanning the socks and soft toys, your hands brushing as you reached for a plush bear. 

Jimmy, from the aisle over, caught it all on camera, his face softening at the unspoken tenderness he’d stumbled into.

At the register, a power surge flickered the lights. Clark steadied the elderly cashier before she stumbled; you paid for the next customer’s bread without comment.

Shakespeare in the Park came next — you in his jacket, head on his shoulder, his arm around your waist while the crowd laughed at a well-timed pun. Clark’s sure the camera’s caught him not watching the play, but watching you.

“Don’t you dare cry,” you whispered when Clark discreetly wiped his eyes at the ending.

He scoffed, embarrassed. “It’s—uh—tragic timing. They did an excellent job.”

“You big ol’ mush.”

“Your big ol’ mush,” he murmured softly.

.

It was toward the end of February when Jimmy asked Clark to come over after work.

Jimmy’s apartment smelled faintly of Chinese takeout, a stack of half-charged batteries, memory cards, and lenses spread across his editing rig. The room was bathed in blue light, and the file labeled “The Best Man Project – Rough Cut (v.2)” was cued up on the monitor.

Clark sat on the couch with a carton of food, tie loosened, glasses off, anticipation knotting his stomach. He didn’t know what to expect — he guessed grocery aisles, clinking mugs, dramatic hand-holding?

“Don’t get too critical just yet,” Jimmy said, breaking his chopsticks. “It’s still in edit mode, but it’s almost half a year of footage. I want you to see it. Color’s not graded. Transitions need tweaking. Some audio spliced. And… Lois might’ve given me a few notes.”

Clark eyed him warily. “Define ‘notes.’”

“She thought you could use more close-ups.”

“Of what?”

“Your face.”

Clark snorted, “Of course she did. Denied.”

Jimmy grinned, spun in his chair, and hit play.

Sunlight streamed across the opening shot — the café where it all began, your engagement ring catching the morning light. Jimmy had added a soft guitar track underneath, nostalgic, almost embarrassingly tender. 

Clark winced, “You’re going to make me look ridiculous.”

“Buddy, you do that all on your own. Now hush.”

Then came the clips, strung together like pearls:

You feeding Clark a fry at the Planet, then turning to snag a handful when he wasn’t looking. 

Clark catching the child’s bowl at the soup kitchen, your awe-struck face in the back. 

Grocery aisles, cereal debates, hot chocolate sneaks, tiny mittens and socks in the baby section, laughter caught at just the right angle.

Jimmy’s voice comes faintly over one clip: “Observe the rare Clark Kent in his natural habitat…”

Clark groaned, “You kept the narration.”

“Obviously,” Jimmy says around a mouthful of lo mein. “It’s the best part.”

But each moment has a kind of accidental intimacy. Clark didn’t realize how much Jimmy had caught — the way his hand always seemed to find your waist, or how your fingers sought his when crossing a street. The way his expression softened whenever you enter a frame.

Then, Smallville packing chaos— you sitting on your suitcase, giggling while Clark tried not to overdo his superstrength to close it. The quick, unthinking kiss captured on camera. 

Christmas Eve under the mistletoe, the kiss tender and real, Jimmy giving just enough space to preserve intimacy. 

Onscreen, there’s footage of you at Shakespeare in the Park. You're bundled in Clark’s jacket, your head on his shoulder as the crowd applauds. Clark’s eventual own voice, muffled: “Your big ol’ mush.”

Then the subtitle Jimmy added: Possessive pronouns in the wild.

Clark can’t help smiling. He’s embarrassed, sure, but there’s a fondness threading through the mortification. It’s strange, seeing himself like this. Not as Superman, not as a headline — just a man.

The video faded to the “Valentine’s Aftermath.”

Clark braced, but Jimmy trimmed the audio. Clark suspected it's to save your dignity more than his, because it’s only half the phone call — starting with your laugh, his mortified expression, Lois cackling off-camera. The caption read: And they say romance is dead.

Then, mercifully, the tone softened.

The screen faded to black before opening on the quiet moments Jimmy caught between the chaos. No jokes. No captions. Just the sound of your laughter under sunlight, Clark’s voice low and warm.

Then the reel cut to slow motion: you brushing your thumb over his knuckles, the sunlight haloing your hair.

Clark leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching a still frame of you. His chest tightened. He could feel the way his heart seemed too big for his ribs. 

It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Painfully so.

.

When the video ended, Jimmy didn’t say anything. He was busy picking sesame seeds off his jeans. The computer fans whirled softly.

“You… really put this much time into it,” Clark mused.

Jimmy shrugged. “Oh course. You’re my best friend. And it turns out, you’re photogenic when you’re not pretending not to be.”

Clark laughed quietly. “I didn’t realize how—happy we look. I mean, I know we are. But—”

Jimmy raised a brow. “It’s just hard for you to stop long enough to notice, right? You’ve got a good thing going, man.”

He remembered every frame — not only because of how you looked, but because of how he looked when you were near.

Jimmy leaned back, folding his arms. “You know, Lois thought this project might freak you out. Got too close. But she was wrong. You’re, like… a natural at being in love.”

Clark smiled faintly. “You sound surprised.”

“I’ve seen you pull satellites out of orbit. Bench-press collapsing abandoned buildings without batting an eye. Do literally the impossible. But this—” he gestured vaguely, “—looking at someone like that? That is a league of its own.”

Clark’s throat tightened around something he can’t quite name. “Yeah.”

Jimmy pushed off his chair and dug through his fridge to make space for his leftovers. 

He tossed a bottle of water to Clark without warning, then nodded toward the monitor. “You gonna tell her you saw the rough cut?”

Clark caught the bottle easily and twisted the cap off, contemplating. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You’re welcome, by the way. I gave you guys, like, a twelve-hour grace period for Valentine’s. Professional courtesy.”

Clark barked a laugh. “That’s what you call it?”

“Please. I had my own date. A man’s gotta prioritize.”

“So generous of you.”

Jimmy grinned, then sobered a little. “You know, jokes aside, this thing’s important. Years from now, you’ll have proof that life wasn’t all rescues and deadlines. It'll be right up there along with your parents’ home videos. Just the two of you — ordinary, extraordinary, together.”

Clark stared at the frozen image on the screen — you, laughing into sunlight, your hand over his. His chest ached, warm and full.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “The two of us.”

.

When Clark left Jimmy’s apartment an hour later, snow was falling — the thin, early kind that clung to coats and hair. He didn’t fly tonight. He walked.

Through the quiet streets of Metropolis, past the hum of taxis and the soft glow of streetlamps, his mind replayed the culmination of Jimmy’s footage. Your face, your voice, the moments in between.

Only five months, and yet it already felt like a lifetime captured in frames.

Clark had spent so long hiding pieces of himself behind glasses and headlines, but that video — it had shown him living. Not saving the world. Not rushing toward danger. Just loving someone inside it.

By the time he reached your shared apartment, he already knew what he would say the moment he saw you.

That he wasn’t as strong as he thought. That he couldn’t wait another seven months, another staged engagement moment, another meticulously planned ceremony delayed by deadlines or world-saving.

He didn’t want ‘perfect’. He wanted now. He wanted you.

.

The apartment was dim when Clark got home, city noise tucked beneath the hum of the refrigerator. You were curled on the couch in his old flannel, laptop open, blanket draped over your bare legs, a forgotten mug on the coffee table.

He closed the door softly behind him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice still warm from the night.

You looked up. “Hey! You’re late coming home.”

He smiled, “Yeah, I walked from Jimmy’s.”

You shifted on the couch, and Clark felt your stare on him, then: “I was looking at restaurants for your birthday. Anything you’re craving?”

Clark huffed a small laugh. “That’s not for another few days.”

“Still,” you said, tilting your head, “you know how the weekend can get. Or you want to stay in?” Your smile faltered slightly. “Are you okay? You look…a little far away. Did something happen?”

He finally sat beside you, loosening his tie completely and sliding his glasses into his dress shirt pocket. He knew hair still carried the faint scent of Jimmy’s apartment — Chinese take-out and burnt coffee. He offered a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“He showed me an edit,” he said finally, gently scooping your legs onto his lap. “Of the footage so far.”

You shifted your laptop, eyes bright. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He leaned forward slightly, massaging your calves and ankles. “I thought it’d be funny mundane, cheesy stuff — holding hands, hugging, kissing, ya know? But it was… it was more than that. He caught things I didn’t even notice. The way you look at me… the way I—” He swallowed, quiet. “—the way I look at you.”

Clark watched you study him in the half-light. You reached for his hand, and he felt a tether in your squeeze.

“So it’s good, then?” you asked.

“Better than good,” he said, still caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “It was beautiful. It made me think.”

“About?”

His thumb traced the line of your cheek, the curve of your jaw, before pressing a kiss to your lips. “How incredible you are, how lucky I am. How happy we are. Everything in that video was so us. I just—” He exhales, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead against yours. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Your pulse stuttered beneath his hands. “For what?”

“For the rest of it.”

You blinked, then whispered, “So… you’re thinking about getting straight to the good part, too?”

His eyes flicked to yours, startled, then softened with dawning amusement. “Too?”

“Well,” you teased, biting your lip, “it has been a thought that’s come up almost every hour since you proposed. Early enough to get refunds, you know. That white gown in the back of my closet? For any galas? Price tag’s still on.”

He laughed — low, warm, something that settled in Clark’s chest and refused to leave. He kissed your knuckles, heart aching in that light, easy way you always had. “You’d really want to?”

You tilted your head. “Would you?”

For a heartbeat, the question hung between you like static. Then his voice softened, a grin blooming: “More than anything, sweetheart.”

You were already half-turned toward your laptop, typing furiously. “There’s a twenty-four hour grace period once we pay the fees and sign in-person. Hypothetically, if a couple were very eager and maybe wanted to skip a twelve-hour guest list, weeks of handwritten thank-you letters, months of table seating arguments…”

“…We could get married this weekend,” Clark finished softly, eyes wide. Then a grin tugged at his mouth. “Sounds like you’ve been researching.”

“Don’t judge! I'm a nurse. Comes with the territory. Plus, I’m marrying an incredible journalist —have to keep my facts straight.”

You’re clicking through the city clerk website, reading the instructions. “We can plan something small, simple. But no courthouse.”

“No?”

“I…I have an idea.” You passed your phone. “What do you think? We can ask if the private room’s available, a few candles, a small meal with a few special people?"

Clark’s eyes softened in that way that always unmoored you, the look that said you just thought of everything I didn’t know I wanted.

He passed your phone back and leaned closer, voice low. “You really think it’ll be available?”

You smirked. “I’m sure something can be worked out. They like us. Or at least they like your tipping habits. Besides, I can be persuasive. Let me call them before you change your mind.”

“Change my— sweetheart,” he leaned down, kissing you quick and stunned, “I brought this up first!”

“Okay! Okay! While I call the restaurant, I need you to call Ma and Pa! They’d kill us if they weren't here for this.”

Clark watched you toggle airline sites, typing and clicking with effortless multitasking. “We can handle tickets,” he muttered, rubbing his face, grinning helplessly. “We’re really doing this.”

“Doing what?” you teased, glancing up. “Planning a birthday celebration on your birthday weekend. Totally special and innocent.”

He laughed, full and fond, chest tight in that way he only felt around you, and dug his phone from his pocket. “That’s how we’re playing it? Alright, sweetheart, when Ma inevitably sees through me in two seconds, I’m blaming you.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Watch me, baby.”

Clark stepped into the kitchen for privacy. “Hey, Ma! I was just thinking maybe you and Pa could fly out to Metropolis this weekend. Yeah—yeah, I know it's short notice. Just… It’d be nice to see you guys, my birthday and all….”

He smiled, listening to her soft excitement on the other end. “Awe, Ma, thanks. We're planning a nice dinner….Yeah, yeah, no, we can cover the fair…. No, promise, we want to.”

He looked back toward the living room. You met his eyes over the top of your laptop, that conspiratorial spark in your expression nearly undoing him. You pointed at your screen, whispering, “Saturday morning. Round-trip for your folks. I even added refundable protection in case they catch on early.”  While you’re on hold with the restaurant.

He grinned faintly and returned to his call. “...You're all set, Ma. We'll send the ticket confirmation to your e-mail… I can't wait either…. Tell Pa I said hi… Good night, Ma. I love you, too.”

Clark had barely set his phone down when he noticed you pacing the living room, laptop balanced in one hand, phone pressed to your ear. Your voice was bright — that particular brand of polite determination he’d learned to recognize as you’re about to talk someone into something impossible.

“Hi, Mrs. DeLuca? It’s me — yes, hi! I know, I know, we just saw you the other Sunday, the cinnamon brioche was criminally good—” You laughed softly, spinning in place while you waited for the owner to respond.

Clark leaned against the doorway, half-smiling. Your hair was mussed from where you’d been running your hands through it, your free hand gesturing animatedly as you spoke. Watching you mid-plan always felt like standing too close to sunlight — impossible not to be drawn in.

“Yes, actually, I had a small… question. Or a favor, really.” You paused, listening. “You know how Townhouse has that private room near the back, the one you use for small parties sometimes? Would there be any chance — any at all — that we could reserve it this Saturday evening?”

Clark heard Mrs. DeLuca’s voice on the other end, warm but hesitant.

“I know it’s last-minute,” you said quickly, smiling nervously. “And I swear we’ll keep it small. Six people, tops. We just—” You glanced at Clark, your voice softening without meaning to. “We want to have our wedding there.”

Clark straightened, his chest tight, a surprised laugh nearly breaking from him.

Clark heard a noise between a scream and a gasp, and you laughed again — the sound watery this time. “Yeah. I know, right? We couldn’t wait, and we couldn’t think of anywhere else.”

You walked to the counter, fingers drumming anxiously. “No, no, you don’t have to close off the whole space, we’d never ask that. Just the back room, a quiet dinner after. And if you could keep the lights a little dim — oh, and that string-light thing you do during the holidays?” 

You looked over at him, mouthing, I’m pushing it, before continuing, “Yes, that one.”

Clark grinned. There was another pause, then your expression softened completely — the kind of relief that made your shoulders drop and your eyes crinkle.

“Really? You mean it? Oh, thank you, thank you. Mrs. DeLuca, you are saving me from a very expensive wedding bill and a very panicked fiancé.”

Clark protested, smiling helplessly. “Hey!”

You bit your lip to suppress a laugh. “No, Clark’s right here — yes, of course I’ll tell him you said congratulations. I’ll be there tomorrow to go over the details? Perfect. And—thank you again. Truly.”

You hung up and exhaled, finally turning to face Clark with that unstoppable, radiant smile.“They said yes. The private room’s ours Saturday night. They even offered to put together a few decorations and a little dinner menu — she said she’s always wanted to host a wedding there.”

Clark crossed the space in two strides, wrapping you in his arms before you could even put the phone down. He laughed into your hair, the sound low and disbelieving. “We’re really doing this.”

You smiled against his chest. “Told you I could be persuasive.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, thumb tracing your jaw, the world narrowing to you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“My husband would say I’m a woman of action,” you teased, eyes bright. “He loves that about me.”

Clark kissed the corner of your smile, voice rough with affection. “He really does.”

.

By a little after ten, almost everything had fallen into place.

The marriage license application was submitted, the clerk was appointment confirmed. Flights were booked for his parents under the pretense of his birthday. The private room was secured, the officiant paid and signed, and: 

“Our favorite bakery has next-day pick-up!” you clapped, laughing into his chest. 

Clark watched, utterly undone, as you typed in an order for a small, one-tier chocolate cake — nothing fancy, just clean white frosting, a ribbon detail, and black ‘just married’ in cursive. You read the note aloud while typing it: ‘For a wedding (elopement). Keep it simple. Sweet. WHITE BOX WITHOUT WINDOW.’

He couldn’t help smiling. It all felt surreal — how quickly forever had turned into this weekend.

He then fired off a text to Lois:

Hey, are you free Saturday for dinner? Got reservations at Townhouse.

You and Clark gave each other an incredulous look when she replied almost instantly:

Occasion?

He glanced at you, smiling as he typed:

My birthday. My parents are in town. Do you mind picking up the cake?

Lois’s text bubble paused for a few moments, then:

Oh, right, leap year! We can actually celebrate on the day, Smallville. Say no more!

Minutes later, you text her with the bakery address and pick-up time:

Thank you again, Lois! The Kents are flying in for Clark’s birthday, so we'll be a little busy. See you then! 

Lois replied with a thumbs up and a heart emoji. 

Clark leaned back, a quiet warmth spreading through him. Everything was in motion now — the kind of secret that made his heart race. 

He opened one more chat and typed:

Hey Jimmy, thanks for tonight. I actually need you Saturday evening. Bring the camera. We’ve got dinner planned at Townhouse for my birthday, and a great idea for the documentary.

Jimmy’s response was instant.

Are you finally letting me film the proposal reenactment?! 

Clark smiled — that quiet, love-struck kind of smile that made his eyes go soft. His thumbs moved before he could stop them.

Sure

.

Later that night, the two of you lie tangled in bed, the citylight cutting soft against the bed sheets. Clark’s fingers drifted over the curve of your bare back, tracing slow, lazy circles — the shape of rings and promises not yet spoken aloud.

“You really meant it, right?” he asked quietly, his voice barely carrying in the dark. “You really want forever with me this soon?”

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. “Clark, we just had mind-blowing sex, and I was practically begging for forever to start yesterday.”

He flushed, smiling despite himself, and caught your hand before it could escape, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “I just want to make sure,” he murmured. “I don’t want to cheat you out of your dream wedding day.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek — rough with stubble, warm from the blush spreading there. “This is my dream wedding day, Clark. Anything that ends with you as my husband. The rest is just background noise.”

His hand found the back of your head, guiding you close enough for him to press a kiss against your forehead. “We sure are going to make some noise.”

You laughed, curling closer until your body fit perfectly against his. “We did plenty of that tonight already. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Mrs. DeLuca, then we’ll go to the clerk’s office on your lunch break, and after that… we wait for Saturday. Oh—tell Jimmy to bring backup batteries. I want everything recorded. Including everyone’s reactions.”

Clark chuckled against your temple, sliding his hand down to your hip and pulling you in until he could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ribs. “Anything for you, almost Mrs. Kent.”

You squealed, muffling it against his chest, your excitement radiating like warmth through the dark.

As your breathing slowed beside him, Clark stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. His heart was a thunder of something bright and reckless, something that felt a lot like peace.

He’d spent so long waiting for the right moment — the right time, the perfect everything.

But maybe the truth was simpler than that. Maybe the good part was already here.

.

The hum of the city was soft that night — the kind of hush Metropolis only offered when something good was about to happen.

Clark adjusted his tie for what had to be the sixth time in as many minutes. He wasn’t usually this fidgety — not when saving lives, not when walking into a press briefing, not even when facing Lois Lane on a caffeine shortage.

But tonight wasn’t about any of that. Tonight was his.

His thumb brushed the small velvet box in his pocket — a quiet reassurance that it was still there. Inside, nestled against deep blue satin, were the matching wedding bands he’d forged himself at the Fortress two nights earlier, in the hush of crystalline air and sunlight. Gold alloyed with trace Kryptonian metals, strong enough to withstand anything, yet light as a whisper when he’d held them up to the glow. 

He’d etched a single line of Kryptonian script along the inside of each: For all my lives, I’d find you.

He stood just outside the entrance to Townhouse, the restaurant’s warm, golden glow spilling across the sidewalk. Lois and Jimmy were already waiting at the curb, both dressed nicely, both assuming they were there for an intimate “birthday dinner.”

Jimmy spotted him first. “Hey! Fancy suit for a birthday boy.”

Clark smiled faintly, the lie sitting sweet and harmless on his tongue. “Had to make the most of it. Leap-year birthdays don’t come around often.”

Lois shifted the bakery box in her arms. “Where’s the fiancée?”

Before Clark could answer, his mother’s voice chimed from behind him — soft and practiced. “Oh, honey, she was called into work this morning. She sounded heartbroken about it.”

Lois blinked. “Wait—seriously!?”

Jonathan nodded solemnly. “Duty calls, I suppose. But I think she said she’ll be rushing here right after.”

Clark nearly laughed, pretending instead to fuss with his cufflinks. You’d texted him an hour ago — a photo of a garment bag draped across your shared bed after you’ve snuck back in, captioned:

I’ll be next to you soon, Mr. Kent.

He rested his hand over the pocket again — over the weight of what waited inside — and smiled to himself. In less than an hour, those rings would no longer be just something he’d made. They’d be a promise, sealed in candlelight, held between your hands.

He led the group toward the familiar front doors. Mrs. DeLuca greeted them warmly, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that made Clark suspect she’d been vibrating just as much as he had with the secret all day.

“This way, this way,” she urged, gesturing them down the hallway toward the back. A server offered to take the cake box from Lois. “We’ve got your table all ready.”

Jimmy lifted his camera instinctively. “Mind if I get a few shots for the ‘birthday reel’? Just for fun?”

Clark smiled. “I don’t mind. Just… keep it rolling.”

They stepped into the private room — and the noise outside seemed to fall away entirely.

Candles flickered on every table, and string lights hung low and golden overhead. The chairs were arranged in two neat rows facing an arch of greenery — simple, elegant, quietly perfect. At the front stood the officiant, waiting with a gentle smile.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then realization dawned — slow, bright, unstoppable.

“Oh my God,” Lois breathed, turning to smack his arm. “Clark, what the hell!”

Martha gasped, tears spilling instantly as Jonathan caught her hand, eyes shining with pride. “Clark, is this really what we think it is?”

Jimmy’s camera thudded against his chest as he scrambled to refocus. “Wait—wait—hold on! Dude! You sneaky farmboy!”

Lois kept swatting at him. “You absolute romantic menace!”

Clark grinned — helplessly, completely — that wide, boyish grin that had followed him his whole life. “Surprise everybody,” he said, voice laced with laughter.

Mrs. DeLuca peeked in from the hall then, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She leaned toward the officiant and whispered, “She’s here. She said she’s ready.”

The officiant nodded and raised his voice gently. “If everyone could take their seats, please.”

Martha sniffled softly as she sank into her chair, clutching Jonathan’s hand. Lois wiped at her eyes with a napkin she’d swiped from the nearest table, muttering something about “damn romantic farmboys.” Jimmy crouched beside his tripod, whispering to himself, “Okay, okay, focus — this is the best damn thing to happen all year—”

Clark moved to the front of the room, fingers twitching against his sides to keep from fidgeting. His heart was pounding — not just fast, but loud. Louder than city sirens, louder than thunder, louder than any heartbeat had a right to.

Then the doors opened.

He forgot how to breathe.

You stood framed in the soft amber glow spilling from the hall, the faint chill of evening following you in. Your hair caught the light like something holy, your dress simple but luminous, and in your hands — a bouquet of white ranunculus and lavender, threaded with a bit of green Clark was certain had been Mrs. DeLuca’s touch.

For a moment, you just looked around — eyes bright, a little wet — before you found him across the room. That was when Clark felt it hit him fully: this was real.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, then reached out a trembling hand toward Jonathan.

Clark’s throat tightened as he watched his father rise — slow, a little stunned — and take your hand in his. Jonathan squeezed your fingers, whispered something that made you laugh through a tear, then walked you forward with all the gentleness in the world.

Clark’s vision blurred at the edges. He didn’t even hear the soft music a server had cued from the speakers above. 

The world had narrowed to this: the flicker of candlelight on your face, the soft shuffle of your steps, the sound of your breath catching when you saw him smile.

.

“…and by the power vested in me by the state of Delaware,” the officiant said, voice soft over the hush of the room, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Clark barely heard the words. He felt them instead — in the tremor of your fingers where they laced through his, in the bright shimmer of your smile trembling beneath the veil, in the soft sound of Martha sniffling somewhere behind Lois’s delighted gasp.

“You may kiss your bride.”

You didn’t wait. You laughed, that bright, unstoppable sound that always found its way straight through him, and tugged him down by the lapels of his suit. 

Clark met you halfway, one arm sliding around your waist, the other lifting instinctively to cradle your jaw, and pulled you up until your toes left the floor. 

The kiss was steady but full of laughter — the kind that caught between your smiles, that carried every secret, every almost-moment, every promise you’d both ever made.

The room erupted. Applause, cheers, a muffled “This is really happening” from Lois, Jimmy audibly crying behind his camera. Even the servers who’d been pretending to polish glasses in the hallway had gathered near the doorway, clapping, teary-eyed, whispering to each other as if they’d just witnessed the end of a perfect movie.

Clark set you down slowly, forehead resting against yours as the applause swelled. You clutched the front of his suit like you feared he might float off if you let go. You were both laughing, breathless, dizzy, caught somewhere between disbelief and joy.

“Hi, Mrs. Kent,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with wonder. The truth of it hit him like sunlight — sharp, real, alive.

You smiled so wide it broke his heart open. “Hi, Mr. Kent.”

He felt the box’s weight no longer in his pocket, but on his finger — the gold band glinting under the string lights, catching the faintest shimmer of the Kryptonian alloy. You lifted your joined hands, tracing the wedding band with your thumb, marveling how it paired beautifully with your engagement ring and wedding band.

“You forged this, too?” you whispered in wonder, voice meant only for him.

Clark nodded, eyes soft and shining. “Thought we should have something that could stand the test of time, my wife.”

You brushed your lips over his knuckles. “You are a big ol’ mush, my husband.”

He laughed unguarded and so deeply in love it almost hurt. Around you, the room blurred into motion again: Jonathan crying as he held Martha, Lois gripping Jimmy while he fumbled with his camera, Mrs. DeLuca dabbing at her eyes as the servers clapped from the doorway.

And in the middle of it all, Clark held you close. He was so wrong. This was the actual part you’d both been waiting for. 

The good part. 

.

The low hum of conversation filled the private room, along with the clinking of glasses and the scent of garlic and rosemary drifting through the warm air. Clark sat close to you, his fingers twined with yours, still half dazed from everything that had just happened. 

Husband. Wife. 

The words still felt too big and too good to be real.

Lois leaned back in her chair across the table, staring like she still couldn’t believe she’d missed it. Jimmy, predictably, had his camera out again, whispering to himself as he adjusted angles and caught every moment — the laughter, the brush of your thumb over Clark’s knuckles, the way the light caught your rings.

Martha and Jonathan were giddy in their own quiet way, Martha adjusting her shawl as she whispered a reminder to Jonathan not to cry too loudly. Clark couldn’t stop smiling at their pride.

Dinner was simple, elegantly arranged — roasted chicken, seasonal vegetables, warm bread — yet the sense of intimacy, the private glow of the string lights overhead, made it feel like something grand. Clark found himself watching you more than the food, noting how the candlelight bounced off your engagement ring and new wedding band. It shone when you lifted your glass, and something deep in him settled — a kind of peace he’d never known.

“Happy birthday, Clark,” you whispered, brushing a thumb over the back of his hand. “And, uh… happy marriage day.”

He chuckled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Best birthday I’ve ever had. By far.”

“You two are ridiculous,” Lois lamented suddenly, breaking the gentle buzz of conversation. “Doing this under the guise of a birthday dinner?”

Clark grinned, a little sheepish.

“You got lucky getting past me this time,” Lois shot back, though her voice softened. She glanced down at the table and then back at you, and the slight upward curl of her lip betrayed a smile. “Never again.”

Just as the laughter settled, a waiter stepped forward, carrying a small cake. Lois sat wide-eyed, pointing at the cake.

“W-wait! Is that—Is that the cake you made me pickup?!” she stuttered, eyes wide, pointing at the cake. “You two! Reckless romantic idiots!” She groaned dramatically, shaking her head.

Laughter rippled around the table. Clark couldn’t stop smiling. You reached for the knife, your hand brushing his. The light caught on both rings, gold glinting under the string lights. 

For a moment, the rest of the world fell away — there was only your laughter, your eyes, and the warm pulse of your hand in his. It was as if he discovered you for the very first time.

Clark tightened his grip on your hand, leaning in close enough to whisper, “We’re really married now.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, smiling up at him, cheeks flushed. “We really are.”

Jimmy, camera still rolling, whispered under his breath, “Gold, Kents. This is pure gold.”

.

Later, Clark slipped out with you to the quiet patio, the laughter and music from inside fading to a low, distant hum. The night air was cool, threaded with the scent of rosemary and candle wax, the soft glow of lanterns catching in your hair. He drew you close — one hand at the small of your back, the other finding yours — and you swayed together beneath the pale wash of moonlight.

It felt endless, that moment. The warmth of you against him, the rhythm of your breathing, the pulse that matched his. For a man who had seen eternity from above the clouds, this — this simple, human closeness — was what felt infinite.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low against your ear, “I fall in love with you again every single time I look at you like this, Mrs. Kent.”

You laughed softly, a sound that brushed through him like sunlight. Your cheek pressed against his chest. “I could say the same thing, Mr. Kent.”

He closed his eyes, smiling into your hair, letting the quiet joy of it sink into him like light through glass. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement — a familiar shape, half-hidden behind a post.

Jimmy.

Crouched, camera in hand, trying very hard to be invisible.

Clark’s laugh came quiet and full, the kind that loosened something deep inside him. Months ago, every camera had made him tense, cautious, aware of the weight of his secret. But now, he didn’t flinch. He just smiled — genuine, open — the kind of smile that belonged only to you.

Jimmy froze, guilt plain on his face. Clark shook his head, amused. “Go on, Jimmy,” he called softly. “We’re trying to make the best documentary ever, right?”

Jimmy laughed, waving his hands, but Clark didn’t take his eyes off you. He was intoxicated by the sight of you in his arms, the glow in your hair, the way your hand lightly traced the edge of his lapel

“I mean it,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Every day with you feels like the first time I realized just how much I love you.”

You tilted your face up, lips quivering, “And I’ll spend every day reminding you, then.”

He kissed you. It was slow, tender, a promise more than a gesture. Around you, the world blurred into murmured voices, faint music, and the distant click of Jimmy’s camera.

But for Clark, there was only you — radiant, alive, breathtaking, the echo of your heartbeat steady against his palm. 

And in that small, perfect slice of night, he knew with utter certainty that he’d spend the rest of his life finding new ways to love you — again and again, for as long as time would let him.

.

The Fortress of Solitude was just that. The crystalline walls glowed a soft blue, their light refracting against the snow beyond. Clark sat before one of the consoles, elbows on his knees, chin resting loosely on his folded hands.

Gary had taken it upon himself to “curate a viewing experience,” as he called it, while he waited for his cousin’s arrival. The reels flickered across the translucent wall: his parents on a grainy Kansas porch, Jonathan holding him up as a baby wrapped in a blanket. The sound was warped but unmistakable—Martha laughing through the wind. 

Then, spliced between the decades, came Jimmy’s new footage.

Then, seamlessly, the footage jumped decades. Jimmy’s handheld camera, a jarring leap from Super 8 to smartphone, and suddenly there was sunlight, a café table, and you — haloed in gold morning light, leaning across the frame, eager about Jimmy’s “documentary.”

Clark could hear himself off-screen, saying something corny—something that made you laugh. The sound alone made his chest tighten.

The Fortress door hissed open behind him. A muffled crash echoed through the corridor.

“—Shit!”

Kara stumbled in, brushing snow from her hair, her flight path apparently less graceful than she expected. Krypto trotted beside her, tail wagging, a small blue gift bag clamped gently in his jaws.

“Sorry, dude!” she blurted, cheeks flushed pink. “I got your message—just, uh, about a month late. Don’t kill me, ‘kay?”

Clark turned, amusement ghosting across his features. Krypto bounded forward, tail wagging furiously, dropping the gift at Clark’s red boots.

Kara glanced around the soft-lit chamber, her gaze catching on the flickering projection. “How’s married life treating you, big guy?”

Clark didn’t answer right away. His eyes had already drifted back to the rotating reel — to the looping café footage. You, laughing into the light. The glint of your ring. The warmth that poured from you like morning sun.

His throat tightened, warmth swelling somewhere deep and immovable. “It’s…” He paused, searching for the right word, something vast enough to hold it all— the love, the peace, the incredible happiness to simply be with you. His voice softened. “It’s everything I ever hoped it could be.”

Onscreen, the footage shifted again — Jimmy’s camera catching another stolen moment. You and Clark were looking at a pair of baby mitts, unaware you were being filmed.

Kara smiled knowingly and stepped back toward the door. “Tell her I said congratulations,” she said, lifting a hand in farewell. “I’ll get Krypto next week, ‘kay?”

Krypto circled once, then settled at Clark’s feet, his breathing slow and steady.

Clark stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the projection. The images flickered across his face — Kansas light, city light, your smile — each frame a pulse of memory, a heartbeat made visible.

On the screen, sunlight caught your ring again.

He smiled—soft, private, reverent.

For the first time in a long while, he let himself simply sit and watch. Not just as Superman. Not just as Clark Kent.

Just as a man in love.

And the Fortress, aglow with those small, human moments and sunlight, seemed to breathe with him, too.

.

[satellite-evans]

honey?

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: 9k+

Word count: After a tragic accident leaves you in a coma, Clark struggles to keep living in a world without you.

Warnings: little fluff, serious injury, coma, emotional trauma, intense angst, grief, rushed ending

A/N:

part 2

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

“Honey?”

Clark woke up with a bad feeling.

And he didn’t like it at all.

It sat heavy in his chest, like a storm cloud pressing down from the inside out. He tried to breathe through it, tried to reason with it, but the unease didn’t move. It throbbed.

It was the first time he’d felt fear like that — not the kind that came before a fight, but the kind that whispered you can’t fix this one, Clark.

Which was nonsense, of course. People could recover from anything with a little hope. He was wearing that very idea on his chest every day. The world needed him to believe that.

But this morning, he couldn’t.

He stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds outside the apartment. Every sound came to him sharper than usual — a heartbeat here, a car horn miles away. But one sound grounded him, one voice that tethered him to something real.

“Helloooo? Honeyyyyyy? Krypton to Clark — do you even hear me?”

Your voice.

He blinked, startled, then softened. Your tone was teasing, but there was warmth threaded through every syllable — like sunlight after a thunderstorm.

That voice always cut through the noise in his head. Always found him.

He turned toward you, tousled hair falling over his forehead, and tried to smile. “Sorry, baby… did you say something?”

You gave him a look — that look — the one that saw straight through every mask he’d ever worn.

“Yeah, I’ve been talking to you for like, five minutes.” You cocked your head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay? You’re… awfully quiet this morning.”

Clark propped himself up on an elbow, his large hand finding yours automatically. He rubbed slow circles on the back of it with his thumb — a comfort more for him than you.

“All good, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking?” you echoed, arching a brow. “About what? How many squirrels you’re going to save today?”

Your attempt at lightening the mood earned a small, real chuckle out of him. “Maybe two. Three, if they promise to stop running into traffic.”

But his laugh faded too soon, leaving silence hanging between you. You studied him, eyes searching his face the way someone studies a storm on the horizon — quiet, cautious, ready to run if it breaks.

“Clark,” you said gently, “talk to me.”

He closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to bring you into whatever this feeling was — this invisible weight pressing down on his chest. It wasn’t fair. He was Superman. He was supposed to carry it all. But right now, all he wanted to do was collapse into your arms and let you hold him until the ache went away.

He sighed, voice low and cracked. “It’s… nothing, really. Just woke up feeling—” He hesitated, searching for a word big enough. “Off. Like something’s coming, and I can’t see it yet.”

You shifted closer, resting your hand on his chest. “You mean like a bad dream?”

“No,” he whispered. “Worse. Like a warning I can’t read.”

Your fingers traced the edge of the blanket, grounding him. “Clark, not every bad feeling means the sky’s falling.”

He smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “You’d be surprised how often it does.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, but the sound was soft — almost fragile. “You can save the world a thousand times, you know that? But you still don’t know how to save yourself from worrying about it.”

That made him open his eyes. They were tired, heavy with the kind of vulnerability he rarely showed anyone.

“I don’t want to lose anyone, baby,” he said quietly. “Especially you.”

Your heart clenched. You slid your hand up, cupping his cheek. His stubble rasped against your palm as he leaned into it, like he’d been waiting for that touch all morning.

“You won’t,” you said, with a conviction that made him believe it — even if just for a second. “You hear me? You won’t.”

He took your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. “You always know what to say.”

“That’s because I know you,” you whispered. “Better than anyone.”

And when he finally pulled you into his arms, he felt the peace he was craving for.

He breathed in your scent, the faint traces of your shampoo and flowers, and something distinctly home.

“Still think it’s just a feeling?” you murmured against his chest.

He smiled — this time, it reached his eyes. “Maybe. But if it’s not… I know I’ll have you to come back to.”

“Always.”

You glanced at the clock on the nightstand and let out a quiet gasp. “Crap, I’ve got to get to work or my boss is going to start sending me those passive-aggressive emails again.”

You threw off the blanket, your bare feet hitting the cool wood floor as you hurried around the room — tugging your sweater over your head, your pants, hunting for your keys, your bag, your coffee cup. Clark watched you from the bed, a faint, fond smile curving at the corner of his mouth. There was something so ordinary and yet extraordinary about watching you do all that — the way your hair caught the morning light, the way you hummed softly to yourself without even realizing it.

He could have stayed there all day, just memorizing the sound of you.

You turned toward him, finally ready to go, a rushed smile on your face. “Okay, I’ll see you later, alright?”

You leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his lips — soft, fleeting, almost absent-minded — but before you could pull away, Clark’s hand came up, strong and steady, cupping the back of your neck.

“Wait,” he murmured.

And then his mouth was on yours again — firmer this time, slower, lingering. It wasn’t desperate, but it was weighted. Like he was trying to tell you something through it — don’t go, not yet, stay safe, please stay safe.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath trembled slightly against your lips.

“Please be careful today,” he whispered.

You blinked, taken aback by the intensity in his voice. “Clark…”

“I mean it,” he said, his arms sliding around your waist, pulling you into a tight hug. You could feel the strength in his embrace, how he held you like the world might take you away if he let go. His heart was beating fast — too fast for someone who could calm a hurricane.

You smiled softly against his shoulder, trying to lighten the moment. “Baby, when am I not careful?”

He huffed out a quiet, shaky laugh. “I know, I know, it’s just—”

“I’m literally the careful one in this relationship, babe,” you teased, tracing your finger along the edge of the S on his shirt that you bought him. “You’re the one who flies into burning buildings. I’m the one who won’t even cross the street until I’ve looked both ways twice. You’ve seen me. No phone in my hand when I’m driving, always checking every corner before stepping off a curb, sometimes even dragging you back when you forget to look.”

That earned the faintest smile from him — small, reluctant, but real.

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s… that’s part of what I love about you.”

You tilted your head, giving him a playful look. “That I’m neurotically cautious?”

“That you take care of yourself,” he said quietly. “That you make it easy for me to breathe when I’m not around.”

The words hit you deeper than you expected. His eyes held that fragile sincerity that made your heart ache — the kind of fear that came from loving too much, from having too much to lose.

You reached up, cupping his face. “Hey. I’ll be fine. I promise. Nothing’s going to happen to me, okay?”

He nodded, but his hand stayed on your back, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your sweater like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“You’ve got to stop worrying so much, Smallville.”

He smiled, faint but fond. “I’ll try.”

You turned to go, and as you grabbed your keys, you glanced back at him over your shoulder. “I’m careful, remember?”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what scares me. You’re careful… but the world isn’t.”

You froze for half a second at the heaviness in his tone, then gave him a soft, reassuring smile — the kind that always made him believe again, even if just for a moment.

“I’ll text you when I get there, alright?”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” you said. “Now stop looking at me like that, you’re going to make me cry and then I’ll really be late.”

He chuckled softly. “You look beautiful,” he said simply.

You smiled, eyes glinting with affection. “You’re just saying that because you’re in love with me.”

He grinned, that perfect boyish grin that made your heart ache. “Guilty.”

You couldn't help yourself and went to kiss him once more — a soft, deliberate press of lips this time, not rushed — and then turned toward the door.

Clark watched you go, standing in the doorway, his hand lifting in a small wave as you backed down the steps. He could hear your heartbeat, steady and strong, fading with distance.

And when you were finally gone, the apartment felt too quiet again.

That feeling — the bad one — was still there.

Only now, it had a name.

Fear.

And it wasn’t for himself.

The Daily Planet was going strong with the morning chaos, once again.

It was the kind of noise that usually soothed Clark; it meant the world was still turning. But today, even the comfort of routine couldn’t quiet that uneasy pulse in his chest.

He stepped out of the elevator, adjusting his tie. To everyone else, he looked like the same old Clark — calm, polite, a touch clumsy when he nearly dropped the stack of files under his arm. But inside, something was wrong.

That bad feeling hadn’t gone away.

Not even when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and saw your name light up the screen.

Made it to work honey. Love you.

Love you more. Like so much more.

Relief washed through him like a breath of fresh air — but it didn’t last. The heaviness lingered, a quiet echo he couldn’t explain.

He read the message again. Then again. Then tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket and tried to steady himself.

“Morning, Smallville!” Lois called across the bullpen, balancing her coffee in one hand and typing with the other. “You’re late. You stop to interview the traffic lights again?”

Clark managed a faint grin as he reached his desk. “Morning, Lois. I, uh… might’ve missed my train.”

“You? Miss a train?” she said, squinting at him. “That’s new.”

Jimmy leaned over from his nearby desk, camera strap slung around his neck. “You okay, CK? You look like you just saw a ghost or something.”

He gave a small laugh. “Nothing like that, Jimmy. Just… didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

“Nightmares?” Lois asked, raising an eyebrow as she took a sip of coffee.

“Not exactly,” Clark said. “Just a… feeling. You ever wake up and know something’s off, but you can’t figure out why?”

Lois leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing with that mix of curiosity and concern she hid behind her sarcasm. “Yeah, every time Perry’s in a good mood. It’s unnerving.”

Clark chuckled softly, shaking his head.

Cat breezed by, heels clicking, her perfume trailing in her wake. “If Kent’s losing sleep, it’s probably because of his sexy girlfriend,” she teased, shooting him a knowing grin. “Tell her to stop keeping you up so late.”

Jimmy choked on his coffee. “Cat!”

Clark’s ears went pink. “It’s not that,” he said quickly.

Lois smirked. “No? Because you do look like a man who checked his phone five times before nine a.m.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “She texted that she made it to work. I just…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I just needed to know she was okay.”

That softened Lois’s expression a little. “She’s a grown woman, Clark. She can handle herself.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “She’s careful. Always has been.”

“Then stop worrying like a fifty-year-old dad and help me chase this city council lead,” Lois said, spinning back to her computer.

“Right,” Clark murmured, though the reassurance didn’t quite stick.

He tried to focus — he really did. He read over notes, edited copy, even helped Jimmy reformat photos for a feature spread. But the fear lingered like background static, impossible to ignore. Every so often, his eyes drifted to his phone, waiting for another text from you — something normal, something to tell him the day was just fine.

By the time the clock hit noon, Clark had already made up his mind. He’d stop by your office during lunch. Just a quick visit. Just to see you.

He stood from his desk, adjusting his glasses and straightening his tie. Lois caught the motion instantly.

“Where you off to, Kent? It’s barely lunchtime.”

He smiled, awkward but earnest. “Just thought I’d grab something to eat. Maybe… get some air.”

Before Lois could reply, a booming voice cut through the newsroom.

“KENT!”

Clark froze mid-step. Perry White stood outside his office, papers in hand and his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose. “Get in here, son.”

Lois smirked. “There’s your ‘air,’ Smallville. Good luck.”

Clark exhaled softly and turned toward Perry’s office, stepping inside.

“What’s up, Chief?”

Perry shut the door behind him and thrust a file into Clark’s hands. “City Council zoning story. Half these crooks are greasing palms again, and I need someone who can make sense of the paper trail without turning it into a conspiracy theory.”

“Of course,” Clark said, flipping through the documents. But his eyes flicked once — just once — to the clock.

Perry noticed immediately. “You in a hurry, Kent?”

Clark blinked, looking up quickly. “What? No, sir. Just—uh—was planning to grab a quick bite before diving in.”

Perry waved a hand. “Eat while you work. The world doesn’t stop for lunch breaks, son. Especially not this city.”

Clark’s jaw tightened. “Right. Understood.”

“Good. I want the first draft by three.” Perry turned back toward his desk. “Oh, and Kent? Try not to make me edit out any of your ‘heartwarming moral reflections’ this time. We’re writing news, not Sunday sermons.”

Clark forced a polite smile. “Yes, sir.”

Back at his desk, he sat down, but the words on the page swam before his eyes. His stomach felt knotted, his pulse steady but heavy.

He looked at his phone again. Still no new messages.

He sighed, the worry pressing down harder than before.

Maybe I’m overthinking, he told himself. She’s fine. She’s careful. She’s always careful.

But that little voice — the one that had woken him before dawn — wouldn’t quiet.

He tried typing a line, but the cursor blinked accusingly on the empty screen.

He was already planning. The moment Perry looked away, the second Lois got busy — he’d go. Just a quick visit. Just to see your face, hear your voice.

Then his phone buzzed.

His heart jumped. He didn’t even need to check the caller ID — he knew it was you. The sound alone filled him with relief so sharp it almost hurt. He smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time all day as he answered.

“Don’t tell me you came to visit me before I could come see y—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

Because the voice on the other end wasn’t yours.

“Are you… are you Mr. Kent?” a man asked, his tone trembling.

Clark froze, the smile dying instantly on his lips. Something inside him went cold, like all the air had been sucked out of the room. “Yes, this is Clark Kent,” he said slowly, his pulse already hammering in his throat. “Who is this? Why do you have this phone?”

The newsroom noise — phones, chatter, printers — all of it vanished under a high, hollow ringing in his ears. He could see Lois talking to Jimmy across the bullpen, but the words didn’t reach him. Everything blurred except the sound of that stranger’s voice.

The man hesitated. Just half a second. But it was enough. Clark’s whole body went still.

“Sir,” the man said finally, voice shaking, “there’s… there’s been an accident.”

The words hit him like a punch. His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles white. “What kind of accident?” he managed, his voice low, almost pleading.

“There was a car — it didn’t stop at a red light. It hit her vehicle in the intersection.”

Clark stopped breathing.

For a heartbeat, his mind refused to understand. The world narrowed to a pinpoint. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to hum louder, harsher. He could hear everything — every heartbeat in the room, every ticking watch, every whisper of a turning page — and yet none of it mattered.

It was all drowned out by those words.

It hit her vehicle.

The man kept speaking — something about paramedics, about the hospital, about how they’re doing everything they can— but the words came from miles away.

Clark stood so suddenly his chair crashed backward, papers scattering across the floor. People turned. Lois looked up sharply.

“Clark?” she said, her voice muffled by the blood roaring in his ears.

He couldn’t answer. His throat wouldn’t work.

“They took her to Metropolis General,” the man said, his voice faint through the ringing. “She’s in critical condition, sir. I’m sorry.”

Critical condition.

Those two words cracked something deep inside him.

He didn’t remember ending the call, but suddenly the line went dead, and the phone was still in his hand, the screen black, reflecting a warped, pale version of his own face.

He stared at it — blank, disbelieving — until Lois’s voice reached him again, distant and sharp.

“Clark? What happened?”

He blinked. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a broken whisper. “Y/N.”

Jimmy stood up, alarmed. “What about her?”

Clark’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps. His hands were shaking. He couldn’t seem to stop them. “There’s been… there’s been an accident,” he said hoarsely. “A car—she—” He couldn’t finish. The words wouldn’t form.

Lois’s expression softened instantly, her usual wit gone. “Oh my God. Is she okay?”

He swallowed hard, the taste of iron in his mouth. “They said… critical condition.”

The sound of his own voice made him sick. The words didn’t sound real. Nothing did.

He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, his fingers fumbling like he didn’t even know how to move anymore. The phone nearly slipped from his grip.

“Clark, wait!” Lois called, standing now. “You can’t just—”

But he was already gone, crossing the bullpen in long, frantic strides. His vision tunneled; the edges of the room blurred. He barely heard Perry shout something after him, barely felt the elevator button under his thumb.

All he could hear was his heartbeat — too fast, too loud, thundering in his chest like it was trying to break free.

He pressed his back to the elevator wall as the doors slid shut, his hand shaking around his phone. He wanted to fly — God, every instinct screamed at him to tear the sky open and get to you — but he couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of them.

So he waited. Trapped in a metal box while the seconds dragged like hours.

And in that stillness, the guilt came crashing down.

He’d known something was wrong. He’d felt it all morning — that ache in his chest, that heaviness that wouldn’t go away — and he’d ignored it. He’d told himself it was nothing. He’d told himself you were safe.

He could have gone to you at lunch. He could have seen you. He could have stopped it.

But he didn’t.

And now the world was breaking around him.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, breath ragged. The thought looped through his mind, over and over, each repetition heavier than the last.

I should have gone. I should have gone. I should have gone.

When the elevator finally opened, he didn’t wait for anyone to step aside. He moved fast — too fast for anyone to question — pushing through the revolving doors and into the blinding daylight.

The city noise hit him in a wave — horns, sirens, voices — but all of it sounded far away. He barely felt his feet hit the ground as he ran.

He had only one thought left, sharp and desperate and echoing in every cell of his body.

Please let her live.

By the time Clark reached Metropolis General, he was drenched in sweat, his hands trembling so badly he could barely hold his phone. The automatic doors slid open, releasing a sterile rush of air that smelled like antiseptic and coffee.

He went straight to the reception desk. “Hi—hi, excuse me,” he said, voice breaking. “There was a car accident. Y/N L/N. Please—she was brought here.”

The woman behind the counter looked up, startled by the raw panic in his tone. “Sir, if you could just—”

“I need to see her.” He leaned forward, breath unsteady. His tie was crooked, his glasses fogged, his heart in his throat. “Please. Tell me where she is.”

She tapped at her keyboard, then frowned at the screen. “She’s in trauma unit three. They’re stabilizing her right now—”

“Can I see her?” he interrupted, his voice barely human.

“Not yet, sir. They’re still working. Her attending will come talk to you in a moment.”

He nodded, but his whole body wouldn’t stop shaking. He backed away from the desk, sinking into the nearest plastic chair. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped, breathing shallow. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly. Every sound — a rolling gurney, a nurse’s shoes squeaking on tile — made him flinch.

He should’ve been there. He should’ve gone.

A door opened down the hall. A doctor stepped out, removing his gloves, his expression grim but gentle. “Clark Kent?”

Clark stood immediately, almost stumbling forward. “That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Patel. I was with Y/N when she arrived.”

“How is she?” The question came out as a whisper, his throat tight.

Dr. Patel hesitated, choosing his words with care. “It was a serious collision. Another car ran a red light and hit her side at high speed. She was careful to wear her seat belt — that probably saved her life.”

At that word — careful — something inside Clark twisted. He shut his eyes, jaw tightening, because of course you had been careful. You always were. He was the one who hadn’t listened to his instincts.

“She’s stable for now,” Dr. Patel said, “but she suffered significant injuries. A concussion, some internal bruising, a fractured rib…”

Clark’s breath hitched. It was as if the air had been punched out of his lungs. The word rib made his chest ache, a deep, phantom pain blooming behind his heart.

“She also has a hairline fracture in her arm,” the doctor continued, “and a mild spinal strain from the impact. The seatbelt likely prevented worse damage.”

Clark’s jaw clenched. His hand pressed to his side unconsciously — right where he imagined the belt had caught you, right where your body had been jolted against the seat. He could almost feel it: the snap of the restraint, the burn of the fabric, the way your breath must’ve hitched in panic.

Each word from the doctor was another hit, another bruise. A concussion — and suddenly his own head throbbed, a dull, nauseating ache behind his eyes. Bruising — and his ribs seemed to tighten, sore, as if he’d taken the impact himself. His shoulders curled inward. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“She’s in a coma,” the doctor said finally. “We don’t know when — or if — she’ll wake.”

Clark closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, the room tilted. His body swayed slightly where he stood. It felt like the crash had reached him belatedly, invisible but no less real — as if his heart had been thrown through glass.

He swallowed hard, voice breaking. “She… she must have been so scared.”

The doctor looked at him with quiet sympathy. “She fought to stay conscious at the scene. She kept asking if anyone else was hurt.”

That undid him. His stomach turned, his throat closing with something sharp and wet. You’d been bleeding, broken, terrified — and still your first thought had been someone else.

Of course it had.

He felt a hot tear slip down his cheek. He didn’t even wipe it away. His entire body was trembling now, like it couldn’t contain the grief trying to claw its way out.

Dr. Patel’s voice softened. “She’s alive, Mr. Kent. She’s fighting.”

Clark let out a shaky breath, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Yeah,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on the sterile floor. “She always does.”

“Would you like to sit with her?”

He nodded. “Please.”

The doctor led him down a hallway that smelled faintly of disinfectant and quiet dread. Machines beeped behind closed doors, and each sound cut through him like glass. When they reached your room, the doctor paused.

“She can’t hear you,” he said gently, “but talking to her might help.”

Clark nodded again, unable to speak. He pushed the door open.

When Clark stepped into the room, it felt like the world stopped moving.

The air was too quiet — the kind of quiet that suffocates, heavy with the sound of machines and the faint rhythm of a heart monitor.

You lay there so still. Too still.

For a second, his body refused to move. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring, as if his brain couldn’t process that the person in front of him — the person who laughed in the kitchen every morning, who teased him about his messy hair, who kissed him before running out the door — was the same one lying beneath those sterile white sheets.

His throat tightened.

There were faint scrapes on your cheek, the kind that would normally fade in days — but right now, they looked impossibly deep to him. He saw the small bandage near your hairline, the IV line taped to your wrist, the bruises peeking out from under the hospital gown.

And suddenly, it was like the crash was happening all over again — inside him.

His ribs ached, his lungs seized. He could feel the pain you must’ve felt: the jolt, the confusion, the fear. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach back through time and take it from you, to shoulder it himself.

He took a step forward — then another — until he was right beside your bed. His hand hovered over yours before finally, gently, curling around it.

It was warm. Faintly. Barely.

“Hey,” he breathed, the word catching on a sob. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m here.”

No answer. Only the beep-beep of the monitor.

His lip trembled. “You—you look so small,” he whispered, a tear slipping down his cheek. “You’re never small. You fill up every room you walk into. You—” His voice broke. He pressed a shaking hand to his face, exhaling through a strangled sob. “You can’t… you can’t do this to me.”

He sank into the chair, shoulders hunched, his other hand gripping yours tighter — as if he could anchor you here, as if that alone would be enough.

“I should’ve come,” he whispered hoarsely. “I knew something was wrong. I felt it. And I stayed. I stayed, and you…” His voice cracked completely, dissolving into silence. “You got hurt because I didn’t listen.”

Tears fell freely now, dripping onto the hospital sheet. He didn’t even bother to wipe them away. His chest heaved, breath shaking as if his body couldn’t decide whether to cry or scream.

“I’m sorry,” he said again and again, the words breaking apart. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against the back of your hand. The skin there was soft, almost weightless against his lips.

“You’re the careful one,” he murmured, his voice cracking around the words. “You’re always careful. You check the locks twice, you text me when you get home, you stop at every yellow light. And I…” He swallowed hard, tears blurring his vision. “I still couldn’t keep you safe.”

His thumb brushed over a faint bruise on your arm, and his heart clenched so violently he thought it might split in two. The idea that you had felt pain — even for a second — was unbearable. He’d faced bullets, fire, explosions, monsters, gods… and none of it had ever left him feeling this helpless.

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles softly, whispering against them. “Please come back to me. Please. You’re my home, and I don’t— I can’t do this without you.”

The words tumbled out, desperate and raw. “You’re supposed to grow old with me. You’re supposed to keep laughing at my bad coffee and complain about my ties and roll your eyes when I forget to take off my glasses before bed. You can’t just…” He broke off, breath hitching. “You can’t just stop.”

He leaned closer, brushing a tear from your cheek with trembling fingers. “Baby, please. Just one sign. One twitch. Anything.”

But there was nothing. Only the steady, cruel rhythm of the machines — constant, indifferent.

The symbol on his chest had always meant hope — but right now, all he could do was beg for it.

Clark didn’t remember how long he’d sat by your bed. Minutes. Hours. Time had no meaning anymore — just the sound of the monitor, the faint whoosh of the machines keeping rhythm with his heartbeat.

At some point, a nurse came in to check your vitals and gently told him he should get some air. He nodded numbly, even though every instinct screamed to stay. He kissed your hand once more, whispered a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep, and forced himself to walk out the door.

The hallway lights were too bright. The air felt too thin. He rubbed at his face with shaking hands — but nothing could hide the redness in his eyes, the rawness of his expression.

And then he saw them.

Lois, Jimmy, and Cat stood at the end of the corridor. None of them said anything at first. Lois’s eyes were glossy, Jimmy’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and Cat — who was usually never without a sharp comment — just looked at him with quiet concern.

The sight of them — people who knew him as Clark Kent, the reporter, the man who always smiled and had a joke ready — hit him harder than he expected. It broke whatever fragile control he’d been clinging to.

Lois stepped forward carefully, like she was approaching something fragile. “Hey,” she said softly.

Clark tried to nod, to say something, but his throat locked up. He opened his mouth, and instead of words, a quiet, broken sound escaped — part sob, part gasp. His shoulders shook.

Lois didn’t hesitate. She closed the distance and pulled him into her arms. For a second, he went rigid — and then all at once, he collapsed. His arms wrapped around her, clinging like he was drowning.

“I’m scared, Lois,” he choked out. His voice was rough and small, muffled against her shoulder. “I’m so scared.”

She tightened her hold. “I know.”

“I—” His voice cracked again. “I don’t know what I’d do without her. I can’t even—” His breath hitched violently. “I can’t picture it.”

Jimmy’s eyes softened. “She’s tough, Clark. She’ll pull through.”

But Clark just shook his head, still clinging to Lois like the world might end if he let go. “She’s lying in there, and I can’t do anything. I can’t fix it. I can’t—” His voice broke entirely. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected her.”

Cat, who rarely let emotion show, stepped closer and put a hand on his arm. “You can’t carry that, honey. You can’t. You love her — that’s what matters. Be there for her when she wakes up.”

“When,” Lois echoed quietly, her voice firm, deliberate. “When she wakes up. You hear me?”

Clark nodded weakly, but the tears kept coming. His glasses were fogged, his breathing uneven. He looked like someone trying to hold together a dam that had already cracked.

Lois brushed his sleeve gently. “Come on. Let’s get you some water.”

He shook his head. “I can’t leave her for long. What if she wakes up and I’m not there?”

“You won’t be far,” Jimmy said. “We’ll sit with you. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

That word — alone — hit something deep in him. His lip trembled again. “I don’t want to lose her,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “She’s my home. She’s everything.”

Lois swallowed hard. “Then keep holding on to that.”

Clark nodded, eyes glassy, barely able to stand under the weight of it. But with their hands steadying him — one on his shoulder, another at his back — he took a step forward. Then another.

For the first time since the call, he let himself breathe.

Not because he believed everything would be okay — but because they were there to hold him up while he waited for the world to start again.

Months passed. Seasons shifted outside the hospital windows, and Clark barely noticed.

He went to work. He showed up as Superman when the world needed saving. He smiled when people expected him to. But the light in him — the one that used to make everything feel alive — was gone.

He wasn’t the same man anymore. It was as if life had drained the color out of him the day you didn’t open your eyes.

Every morning he still brewed two cups of coffee. Every night he still left the porch light on. And every weekend, without fail, he came to you.

The hospital staff had grown used to him — the quiet man in the rumpled suit who brought flowers every Sunday, who sat for hours beside the woman in room 306, reading aloud in a voice that cracked around the edges.

He always greeted you the same way.

Hey, sweetheart. It’s me.

“Good morning, Clark,” Nurse Ramirez said cheerfully as she entered the room, clipboard in hand, checking the monitors. “How are you today?”

Clark looked up from brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead and managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Morning, Ramirez,” he said softly, voice still heavy with exhaustion. “I’m… hanging in there. How about you?”

She chuckled lightly, giving him a sympathetic glance. “Same as always. You know, just trying to keep everyone alive and sane.”

He nodded, watching her check your vitals with gentle, practiced movements. “I don’t know how you do it,” he murmured. “I don’t think I could ever manage without you all.”

Ramirez glanced at him, her expression softening. “Well, you’ve got practice. You’ve been here so long, you’re practically part of the furniture. But you need to take care of yourself too, Clark.”

“I will,” he said quietly, though he knew he wouldn’t really leave your side. “I just… I need to be here.”

“You always do,” she said, smiling. “And she knows it. You know, even if she can’t say it right now.”

Clark let out a shaky breath and nodded. “I know. I just… I miss her so much. Sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe without her in the room.”

Ramirez gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “You’re doing everything you can. That’s all anyone can ask. Now, let’s make sure she’s comfy, okay?”

He nodded again, returning his focus to you. His thumb brushed lightly over your hand, and he whispered, “See? They’ve got me in check. But I’m still yours.”

For a few moments, it was quiet except for the soft beep of the monitors. Clark leaned closer to your ear, brushing hair from your forehead, and murmured softly, “It’s me. I’m here, baby. Just like always.”

Then he’d open a book — sometimes one of your favorites, sometimes the newspaper, sometimes a novel he thought you’d tease him for picking. He’d clear his throat softly and begin to read aloud, his voice steady, careful, like he was trying to remind you of the sound of home.

“‘She laughed so hard she almost cried,’” he read one afternoon, pausing to glance at you, voice catching a little. “I remember you laughing like that over the silliest things… God, I miss that.”

When he wasn’t reading, he talked. He told you about work, about Lois’s latest headline. “Lois is stubborn as ever,” he murmured one morning, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “She thinks the city needs a story on a cat stuck in a tree instead of the mayor’s new budget… can you believe that?” He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And Jimmy—he’s been trying to photograph every pigeon in the city, I swear. You’d make fun of him for it.”

Some days, he told you about the neighbors, carefully noting every small, mundane event as if documenting a world that couldn’t exist without you. “Mrs. Wallace waved to me today,” he said, brushing his thumb lightly over your hand. “She asked how you were. I said, ‘Still asleep, but still perfect.’ She smiled, but I could tell she knows how much I miss you.”

And some days, when the world felt unbearably silent, he’d bring your favorite records and play them quietly on a small speaker. He’d hum along softly, careful not to wake you from your beauty sleep (that's what Clark called it), letting the familiar melodies fill the room. “I know you’d roll your eyes at me for humming,” he whispered one evening, resting his forehead against your hand. “But I needed to hear you in some way. Even if it’s just me pretending I’m singing along with you.”

He’d pause between songs, leaning back in the chair beside you. “The city’s still here,” he said quietly, “even if it doesn’t feel like it. People are still moving, still living, still laughing… but it’s empty without you, baby. I just… I just wish you could see it. I wish you could be here with me.”

As the next song started, he’d brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, press a kiss to your temple, and murmur, “I’m here, baby. I’m still here.”

And when the sun dipped low and the nurses came to check the monitors, he’d brush your hair carefully, the way you always did. He’d whisper, “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

The doctors told him your body was healing. That your heart was strong. That there was no medical reason you shouldn’t wake up — only time.

And that word — time — had never felt so cruel.

Because to Clark, every day without you felt like eternity. Every sunrise was a reminder that you weren’t there to see it. Every laugh he heard in the newsroom twisted like a knife, because it wasn’t yours.

He missed everything. Your humming when you cooked. The way your laugh filled every corner of the apartment. The quiet warmth of your hand finding his when words weren’t needed.

He missed you.

Some nights, when Metropolis slept and the world was safe for a few hours, he would fly to your window. He’d stand there, cape brushing the window, watching the steady rhythm of your breathing.

“You’d tell me to stop worrying,” he’d whisper, eyes glistening. “You’d tell me to have faith. You always had more of it than I did. I’m still here, sweetheart. Still waiting for you to call me honey. I promised you I’d be patient. I just… I just didn’t know patience could hurt this much.”

He’d stay until the first light of dawn, watching you closely, to see if there was any change.

And when he visited you before work — tie straightened, smile practiced, glasses on — he’d whisper the same three words he always did before walking out the door.

“I love you.”

Because that was what kept him breathing. That single truth. That single hope.

When. Not if. When you wake up.

The months had stretched into what felt like years. Clark had been at your side through countless sunrises and sunsets, through the soft sound of hospital machines and the endless white corridors. He had become part of the hospital scenery.

But even he — Superman, protector of worlds — had limits.

One night, after another long day at the office and hours by your bedside, Clark leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. The fluorescent light above flickered faintly, cold and unfeeling, like the world itself mocking him.

“I can’t…” he whispered, voice breaking, trembling. “I can’t do this. I can’t live like this, baby. I can’t go through a single day without you.”

His hand clutched yours so tightly that the skin flushed under his fingers. “I’ve tried, I’ve tried to keep going… to be the man you believe I am, to be the man you need. I go to work. I smile. I save people. But none of it… None of it matters. Not without you.”

Tears slid down his face freely now, unchecked. He pressed his face into your hair, inhaling the faint scent of the hairspray he’d used on you before brushing it, just like you always did, a small, cruel reminder of the routines he missed so much and of a life that felt impossibly distant.

“I’ve missed you,” he continued, sobbing quietly. “I’ve missed your laugh, your voice, the little things I didn’t even realize I couldn’t live without. Every day I spend here, watching you sleep, I feel it — the part of me that’s gone with you. You’re… my everything, baby. My life is nothing without you.”

He closed his eyes tightly, trembling, his chest tight as if it had been crushed by the weight of months of worry and guilt. “I shouldn’t have left you alone, not for a second. I should’ve gone to you at lunch that day. I should’ve been there… I should’ve been there.”

A sob tore itself from his chest, raw and ragged. “I’m scared. I’m so scared. If you don’t wake up… I don’t know how I’ll keep going. I can’t… I can’t live without you.”

He rested his forehead on your hand, clinging, as if holding on physically could pull you back from whatever darkness had taken you. “Please… baby. I need you. I’m begging you. Come back. Please.”

The monitor beeped steadily, a cruel rhythm against the storm inside him. For the first time, the walls of control Clark had built, the polite smiles, the routine, the Superman facade, crumbled completely. He was just a man, small and broken, consumed by love and fear and the aching absence of you.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered, voice raw and trembling. “I’ll stay here forever if I have to. I don’t care about the rest of the world. I just need you to come back to me.”

The minutes stretched. The night pressed against him. The silence enveloped him. And yet he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Because the second he let go, even for a moment, the fear that you wouldn’t be there would swallow him whole.

Clark had waited for months. He would wait for eternity if that’s what it took.

But in that moment, sitting beside your silent form, he let himself break.

Completely.

And he whispered again, between sobs, almost pleading to the empty room. “I love you, baby. I love you more than anything. Please… just come back."

Clark walked into the newsroom that day like a ghost wearing his own face.

His tie hung crooked, the knot loose and uneven, a small, almost imperceptible symbol of the chaos inside him. His glasses were smudged, fingerprints smeared across the lenses from countless nights of rubbing his eyes in frustration and exhaustion. Hair fell in careless strands across his forehead, as if he hadn’t bothered to tame it in weeks — months, maybe — and he didn’t care anymore. The small, polite smile he carried was a performance, a shield for the world, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those deep, haunted eyes were shadowed with sleepless nights, etched with lines carved by the weight of quiet despair and months spent watching someone he loved lie silent and unresponsive. He looked like a man hollowed out from the inside, a body moving through life without a soul, a semblance of Clark Kent who had survived but no longer lived.

The clatter of keyboards and murmur of conversations surrounded him, but he felt detached from it all, as if moving through someone else’s reality. He moved mechanically, a ghost among the living — sorting through reports, scanning headlines, filing stories with a precision born of habit rather than care. He could hear Lois laughing at something across the room, Jimmy joking about a story he had chased, Cat muttering about deadlines, but none of it reached him. The world went on, alive and vibrant, and yet he felt entirely disconnected, untethered from it all.

Not because he wanted to be here, not because he found joy in it — he didn’t. Not a flicker of it. He went through the motions because he knew it was what you would have wanted. You had always hated seeing him fall apart. You would have hated knowing that despair had taken root in him so completely. You would have expected him to keep moving, to keep fighting, to carry on, and he couldn’t dishonor that.

So he forced himself to exist. To move. To smile at people who didn’t know the half of it. To be something resembling the man he had been — even if it was only a shadow, a hollow echo of the life he had lived before the accident, before the world became unbearably quiet without you.

Even breathing felt heavy. Every step toward his desk was like dragging himself through thick water, each motion a reminder that the world was still spinning, even though his own universe had stopped the day you didn’t wake.

And yet, he kept going. Because even hollow, even broken, even exhausted, he refused to let despair claim him completely. He could only survive by holding onto that one, fragile thread: the hope that someday, somehow, you would come back.

When he finally sank into his chair, the familiar creak of the old desk echoed louder than it should have. His space was exactly as he’d left it: stacks of half-finished reports, a mug of cold coffee, a worn-out notepad with your handwriting scrawled in the corner — a grocery list you’d made months ago that he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. And there, just beside his monitor, sat a small, framed photo of you. The picture had been taken on a Sunday morning — sunlight catching in your hair, that half-smile on your lips that had always made him forget to breathe.

He brushed his thumb across the glass absently, as though he could feel you through it, before turning back to the screen that had long stopped meaning anything to him.

That’s when Jimmy appeared, grinning like always, full of energy and warmth the way only someone untouched by heartbreak could be. “Hey, man, we’re heading out to O’Malley’s tonight,” he said, resting his hands on the edge of Clark’s desk. “You should come with us. A few drinks, some laughs — it’ll be good for you.”

Clark’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. He didn’t look up. “Not tonight, Jimmy. Thanks,” he murmured, voice thin and tired.

Jimmy frowned, leaning in, refusing to take no for an answer. “C’mon, man. It’s been months. You can’t sit here staring at a screen forever. You need a night off. You need to breathe a little.”

Clark’s jaw flexed. He wanted to say I don’t know how to breathe without her, but the words caught in his throat. His fingers drummed against the edge of the desk — rhythmic, aimless. His gaze drifted toward the picture again, lingering there. “I can’t,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

Jimmy opened his mouth to argue again, but stopped when Lois appeared beside them. She was softer than usual today, concern dimming her sharp edges. “Clark,” she said gently, “are you okay? Maybe Jimmy’s right. A night out could be good for you. Just a few hours — get out of your head for a bit.”

He turned toward her, really looked at her, and for a moment all the strength he had been faking cracked apart. The weight of the months — the endless days spent waiting for something, someone, that might never come — hit him all at once. Around him, the newsroom buzzed: phones ringing, printers whirring, people laughing and living and breathing. The sounds felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater.

He blinked hard, eyes burning. His chest felt tight, his throat raw from holding everything in. “No thanks,” he said softly, voice shaking despite his best effort. Then, after a pause, barely above a whisper, he added, “I will be okay… when she wakes up.”

Lois’s expression softened. She nodded once, understanding. Jimmy looked away, guilt flickering in his eyes. They exchanged a silent glance — one of quiet sympathy — before stepping back, leaving him alone in his little corner of grief.

Clark leaned back in his chair, exhaling shakily. The air in the office suddenly felt heavier, pressing down on him from all sides. He stared at the blank screen in front of him, words blurring into nothing. He typed, deleted, typed again, but it all felt hollow. Meaningless.

He glanced once more at your photo. The smile he’d always loved stared back at him, frozen in time, unknowing of the months that had followed. His thumb brushed the edge of the frame again.

“I’m trying,” he whispered under his breath, so softly no one could hear. “I’m still trying. For you.”

And then he bent his head over the keyboard, forcing himself to work — not because it mattered, but because it was the only way to keep from falling apart.

Hours passed in this quiet torment; it gnawed him slowly, quietly, from the inside out. The ticking of the clock became a cruel metronome, each second stretching too long, reminding him that time still moved even when his heart hadn’t in months. The noise around him was an endless drone in a world that felt gray.

Then, suddenly, the phone on his desk buzzed sharply, breaking through the haze.

He flinched.

The vibration echoed unnaturally loud against the wood. His heart jolted in his chest. He looked down and saw a number he didn’t recognize flash on the screen.

Clark froze.

The air seemed to thicken around him. Every sound in the office warped — distorted, distant — as if he’d been plunged underwater. The chatter, the laughter, the steady whir of printers all faded into a dull hum. He could hear his own breathing, shallow and uneven, too loud in the sudden silence pressing on his ears. His pulse thundered in his head.

The phone kept ringing.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The light on the screen blinked, reflecting off his glasses like a pulse. Each vibration rattled through the desk, through his bones, through every fragile piece of him that was still holding together. His hand twitched, reaching out before stopping short, as if the very act of answering might unravel him completely.

He swallowed hard, throat dry as sandpaper. The taste of metal sat heavy on his tongue. His chest felt like it was caving in.

He knew. He didn’t know how, but he knew.

That terrible, coiled fear that had lived in his chest for months finally came alive. Unspooling with brutal, unrelenting force. This was the call. The one he never wanted to get. Dreading. The one that would end everything.

His voice broke before he even realized he was speaking. “No… no, it can’t be… no…”

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, his breath coming fast, uneven. The phone vibrated again, and his other hand — trembling — lifted, thumb hovering over the green icon. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear to hear the words that would shatter him. “Not yet… please, not like this,” he whispered, the plea torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

Every instinct screamed at him to run. To leave the desk, the office — the world. To fly until there was nothing left but the wind and the sky and silence. His whole body trembled violently, muscles locked, every nerve screaming with the knowledge that answering this call could destroy him.

He felt it all at once, every memory, every night sitting by your bedside, the sound of your steady breathing that had become the only proof you were still there. The scent of the hospital room, the antiseptic and lavender from the flowers he always brought. The mornings alone in the apartment where your mug still sat untouched beside his. The hollow ache of absence twisting and twisting until he thought it might tear something inside him apart.

He couldn’t breathe.

His mind raced, spinning through every horrific possibility: the nurse calling to tell him you were gone, the doctor saying the words he had forced himself never to imagine. He could almost hear it — “I’m sorry, Mr. Kent.”

His hands shook so hard the phone nearly slipped from his grasp. He pressed it to his chest, clinging to it as though he could stop time itself. His heart hammered mercilessly, every beat a countdown.

“No…” he whispered again. “Please, no…”

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to exist in a world where you weren’t breathing.

But he couldn’t stay frozen forever.

So he did the only thing he could. He took one breath, a sharp, shuddering thing that burned all the way down, and pressed the green icon.

"Hello?"

The word cracked as it left his throat, so fragile it barely sounded human. His voice trembled under the weight of months of grief and exhaustion, of hope that had long since turned into pain. He could barely hear himself over the pounding of his own heartbeat.

For a moment, there was nothing but static — a low, broken hiss.

Then… a sound.

A breath. A pause.

He heard a word.

One word. Soft. Trembling. Real.

He froze. His lungs stopped working. His knees nearly gave out beneath him.

The word shattered him.

Everything he had lost, every ounce of hope he had buried under the rubble of grief, came rushing back all at once. It hit him like sunlight after a lifetime of darkness — searing, blinding, alive. His breath broke into a sob before he could stop it. His hand came up to cover his mouth, but the tears were already falling, hot and relentless, slipping down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them away.

People in the newsroom turned to stare, but he didn’t see them. Couldn’t. The entire world had narrowed to that single word.

His chest, once hollow, filled again — painfully, beautifully, overwhelmingly. The room spun around him, the fluorescent lights blurring into streaks of gold through the tears in his eyes. His heart pounded so violently it hurt, but it was the best pain he had ever felt.

“Honey?”

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[followyourfleart]

ᯓ★ To move forward without his love? Impossible...

Your heartbeat.

It had always been loud to him, even when you were asleep, sprawled across his chest like a warm, stubborn cat. Even when you were mad at him. Even when he had been halfway across the city.

But now…it was fading.

Thud.

…thud.

………thud.

Too slow.

Clark’s stomach dropped—a cold, nauseating freefall that wrapped around him. He almost faltered in mid-air as the thing—the towering, jagged-mouthed monster ripping through downtown—bellowed and sent another swarm of skittering minions spilling across the street.

Metropolis screamed. Cars flipped. Glass rained.

He was already moving, faster than air could follow. The monster lunged, a claw slicing open the street like wet paper, but Clark didn’t even blink. He slammed into the creature with enough force to crater the earth beneath them. Bone snapped. Black blood spurted. The thing howled.

Heat vision carved through it in jagged red lines. He tore limb from limb, ripped through the sinewy hide, crushed the core pulsing in its chest. The creature crumbled, a shriveled husk collapsing to ash, but its minions remained. Dozens. Hundreds.

He split them. Blasted them. Ground them into dust.

When the area was finally cleared, he launched upward, straight toward home. To you.

Except…

His home wasn’t there.

The building was a smoking skeleton, the entire structure shaved down to rubble, floors caved in, concrete pulverized. Flames licked the edges of what used to be his balcony. The wind carried embers like dying fireflies.

His body went immediately to work, even though his ears were listening to you. But he couldn't focus. He pulled survivors from the rubble, barking for names, descriptions, anything. He lifted a man pinned under a beam, a crying woman from a collapsed stairwell, a teenager coated in ash…

Then a cry. Small. Trembling.

“Help! Superman!”

Clark’s head snapped toward the sound.

A little boy. He knew him. A little neighbor who had once given Clark cookies because his mom had made too many. Tears streaked through the dust on his face. He kneeled beside a figure half-buried in debris.

Clark’s chest caved in.

The boy looked up at him, desperate, sobbing. “She—she pushed me—she saved me—please help her—please—!”

It was you.

Head turned slightly, hair tangled with dust and blood. A jagged length of rebar speared straight through your abdomen, pinning you to the twisted ruins of a support beam. Blood soaked your shirt, gathering in dark pools beneath you.

Your trembling, scraped-up hand was wrapped weakly around the boy’s. The boy’s mother was by her son's side, holding him close, but her hand covered both his and yours, squeezing hard, voice breaking.

“She saved him—she pulled him out of the way—oh God, she—she didn’t even hesitate—”

Clark barely heard her.

All he did was move to you. Your pulse was faint. So faint. He felt it slipping like sand between fingers.

“Hey. Sweetheart. Look at me. I’m here,” he breathed, leaning in, voice barely holding together.

Your eyelids fluttered, sluggish and heavy. You managed to turn your head an inch.

“…Cla ...Superman…?”

“I’m here,” he repeated, brushing dust and blood from your cheek with the gentlest hand he had ever had. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I promise.”

You swallowed, a weak, wet sound. “The kid—he’s okay? He—he didn’t—”

“He’s safe,” Clark whispered fiercely. “Because of you. You saved him. You hear me? You saved him.”

You tried to smile. Your heartbeat stumbled again.

Clark’s eyes snapped to the rebar. He knew what it meant. He knew what removing it would do. He knew there was no way to pull it out without—

He pressed his forehead to yours, shaking.

“Stay with me.” His voice broke, cracking in places it never had. “I can fix this, okay? I can—I can find a way. Just give me a little time, just—stay awake—”

You exhaled shakily, your breath ghosting against his cheek. “... Superman …you’re shaking.”

He was. Violently.

He gathered your hand in both of his, holding it like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear, only for you. “I love you, please…please, don’t leave me.”

Your eyes glistened, tears gathering, slipping through grime.

“I—I wasn’t scared. I knew…you’d come.”

Your heartbeat gave another weak, faltering whimper. Your hand squeezed his, barely there.

“Clark…don’t…cry…”

He bowed over you, shoulders shaking as he cupped the back of your head, holding you like you were fragile china.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered into your hair. “I can’t. I can’t. Please, baby, stay—”

Your pulse stuttered—

then paused—

then—

…

The world tilted. Something in him tore open so terrifying he swore he heard the sound.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Honey—hey, look at me. Look…” His voice cracked. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Your eyes were open, but unfocused, glassy, wrong in a way his brain refused to process.

People stood a few feet away. Construction workers, EMTs, bystanders who had gotten too close. Someone cried softly. Someone else whispered his name.

Someone filmed.

A distant voice said something about a pulse.

Another said—they couldn’t—no pulse—she was—

He focused back on you and wrapped his hands around the base of the rebar.He ripped it from the ground with a single wrenching pull. Concrete split. The steel shrieked. Dust exploded. Someone gasped. He didn’t look at them.

He slid his arms under you. Your body folded against him, limp, heavy in a way you had never been. His breath hitched as your head fell back.

“Easy,” he whispered, voice torn. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He took off so fast the sound barrier cracked behind him.

He only remembered the way your arm swung lightly with the air currents. The way your hair whipped against his chest, lifeless.

“I know a place,” he muttered against the wind. “I know—I know who can help. Okay? Okay, we’ll—we’ll go home. You’ll be fine.”

Kansas blurred below him. The wheat fields, the barns, the gravel roads—to him they were streaks of color, nothing more. He landed in the Kent driveway with a thud.

“Ma!” His voice wasn’t Superman’s. It was a boy’s. “Ma—Ma!”

The kitchen light flicked on. His mother moved to the window. Her silhouette froze.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

She screamed.

The screen door slammed open so hard it bounced off the house. She ran barefoot across the porch, apron still tied, dish towel still over her shoulder.

“Oh my God—oh my God, Clark—Clark, what—” She dropped to her knees in the dirt beside you. “Baby, what happened? What—”

“Help her,” he choked. “Please—Ma, she’s not—she won’t wake up—just help—please help—”

Her hands fluttered over you.

“Oh honey,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Jonathan!” she sobbed. “Jonathan!”

His Pa appeared in the doorway, confused—until he saw you.

His face drained of color. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, stumbling forward. “Clark—what—what happened?”

Clark rocked slightly, unable to stop. “I don’t know—I don’t—she was—I didn’t get there in time—just—help her—Pa, help her—”

He knelt, steady, practiced, the way he’d knelt over dying animals and injured farmhands and old neighbors having heart attacks.

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

Then to your wrist.

Then to the hollow of your throat.

He didn’t speak.

Clark’s breathing hitched, fast, uneven.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” he demanded. “Pa—why—why aren’t you—”

Jonathan looked at Martha.

Martha shook her head, tears spilling freely.

Clark’s whole body went rigid.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t—don’t say it. Don’t—you can’t—she’s just—she’s just hurt—just tell me what to do—tell me how to—”

His Pa reached out and gripped his shoulders.

“Clark.”

“No—”

“Clark.”

“Don’t—Pa—don’t—”

His Pa's voice broke. “Son… she’s gone.”

Absolute silence fell again. Clark blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His Ma reached for him. “Baby, I’m—”

He jerked away.

Clark tried to convince himself you were, but you weren’t. There was no warmth left in your skin. No breath on his neck. No heartbeat in his ears.

Pa squeezed his shoulders harder, grounding him with force. “Clark. She’s gone.”

He made a sound no human throat should have been able to produce—a jagged, animalistic rasp torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

His arms tightened around you, crushing you to him as if pressure alone could force life back into you. As if he could warm you. As if he could will your heart to start.

It took both of them—Pa pulling, Ma coaxing—to slide you from his hold. His fingers clung to your sleeve until the very end, until even that small scrap of fabric slipped away.

“Good girl,” Martha whispered under her breath, hands trembling as she laid you down. “Oh—oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry…”

He stared at them. His folks. His palms. His fingers. The lines, the scars, the strength that had never failed him in his entire life—never once, not with earthquakes or planet-killers or burning buildings. But they had failed you.

He didn’t feel his parents dragging him inside. Didn’t feel the grass under his boots or the porch steps under his boots. Everything blurred, smeared, disconnected. Their voices sounded far away, as if underwater.

“Jonathan, get a towel—he’s covered in blood—”

“I’ll call her folks—God, Martha, how do I even—”

“Do it gentle. For heaven’s sake, don’t be blunt. Clark, honey, sit. Sit down, okay?”

He had no memory of sitting.

Or standing.

Or lying down.

Time warped, stretched, thinned. One minute he was on the couch, Ma wiping blood from his face. The next he was in the shower, water beating against him, mixing with the dirt and your blood circling the drain. Then, he was in his childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the light changed and changed and changed again.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t blink.

He barely breathed.

Martha tried to feed him. Pa tried to talk to him. Neither worked. He didn’t need food. He didn’t need sleep. He didn’t need anything.

He stayed on his bed for days, the mattress dipping under his weight, the quilt Ma had made years ago pulled up but never moved. His arms lay limp at his sides. His eyes were dry, cracked from lack of blinking.

Sometimes Ma sat beside him, brushing his hair off his forehead like he was ten years old again.

“Baby,” she whispered. “You have to get up eventually.”

He didn’t respond.

Days had no shape. Nights had no meaning. Time dissolved into a gray, endless smear.

When the funeral day came, Clark didn’t even change. Ma dressed him like he was a child—buttoning his shirt, combing his hair, smoothing down the wrinkles. His hands stayed limp at his sides.

“Come on, son,” Pa said quietly. “She deserves you there.”

He stood only because they guided him. One on each side. A hand on each arm.

At the cemetery, the sky was cruelly bright. The chairs were full. People cried quietly. Some clutched tissues. Some looked at him with confusion, pity.

Your mother’s sobbing was sharp, guttural, frantic. Your father broke down trying to hold her up.

“It’s not real,” your mother cried. “It’s not—this can’t be real—this isn’t happening—”

When your coffin was carried forward, Pa gripped his arm harder. Ma whispered, “Stay with us. Stay standing.”

He watched the wooden box lower slowly, inch by inch.

The machinery whirred.

Lower.

Lower.

He felt the sun on his face. Too hot. Too bright. Too alive. It burned. He wanted to step out of it. Hide from it. Sink somewhere dark and cold.

He wanted to be down there with you.

To fall in beside you and stay there. Let the dirt cover him. Let it weigh him down. Let the earth swallow him whole until nothing was left but silence.

Lying on his back in the soft soil, closing his eyes, letting the sun fade from his skin until he was cold, until he was still, until he felt nothing at all.

Let him in.

Please.

Let him in.

But the world wouldn’t bend for him this once. The earth didn’t open. The grave stayed closed to him. Only to him.

All he could do was watch as they shoveled the first slice of dirt onto your coffin. The thud was final. Violent. Too loud.

Your mother wailed, then your father finally collapsed to his knees, fists full of grass, begging to wake up from whatever nightmare this was.

The wake was worse.

Blurred like smeared ink, like someone had dragged their thumb through the picture of his life until everything was unrecognizable.

He barely remembered being led through the church hall, faces shifting past him like ghosts. Hands touched his back, his arm, someone murmured, “I’m so sorry, Clark,” but he couldn’t hear the words. Couldn’t hear anything.

He remembered one moment with painful clarity: your photo on the table. Candles around it. Your smile trapped in stillness.

He couldn't remember heading back to Metropolis. Didn’t remember stepping into the ruined lot that you and his apartment used to be. No one was there except a construction company destroying the last parts.

He just stood there, staring as they ripped everything away from him.

He was forced to find a new place.

Small.

One bedroom.

One toothbrush in the bathroom.

One bed.

One plate. One cup. One fork.

One.

That was all he needed.

That was all there was left.

He showed up at the office the next day, tie perfectly knotted, hair combed, expression unreadable. Lois blinked twice.

“Clark? What—what are you doing here?”

He set his bag down. “I have work to do.”

“You don’t have to—” Jimmy started.

“I do."

He sat down and typed. Fast. Mechanical. Efficient in a way that had Perry walking over three times just to check if the computer was malfunctioning.

Then, when he was pulling on his suit as he raced through the sky, the League called.

Bruce was the one who talked to him, voice gravelly, but grief like in his own way, like he understood: “You don’t need to come in for missions yet.”

“I’m coming.”

“Clark. Don’t push yourself.”

He hung up.

For the League, he completed missions that normally took teams. For the Planet, he turned in three weeks of content in two days.

He stopped laughing.

Stopped smiling.

Stopped talking unless necessary.

Superman became a machine. Clark Kent became a ghost.

And the world kept spinning without you.

Work.

Save.

Write.

Fly.

Work.

Work.

Work.

That's how he was for months. He did everything with no feeling. People would clammer to him after he saved them. He couldn't even smile, because in their tears of relief, he saw your tears of death.

He lost his love for writing. He didn’t know what half the articles he wrote about were anymore. Didn’t care. His fingers just moved because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant breaking.

This day, no TV murmuring in the background. No kettle warming on the stove. No off-key humming from you as you folded laundry. Just the faint rustle of pages from the stack of untouched mail.

He shifted in his chair, shoulders sagging. He hadn’t shaved in days. Weeks? His stubble didn’t grow much—alien perks—but he looked uncanny. Like a sketch of a man instead of a whole one.

His vision blurred over the screen. He forced a quiet breath in, stopped halfway through it, then pushed his glasses up his nose. Gosh, he was getting another headache.

Then he turned slightly in his chair.

“Sweetheart? Could you make me a coffee? The way you do it.”

It slipped out of him naturally. Automatically.

He waited.

He waited.

A few seconds.

He didn’t hear you laugh at him for asking nicely. Didn’t hear your robe swish as you shuffled into the kitchen. Didn’t hear you sigh dramatically like you always did when he pretended he was helpless with appliances.

He frowned lightly, confused, and turned fully in his seat.

“Hey,” he called again, softer. “Did you hear me?”

Just the hum of the fridge.

His heart thudded—heavy, slow, confused. He stood from his chair in a daze, walking toward the kitchen like he was drifting through a dream.

The counter was empty. Only his lone mug sat upside-down in the rack.

There were no footsteps behind him. No warm hand smoothing over his back. No annoyed little mutter of I’m coming, Clark, God, relax.

His hand hovered over the countertop.

“You—” His voice cracked faintly. “You always make it better than I do.”

It hit him so slowly it was almost cruel.

You weren’t in the other room.

You weren’t running late from the store.

You weren’t taking a nap on the couch.

You weren’t here.

You weren’t anywhere.

You and your stuff was all destoryed

Your voice stayed gone.

Clark’s breath vanished. Just stolen right out of him.

He whispered your name.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time, like maybe repetition could change reality.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The scream built inside him before he understood what was happening.

His vision went red at the edges. Heat scorched behind his eyes.

And Clark launched upward so fast the air in the apartment imploded in his wake.

The building shook, and glass shattered as he shot out of his apartment.The city blurred beneath him. Clouds tore open as he ripped through them.

His breath came harsh, ragged, ripped apart by the speed he forced from his own body. He cut through the atmosphere with a fury that left fire trailing behind him.

He didn’t slow, not until the moon rushed up at him in a stark wall of grey and silence.

He slammed down into its surface with a crater-making force that sent dust exploding miles into the airless void.

Clark stared at the jagged landscape beneath him, chest heaving even though he didn’t need the air. Grief and rage tangled inside him so violently he couldn’t separate one from the other.

He clenched his fist. He slammed them into the surface of the moon.

Once.

The ground dented. His rage didn't.

He hit it again. Harder.

A crater split beneath him.

“Why—!?” he shouted, voice vibrating through his bones—the sound didn’t travel, but he felt it shake him from the inside out. “Why didn't I get there faster!”

Another blow.

“Why couldn't I—?!”

He drove his fist down again, knuckles carving stone.

“WHY DIDN’T I SAVE YOU—?!”

He hit the ground again—wild, desperate, blind—with every ounce of strength he’d spent months pretending he didn’t feel anymore. A fissure ripped outward beneath him like the moon itself was breaking for him.

Clark sank forward onto his knees. His fingers dug into the grey dust. He bowed his head until it touched the cold surface.

Tears lifted from his cheeks before they could fall, drifting upward in shimmering beads that floated around him like ghosts.

He just let them go.

Let them scatter into the dark.

While he remained. Breathing in ragged, broken pulls. Not moving. Not thinking. Just existing in the wreckage of what he’d done to the moon’s surface.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Nothing felt real except the ache swallowing him whole.

Except for a sudden breath of something warm brushed the back of his neck.

A warmth he knew better than sunlight.

His head jerked up.

Just the crater. The floating pebbles. The emptiness. He let out a rough, stuttering breath and bowed his head again. He was imagining things. He had to be imagining things. His fingers dug deeper into the dust.

“Clark.”

His entire body went rigid.

The voice wasn’t behind him this time. It was everywhere. Soft. Gentle.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough that his eyelashes trembled.

"Please—don’t—don’t let me hear her if she’s not—”

“Clark,” you whispered again, as if coaxing a frightened animal. “Look at me.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to.

He lifted his head slowly, breath trapped in his chest. The sunlight dimmed and brightened like it was breathing.

And then you were there.

Floating above the crater. Weightless. Soft. Glowing around the edges like you were made of starlight instead of flesh.

Clark’s mouth fell open.

He made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—and his hand shot up like he was scared you’d drift away if he didn’t catch you.

“You’re—you’re—” He choked on the word. “You’re here.”

You smiled gently. A sad, warm curve of your mouth that broke him all over again.

“Hi."

He pushed off the ground too fast, floating up to meet you, his hands hovering inches from your arms, your face, your waist. Afraid to touch you, afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m so sorry,” he burst out, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m so—Gosh—I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I should’ve been faster, I should’ve been there—if I had just gotten there a second earlier, if I had—”

“Clark...” you said softly.

He shook his head, frantic. “I didn’t save you. I didn’t save the one person— the only person—who ever made me feel like—like I was—human.”

He reached toward you again, and this time he touched the back of your hand.

It passed through you like water.

He flinched.

You cupped his cheek anyway—your fingers cool, faint, like moonlight brushing his skin. “I’m not here to make you hurt more.”

“Then—then stay.” His voice cracked, desperate. “I can’t—I can’t lose you again—”

“I’m not staying,” you said gently.

“Don’t say that,” he begged. “Don’t go, I’ll do anything, I’ll—”

Your thumb traced his cheek in the ghost of a touch. “You still have a life. A purpose.”

“I don’t,” he said fiercely. “Not without you.”

“You do,” you whispered. “Because you loved me. And because you still do. Too much to bury it here in the dark.”

He swallowed hard, chest rising unevenly.

“Give it away.”

“…what?”

“Your love.” You floated closer, your forehead almost touching his. “Give it to the world. All of it. The world needs what you gave me.”

“I don’t want to give it away,” he whispered. “It's... was ours.”

“It still is,” you said. “It always will be. But you’re meant to share it now.”

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

“Then find yourself again. In what we had.”

He pressed his forehead to yours—or tried to. It didn’t fully connect. Just brushed, the faintest pressure.

“I don’t know how,” he whispered.

“I’ll show you.”

Clark lifted his head a fraction.

You leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t a physical thing. More like warm air brushing his mouth. A memory. A dream pressed against his lips.

He chased it desperately, hands moving to cradle your face, though they passed through you again.

He needed it.

Your fingers floated up to touch his chest, right over his heart.

“This is where I am,” you whispered. “Always.”

His face twisted, eyes squeezing shut as a sob ripped out of him.

Your edges flickered.

Faded.

Your fingers thinned into threads of light.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His breath stopped.

“I always loved you,” he said back, voice breaking. “Always.”

You smiled one last time.

Then you dissolved—gently—like mist unraveling in sunlight.

Clark’s hands grasped at empty space.

He stayed there, suspended in the quiet, eyes wet, chest heaving, dust drifting around him like falling snow.

Slowly—he lifted his gaze to the Earth hanging above him.

Its blues and greens blurred through his tears.

He reached out a hand toward the planet. A small gesture. His promise. His beginning.

Then he pushed upward. Stronger than he had been in a long time.

He rose from the moon’s surface, carrying your last touch inside his chest, turning your words into his heartbeat.

He flew toward the world.

The years unfolded over him like a long, living tapestry. His life bent into a rhythm that felt almost holy. He mended, he steadied, he gave. And he kept giving.

He caught a crumbling bridge once, the steel groaning in his hands, the cars rattling above him. A little girl in the backseat of a blue sedan pressed her palm to the window, eyes wide. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he saw the shape of her mouth.

Thank you.

He swallowed hard. “You’re welcome,” he whispered, even though she couldn’t hear him.

Another day, he dropped into a burning hospital, floor after floor collapsing in on themselves. Smoke filled his lungs, heat coating his skin. He tore open a wall and found a nurse shielding a newborn beneath her body. She looked up at him with soot-streaked cheeks, panting.

“Please—help him—”

“I’ve got both of you,” he told her. His voice didn’t shake. It hadn’t in years.

He stood on the steps of the Hall of Justice once, listening as the next generation of heroes argued, teased, and planned. They were loud and bright and so young. He leaned against a column beside Bruce, who had aged in different ways.

“They’ll be good,” Bruce muttered.

“They will,” Clark murmured. “They already are.”

He watched Lois retire. Watched Jimmy marry. Watched Perry step down, and the new editor shake his hand with adoration mixed with terror. His coworkers teased him gently about never aging, never slowing down.

He always smiled politely.

Then he went home to the quiet, to the place where your memory still warmed the walls like a lamp left on in another room. Your picture on the mantle. Your sweater was folded in a drawer that he never opened, but never moved.

“Goodnight,” he’d say softly every night. “I hope I did right today.”

As the decades spun on, and his hair silvered like soft frost along his temples, the city changed. Justice League rookies approached him with reverence, asking for advice. He gave it freely—gentle nudges, quiet encouragements, the way he wished someone had guided him when he’d been lost in himself.

That's when he knew.

He was ready.

He watched Kara laugh in the doorway of her farmhouse one last time, her hair long and bright, streaked silver like his, glowing in the Kansas sun. She hugged him fiercely, as if she could hold time still.

“You could stay longer,” she whispered.

“Trust me,” he promised. “You have so much life to live.”

Krypto leaned against his leg, whining in that low, almost human way. Clark knelt and stroked the old dog’s muzzle.

“You take care of her."

Krypto nudged his palm, as if scolding him for even asking.

He visited Ma and Pa beneath the oak tree. The wind rustled in the leaves like someone flipping through pages. He placed his hand on the cool stone.

“I did my part,” he said quietly. “I'll tell you all about it when I see you again”

He moved on. To your folks next. They had never stopped writing him letters, even after their hands trembled too much to hold pens. They had sent him stories of their days, little joys, memories of you. He had answered every one. Kept them all after they passed.

Your gravesite was always the hardest. He knelt there, fingers brushing the edge of the stone he had carved himself. Weathered now. Smooth from decades of wind.

Silence settled around him like snow.

“I kept you with me,” he continued. “Every day. Every choice.”

His voice thickened.

“I hope… I hope that counts.”

He floated up from the cemetery when he was done, rising slow, like a man already half in another world.

The moon greeted him like an old friend. A familiar, aching pull in his chest guided him to the crater he’d once put into the earth with rage. He sat on the cliff of it. His legs were dangling over the edge. Earth glowed blue in front of him.

He unclipped his cape. Then he let it go, watching it as it drifted into the dark. He didn’t need it anymore.

A warm presence stirred beside him.

He didn’t look. He just knew

“Clark.”

He closed his eyes.

“You came,” he whispered.

“I told you I’d be here,” he felt a warmth press against his chest. “Whenever you were ready.”

He turned his head slowly. You looked exactly as that first day you showed yourself to him—alive in a way that hurt and soothed all at once. He laughed under his breath, a sound wet and startled and overwhelmed.

Your hand reached for him. He took it with both of his.

“Are you sure?” you asked gently. “This is the path you want?”

He thought of the world. Of every life he had touched. Of every dawn he had watched rise alone. Of every moment he had carried the weight of being strong.

And of every night he had whispered your name into the dark.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Sweetheart… I’m sure.”

You smiled at him—soft, tender, knowing. The moonlight glowed through you like warm fog.

“Close your eyes.”

He did.

“Breathe.”

He drew one deep breath, letting it shake through him.

“And now,” you whispered, your voice falling over him like a blanket pulled to his chin, “Let go.”

He let go.

The world slipped away gently, as if it were laying him down to sleep.

When he opened his eyes—

He was standing.

On soft grass.

Beside a lake that shimmered like liquid silver under morning light.

The air smelled of pine and warm water.

He looked down at his hands—young again. Strong again.

He turned.

You stood there.

Whole.

Warm.

Alive.

His breath broke open in his chest.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He walked to you slowly, reverently, like approaching living sunlight.

“Hey,”

He folded you into his arms for the first time in a lifetime—and the universe finally felt right around him.

Sorry?

Taglist (open):

@kawaiioverlord, @onyxxshi, @saaaaaaaaaaam, @kissmxcheek, @cicikent

Masterlist

[ohtobeleah]

Mind Over Matter // Bradley Bradshaw

Summary: Your mind is not your own when you’re exposed to a kind of ‘Sex Pollen’ your date spiked your drink with. But the worst part of it all is that Rooster takes advantage of your willingness to give your body to him, knowing damn well that you’d never truly want to.

Warnings: Date rape. Sexual assault/harassment. Bradley Bradshaw x F!reader. Brief Smut. 18+ Content ahead. Mentions of non consent. Sex pollen. Move over Dark!Bob—Dark!Rooster is in the building.

Word Count: 5.1k

Author Note: Day Six of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Mind Control. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“If you grip that beer any tighter Rooster you’re gonna need stitches.” Bradley didn’t register what Jake had meant at first, but when he looked down to see that his hand was squeezed so tightly around the amber bottle of his Budweiser, he released some pressure. His knuckles immediately felt the release as he readjusted his shoulders and took a sip.

It didn’t take a degree in aerospace physics to understand why Bradley Bradshaw was so worked up. And you didn’t have to have twenty twenty vision to see where Rooster's harsh gaze was so heavily trained upon. 

“Bliss has really gotten under your feathers this time, hasn’t she?” Jake chuckled to himself as he raised his beer to his lips. The two aviators sat at one of the small bar tables off near the pool table, just waiting for the rest of the crew to stumble in haphazardly for Friday night beers. 

“You’d think with her dad being the former Commander of the Pacific Fleet she’d have a little more brains.” Rooster was seething, he’d never seen such reckless flying before. “I need to find out who her health care proxy is before she nosedives into the Pacific.” So he’d hatched a plan. A deceptive and devious plan. 

It had been a rough day to say the very least. Rooster had torn shreds off you on the tarmac in front of your entire TopGun class for a maneuver you pulled that wasn’t sanctioned. Uncle Mav would have liked it. Rooster not so much. He has this stick wedged up his arse so tight that it stops him from having any type of fun. 

Bradley didn’t regret it at the time, but the longer he sat across the Hard Deck watching you laugh and twirl your hair alongside some douche from admin he’d never bothered to properly learn the name of, he regretted it more and more. He’d prefer it if it was him. Come to think of it—the longer Bradley stared, the more he knew he was all in on this. But that guy…..Adam, man Rooster owed him. Big time. 

“Who’s your health care proxy?” Jake asked all the while his own gaze fell to the pretty brunette helping Penny behind the bar. He didn’t even know her name yet but he knew he was taking her home tonight. That was for sure. 

“I never filled out the forms.” Bradley sighed. “I handed them back when I realised I didn’t have anyone to put down—I’ve just never really bothered to fill them out even when Mav came back into my life.” 

“Oh—that’s a bad plan.” Jake's health care proxy was Javy. They’d been eachother’s since the academy. Thankfully they’d never had to be that for one another. 

“You can be mine.” Bradley shrugged as he finished his beer, still watching the way you laughed and smiled with the guy sitting next to you over at the bar. You probably didn’t even know that Rooster had a thing for you—he never let it show. Even when you were kids. Hell you probably never saw any of this coming, he’d been told to keep it as unsuspecting as possible. 

But when you caught his eyeline and didn’t look away as the guy you’d been entertaining came down to kiss your neck so openly right there at the bar, he wondered if you were putting on a show just to get back at him for the way he’d scolded you. Perhaps you liked him more than you led on. 

This whole student teacher dynamic wasn’t working out. You knew the minute you saw Bradley Bradshaw during your induction class that this was going to be a rough stint. 

“Your health care proxy? Really?” Jake’s voice brought Rooster's mind back to the real world before it could run off into Neverland with the idea that in some alternate universe the two of you might have been a good pair. But for as long as the world had been spinning—you and Rooster were butting heads. Constantly and forever getting on each other's last nerve. Until he’d decided to take matters into his own hands and accepted a proposal.

“Well I mean Phoenix already has Bob and Fanboy so she’s already got enough to take care of.” Bradley was barely in the conversation, he was still eyeing you off as you politely excused yourself to use the bathroom. That’s what Bradley assumed you were doing when you got up. “So yeah—be my guest man.” 

“You want extraordinary measures or should I just unplug you.” Jake was actually pretty flattered. He and Rooster had come a long way. Now he was his health care proxy. That was a pretty big deal. 

“Use your judgment, I’m going to hell anyway.” Bradley frowned as he answered Jake, what was this guy up to? Rooster watched as he looked to his left and then to his right and then to see what Penny and Marli were up to. 

Of course Bradley knew the new bartender's name. 

Then, Rooster's heart sank into his stomach, for a second he forgot how to breathe as he watched the man from admin slip something into your drink. The liquid vile was gone in a split second and before Bradley could even begin to process what he was witnessing in real time—the deed had already been gone. 

The fucker spiked your drink. Yep, it was time. 

“Oh fuck did he just?” Jake couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Ain’t no way—“ 

“I’m gonna kill him.” Bradley jumped to his feet so fast the feet of the stool he sat on dragged against the wooden floorboards and made a high pitched squeaking sound. He had to make it look believable. 

“Not if I kill him first.'' Jake added as he stood to his feet. The pair were fast on their feet as they made a direct line for where the man sat by your drink. 

“Hey fellas.” Penny cooed as she cleaned a few empties off the bar. “Another round?” 

“Yes please, and ring that damn bell while you're at it.” Rooster smirked as his hands came down to clamp around the man who’d been far too friendly with you for the majority of the night. “Old mate here just spiked Blisters drink—“ Everyone sitting in the general proximity went silent as the revelation was brought to light. 

“Ain’t that right son.” Jake added, as cock sure as ever. “Get your arse up outta that damn chair before I drag you of it myself.” 

“What the hell are you two clowns going on about?” The man argued as he stood and puffed his chest at Jake. He shrugged Roosters hands off his shoulders rather aggressively in the process. Penny already had her phone out ready to dile the cops. She had a zero tolerance policy for inappropriate misconduct in her bar. 

“We both saw you, you spiked Bliss’s cocktail with something. Show me your pockets.” It was an order, Bradley wasn’t messing around. When it came to your safety he didn’t mess around. Unless it was him. Hence why he’d been so harsh on you earlier in the day. “Come on—if you’ve got nothing to hide man I’d suggest emptying your—“ 

“Bradshaw? Seresin?” Your voice cut through the harshness of the situation. “What’s going on?” It was a question no one really wanted to answer truthfully as everyone turned to look at you.

“I’ll get you a fresh drink, Bliss.” Marli answered as politely as she possibly could as she took the drink you’d just ordered away from the bar. You hadn’t yet had a single sip. 

“These two lunatics just came over here and accused me of spiking your drink!” Adam growled, he had been caught red handed but he wasn’t going down without a fight. He knew what had been discussed earlier. “You know, you two are lucky that I don’t press charges for assault!” 

“You spiked her damn drink I saw you!” Bradley hissed as he balled his knuckles into tight balls. He was trying so hard to not knock this guy out right then and there at the bar. That would be taking things too far—that wasn’t part of the deal.

“Adam?” You asked softly. You’d managed to sandwich yourself between Bradley and Jake for a little more protection. “Is that true? Did you put something in my drink?” 

A lul fell over the conversation as Adam tried to think light on his feet. He was sweating, Rooster could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he tried to remain as calm and stoic as he could. 

“Adam?”

“I put something in your drink but it wasn’t what theses two fucking morons think it is!” That was all Penny needed to dial the local authorities and it was all Bradley Bradshaw needed to smash his fist into Adam's face with a growl that was ever so primal. Huh—guess the deal was kinda off. 

“Rooster!” You tried to argue but Jake held you back. 

“Come on, step outside with me.” You reluctantly went with Jake as he guided you out of the bar and sat you down on one of the chairs. He normally wasn’t this attentive towards you but somewhere along the line he’d fallen into the vacant big brother roll. “Do you feel alright?” His hand was on your forehead before you could even shoo him away. 

“I’m fine! I didn’t have any of the damn drink.” You couldn’t begin to explain your embarrassment. The one guy you’d entertained the idea of going home with in a very long time, spiked your drink. “Can I just go home? I’ll never be able to show my face here again.” 

“Hey, it’s not your fault he did that Bliss.” Jake's gentle but reaffirming tone had your heart settling inside your chest for all but five seconds before Bradley was storming out with two small and empty glass vials in his hand. 

“What the hell were you thinking hangin’ around that fucking guy?” Rooster spat. “Huh?” 

“I’m sorry?” You thought you’d heard him wrong as Jake rose to his feet from being crouched in front of you assessing your features. “What? You think I knew he was going to try and date rape me?” 

“He’s got a reputation, Bliss! You’d know that if you ever fucking listened!” That much was true, but you always just assumed whatever Rooster said about anyone who wasn’t himself was just his manipulative tactics to get you to stay on the straight and narrow. 

“Bradshaw—“ Jake tried to intervene. “Take it easy man, she feels fine, besides she didn’t have any of whatever that guy tried to spike her with.” 

“Yeah well I’ve got two empty vials here and I only saw him dump one so he could have spiked a drink earlier in the night.” The revelation took the breath right out of your lungs. Up until that very moment you thought it had just been a super close call. But now, as Rooster held up two empty bottles—you knew you’d already been drugged. 

“I need to go h-home.” You stumbled over your worlds as you stood to your feet. “Thanks for being observant.” You pressed your lips together in a fine line as panic rose in your chest. “I uh—I’ll see you guys on Monday.” 

“Blister—“ Rooster grabbed at your wrist as you walked past him. The callsign he gave you made your entire body tense. Blisters always show up after the hard work is done. He didn’t think you were a team player. He didn’t think you were a good enough pilot to be a Kazanksy. He didn’t respect you, he didn’t see you as an equal. He never had and never would. 

And that’s why as much as you loved Bradley Bradshaw you’d never let yourself go down that road. He wasn’t good for you. That much was clear. 

“I’ll drive you home, god knows what Yellow Jacket even is—“ He read the label on the small bottles. He knew enough to know what was going to happen next, he just didn’t know to what extent x

“I’ll drive you home and maybe even to the emergency room to get your stomach pumped.” 

“I don’t need your help.” You hissed back as you ripped your wrist out of Bradley’s grasp. “But thankyou for the offer, I’ll see you both on Monday.” 

“Kazansky, don’t be stupid—“ Bradley followed you down into the gravelly carpark. “I’m taking you home, if something happens to you.” Before Bradley could explain his concern you turned to face him once more. Jake watched the entire thing unfold from the front deck. 

“Why the hell do you care?” You snapped in a panic filled rage, “Why Rooster? Why do you care about what happens to me now, when all you’ve ever done is consistently shown me that you could care less!” It wasn’t the truth. Bradley had always cared about you. You were unfortunately his favorite person. But you were Bliss Kazanksy, the untouchable, off limits, touch her and I’ll kill you, daughter of Tom Kazanksy. Even dead that man scared the ever living Christ from Rooster. “You’ve never cared, so please, for the love of whatever fucking god you choose to believe in don’t start now.” But he didn’t scare him enough to not orchestrate this undercover operation of sorts. 

Bradley could have tried to stop you—he should have. In the grand schemes of things he really should have. But his ego was far too big and far too strong to let him. 

“You know what, fine.” He tossed the vials on the ground and all you did was watch them roll towards your feet. “You’re right.” Jake sighed and shook his head as he went back into the Hard Deck. The pair of you were blind. “I could care less, really.”

“Jerk.” You’d been calling Bradley a Jerk since highschool. All Rooster did was run his hands across his face. He was over this, over this back and forth bullshit the two of you did. He wanted to wash his hand’s clean of this situation. You wanted to go it alone? so be it. 

“Maybe—“ Rooster shrugged as he put his hands in the pockets of his jeans to fish out his keys. He just wanted to go home. “But I wasn’t the one who fucking drugged you.” 

Oh how that was an outright lie. 

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Bradley went home and immediately, despite his burning rage, looked up all that he could find on Yellow Jacket. His stomach felt like it had been twisted into heavy knots reading about it. His length however, strained against the sweatpants he wore just thinking about it. 

“Jesus—“ He sighed to himself as he sat at his desk in front of his computer screen reading about how it was originally an ancient herbal medicine to help underpopulated areas increase their birth rates. During the First World War however, it was developed into a bio weapon. Used against women in their childbearing years to help increase the population as numbers substantially declined. 

Apparently it disappeared there for a while. But some guy figured out how to synthetically replicate the toxin and this one was ten times worse. As far as date rape drugs go this one was nearly leathal. 

It caused the victims labido to increase to extreme heights and nothing would cure the craving for desire until it was met. Bradley felt sick. He could barely read on, but he felt like he had to, for your sake. 

It had become a popular date rape drug because it made the victim compliant. It made them willing and in most cases it made them initiate the act. Without sex—without that sweet relief of an orgasm brought on by another person—symptoms such as fevers, headaches, yellow tinged eyes, burst blood vessels and erratic seizures were all side effects. 

But the worst part about the drug that Bradley had discovered was that there was no known antidote. Even if he had taken you to the hospital, the only thing that could help would be intercourse. 

It was mind control at its very worst, and it was here—in North Island. Probably pumping through your veins. He hoped. 

Those exposed, according to a report posted only a month ago that Bradley read in his web surfing session, shows that ninety eight percent of victims didn’t want to engage in any sexual activity. But because of the nature of the act, the willingness in the moment from victims, it was incredibly hard to get a conviction. 

“Jesus Christ—“ Rooster wasn't sure how much time he had spent reading up on this horrid drug, but the sound of panicked knuckles banging against his front door broke him out of his research. The three empty beers from his fridge told him it could have been hours or forty five minutes on a bad night. And boy had tonight been bad.

When the knocking didn't let up, Bradley moved through his living room to open the front door. He couldn't say he was all that shocked to see you. But he was shocked to notice the yellow tinge in your eyes. Fuck. 

“Bliss–” Bradleys eyes were nearly blown out of his skull at the sight of you. “Are you alright?” He knew. He knew instantly that you weren't alright. With Yellow eyes and skin that looked hot and flustered to the touch, you were surely in pain. 

“Somethings wrong with me.” You replied as you pushed past Bradley into his home. “Somethings wrong with me–” The feeling of his skin brushing against your burned, why did he have to parade around shirtless in his own home? 

“Hey hey, tell me what's wrong.” Bradley held you still in the front hallway of his humble abode. This was it, what he’d been waiting for. “Bliss.” He was trying to catch your gaze, but the way the yellow haze danced across your eyes was hard to miss. You were there, but you weren’t there. The lights were on but no one was home. At the wheel was an electric labido. 

“I went home.” You started as you swallowed nervously. The last thing you ever thought you'd do was to tell Bradley Bradshaw about how you got yourself off. “And–and I was feeling a little weird, but like I really, really needed to just get myself off.” Rooster's throat constricted at the thought. He wasn't going to deny he hadn’t thought about what you looked like while you came. But listening to you talk about it made his cock twitch in his sweats. Even giving the circumstances. “So I did, but–but the second I uh–came, I was in so much pain. It hurt, burned even and now i'm sweating and I can't breathe and my body feels like it's not my own and–” 

“Bliss?” Bradley saw the look in your eyes. He could hardly recognise you right now. There was something behind them that was screaming he was in trouble. Big trouble. But you were the one in danger. 

“I need you to touch me, because when I touch myself it burns, it gets worse.” Bradleys hands fell from your arms as he stood before you, he couldn't, even if it was the only thing that could stop the drug currently controlling your mind from killing you. He knew this wasn't you talking. He’d be taking advantage. Rooster had found himself between a rock and a hard place. Regardless of his course of action–he was the bad guy either way. But he always wanted to be the bad guy, he always wanted to be yours. 

“I can't.” He sighed as you whined. Your knees were practically giving in from the pain. “I can't help you Y/n I'm sorry–but I can't.” Your eyes welled with tears, the pain was all too much to mask. It was consuming you entirely and nothing you tried had worked. If anything it just made the pain worse. You needed to get fucked. 

“Rooster please!--” You cried, tears fell freely down your cheeks. “I dont know whats wrong with me but I need you.” 

“Surely there is someone else you can go to for this?” It was the last stitch effort to get you out of this mess without having to do it himself. “Hangman–?” It killed him to suggest it but Rooster would rather him be the bad guy then himself. He knew whoever it was you'd end up hating the next morning. And you already hated him enough for one lifetime. “What about Hunk? The WSO?” 

“I don't want anyone but you.” It was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “I've been in love with you since we were kids, Rooster, and I need you to fuck me right now because I’m scared if you don’t my heads going to explode.” You cried in the hallways before Bradley. On the inside you were desperate for your lips to stop moving. You were outing yourself and your deepest darkest secret. But you needed Bradley and needed him bad. 

“It's the Yellow Jacket talking, Bliss.” Bradley sighed to himself as he tucked your hair behind your ear and wiped away your tears. “You don't love me.” He wished you did, he wished he didn’t have to go to these lengths to get you to love him, to need him, to want him. 

“Please kiss me.” You begged as you leaned into Bradley touch. It soothed your skin under his palm like nothing ever could. His touch alone made everything hurt less even if it was the most gentle and the most fleeting of touches. “Rooster, I need you.” 

“Again, it's the Yellow Jacket–” 

“So fucking do something to help me!” You snapped. “God if you know what's happening to me then help me!” It was sheer desperation to feel relief you couldn't give yourself. “Am I not good enough to take advantage of? Huh? Is that it Bradshaw?” You hissed as you shoved at Roosters chest. “Am I not even good enough to be used?” 

“Stop it.” Rooster took the chest beating, but he gripped at your wrists to stop you eventually. “Bliss, cut it out!” He was losing his ability to control his emotions. He was losing his ability to not want to take advantage of you right now. Because here you were–in his home, horny as you ever would be begging him to fuck you. But even with that drug controlling your mind, he couldn't. “Stop!” 

“Fuck me and ill stop.” It was your attempt to get what you needed as your lips came up to press themselves against Bradley's neck. He froze in response as his length all but hardened to new heights. “I'll be such a good girl for you.” It came out as a mumble against Bradley's skin as you trailed your lips down his neck towards his collarbone. “I'll let you do whatever you want–” 

It's just the drug talking, it's just the drug talking, it's just the drug talking, Rooster had to remind himself over and over as your hands slowly but surely ran down his chest, down his torso and settled at the waistband of his sweats. His own still held your wrists tight. He wanted this, he wanted you. 

“Whatever you want Roo, it’ll be between you and me.” You were seducing him and it was working. Bradley Bradshaw thought he had more willpower than this. But you were like a siren singing an enhancing song to a lone sailor on the sea. Desperate and ready for him. “I need you so badly Roo, please fuck me like all the girls I know you pretend are me.”  

Like Bradley had told Jake earlier in the night, he was going to hell. Because before you could snake your hand inside his sweats, Bradley was pushing you up against the nearest wall and attaching his lips to yours in a feverish kiss that knocked the wind right out of your lungs. 

“Would you just shut the fuck up already?” Rooster growled as his tongue danced with yours. And maybe it was his ego swinging, or maybe it was you, but flashes or every fight, every battle the two of you had ever had came back to him in a blur. 

“Oh god, you feel so good.” It was the relief you had been chasing, a touch that was more than just your own. “Roos—“ Bradley trained his hands all over your body, making light work of the crew neck jumper you wore and the sweats that pooled into a ball of fabric at your feet. There had been no time for underwear. “Please—I just need you inside me, my head is spinning.” 

“I know, I know it hurts and I know you’re only saying these things because you can’t help it but Bliss I swear if you don’t stop talking I’m not gonna be able to stop.” But diesel is desire and Bradley Bradshaw was playing with fire. Truthfully, he didn’t want you to stop telling him all the things he’d think of in the dead of the night. 

“I’ll shut up when you fuck me so good I can’t speak—“ You urged Bradley to pick you up by the backs of the knees after he’d rid himself of his clothes. Both naked in his hallway pressed up against one another. “God I want you—“ 

Bradley could see just how yellow your eyes truly were in the dimly lit hall. He knew this was going to end badly as he pumped his first up and down his throbbing length. 

“Are you sure you want this?” He knew that the yes that came next was still a no. He knew you well enough to know this wasn’t you, this wasn’t something you’d ever want or do. Not with him anyway. 

‘No! No, let me die! I don’t want any of this!’ 

“Yes, yes I want you.” It turned into something bigger though—somewhere through the yellow haze you had a sense you’d been betrayed. On the inside you were screaming, begging Rooster to see that in reality you didn’t want this. None of this was really your talking. 

‘Don’t do this to me—please Rooster.’

You loved Rooster—but you didn’t love him enough to put aside your valid concerns. He wasn’t good enough for you, and you weren’t even on his radar. 

“Tell me when to stop.” Is all he said before the angry and throbbed head of his hard length was pressing into your sex. It felt like a knife digging into your soul but the fluttering feeling of euphoria washed over you for the first time since your body had been exposed to the mind controlling poison. “Bliss, oh my god baby you feel like heaven.” 

All you wanted to do was cry out into the void of the night. Hell had frozen over, your entire world was collapsing around you and yet all you could do was sink your nails into Bradley’s shoulders and drool as he buried himself to the hilt in your dripping pussy. 

“More—“ It was like your entire body had been lit up. “Fuck me, Rooster.” 

“I know baby I know.” It was the teasing tone, the all knowing smirk that Bradley was wearing that made your heart sink into your stomach. The last thing you remembered before your vison went completely black was Braldeys lips against your flushed neck as his hips fucked into you slowly. The sound of your arousal coating his cock would haunt you forever. 

“I’m gonna take care of you Bliss, don’t you worry.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Your body felt like it had been run over by a freight train as you laid splayed out, completely naked on top of the bedding of what you could only assume was Bradley’s queen sized bed. 

Everything hurt, every muscle, every fibre of your being hurt. But the thing that hurt the most was the way your heart ached inside your chest. How could Rooster do this? How could he use your body the way he did, how could he justify his actions, his choices. He knew you weren’t in your right state of mind—he should have known better than to believe you wanted him to do the things he did. 

“You’re awake?” It was Bradley's voice that had you turning to face him by the bedroom door as you sat up. “I wasn’t sure how long you were gonna be out for, but I thought coffee would be a good place to start.” 

“Why?” You didn’t have anything else to say as tears welled in your eyes. You needed to leave, get as far away from Bradley Bradshaw as you possibly could. Sure he wasn’t the one who drugged you and sure you were the one who showed up at his house—but you didn’t want any of this. Even if the drugs made it seem like you did. “Why did you listen to me? You know me, you knew I wouldn’t have—“ You barely had a chance to finish your sentence before Rooster was stepping into his bedroom again. 

He didn’t speak as he handed you the coffee cup, full of coffee just the way he knew you liked. He watched silently as you took a sip, drinking down the brown liquid like it was your very lifeline. He smirked with a wild grin as he fished out another empty vial of Yellow Jacket and sat it next to you on his bed. 

That's when you looked down at your coffee and saw it, the fizz. No. No it couldn’t be—Rooster wouldn’t. Would he? 

“Because when Adam told me he’d spike you with this new drug that he came across it was really hard to resist.” Rooster tilted your chin so you were looking at him with wide, heartbroken eyes. “It was all his idea, the set up, the confrontation, everything—“ Bradley admitted as he smirked, pushing some stray hair’s behind your ear as your heart raced to the point you swore it was about to break through your chest. “He told me to make it look believable, so that no one would suspect a thing, I didn’t even know what this stuff was or what it did but he assured me, you’d be such a needy little thing.” Braldey had never sounded less like himself than he did in those few moments when you realised this was all his doing. “And I’m going to hell anyway, so why not take you with me.”

“No—“ It was a never ending hell. “Rooster you wouldn’t.” You tried to comprehend the situation, the danger you were in. “You wouldn’t—“

“I did.” Bradley replied calmly as he brought your head forward so that he could leave a lingering kiss upon your forehead. 

“And now that I know just how feral this shit makes you, I don't think I’ll ever stop dosing you baby.”  ***~***~***~****~***~***~***~***~**

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers s @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

[miss-rebel-without-applause]

In All Things, Patience Masterlist

Since my 500 word drabble decided to possess my brain and balloon out to over 11k words all told, I figured I would put links to all the parts here that way they're easier to find and navigate.

Prefer to read on AO3? Click Here!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

@sillyrabbit81 (sorry I forgot to tag you before 😅)

[steviefics]

good company to be sinful | tommy shelby

summary: you are due to be married to the leader of an enemy gang to the peaky blinders. the night before your wedding, you make thomas shelby an offer he can’t refuse.

wc: 5k

tags: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, Canon typical gang/violence talk, Tommy is Mr. Steal Your Girl, Cheating/scandal, Virginity loss, Age gap (Reader is early 20s, Tommy is late 40s), Tommy uses reader to get to his enemies, Smut (v fingering, fem receiving oral, unprotected p in v), Choking, Finger sucking, Possessive!Tommy, Dom!Tommy, Reader is a lil depraved, Reader wants that cookie so fucking bad, Spot the Twin Peaks reference, Dirty talk, Spitting, Biting, Bits of Soft!Tommy, Degradation, Overstimulation, Innocence kink? Bit of violence at the end

read on ao3

-

There wasn’t a soul in Birmingham that had not heard of Thomas Shelby.

Hearing whispers of his name throughout your mid to late teens made him seem, in your mind, like some sort of boogeyman.

Even now, you heard his name uttered through whispered breaths as though saying it too loud would summon him.

Like his name was a curse.

The first time you caught sight of him, the first time you put a face to the name, there was a momentary shift in the way you viewed the man.

In your mind, Thomas Shelby was a monster. He took, he killed, he robbed. Mercy was not something he entertained.

In reality, Thomas Shelby was just a man.

A cold, violent man.

But a man nonetheless.

He commanded the entire room as soon as he entered it. An unlit cigarette between his lips, flat cap pulled low on his head. You almost could not see his eyes. His trench coat flowed behind him as he walked, surrounded by his cronies.

Heading straight towards you.

And yet, for some reason, you did not fear him at all.

He came to a stop beside the table you sat at. His brothers loomed behind him, but he took the lead.

“May I?” Thomas asked, nodding once towards the seat opposite you.

You nodded curtly. “Please,” you welcomed.

He took the seat before you gave your answer.

“You’re Fischer’s wife.”

He posed it as a statement, not a question.

Your jaw flexed at the mention of your soon-to-be husband. “Not yet. He’s yet to tie me down in loveless matrimony, if you must know, Mr. Shelby.”

Thomas seemed impressed by your defiance, if just for a moment. His icy exterior was not broken for long.

“You seem smart enough. I’m sure you’re aware your fiancé wants me dead.”

“You want him dead too,” you reminded him.

“It’s nothing personal.”

“If only it was.”

Something changed in Thomas’ eyes. His lip twitched, like he was itching to smirk, but he resisted, remaining personal. Instead, he reached into his pocket.

In the presence of Thomas Shelby, anyone else would have flinched if he reached into his pocket, expecting to be met with the cold steel of a gun.

You did not.

And he noticed that.

You could see his eyes now.

He was nothing like the stories you’d heard as a teen.

These weren’t the eyes of a boogeyman.

Wordlessly, his piercing blue eyes never leaving yours, he extended a cigarette towards you.

You wondered if he did this often with future wives of rival gang members.

You took the cigarette regardless. Your fingers brushed against his.

You leaned forward, and with a flick of his lighter, Thomas lit your cigarette for you.

You took a long drag, exhaling deeply, as Thomas lit up his own.

“I don’t often share cigarettes with gangsters.”

He hummed in amusement, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your fiancé lets you plan every move his little gang makes. But he won’t let you smoke.”

Again, it was not a question. Like he already knew just how cowardly your future husband was.

You exhaled another puff of smoke, holding his gaze. “Men are strange creatures, Mr. Shelby.”

He smirked. “Indeed they are.”

You raised the cigarette to your lips again. “So you know.”

Thomas continued to stare.

His gaze made you feel X-rayed.

You didn’t mind it.

“Yes. I know.”

“That why you’re here, Mr Shelby?” you queried. “Here to kill me? Teach my fiancé a lesson?”

He seemed genuinely amused at the suggestion. “Being a gangster isn’t all about killing people, love. It’s about negotiation. It’s about fear.”

You paused. “Well, I’m not afraid of you.”

Thomas did not seem fazed. Like this was all part of his plan. “I’m not asking you to be.”

“Then what are you asking, Mr Shelby?” you challenged him.

“Nothing.” He said it honestly. You believed him. “Just need it to get back to your fiancé that I was here. Talking to his woman. Make his mind spiral. Then the fear starts.”

“So we’re just… talking.”

It was absurd. If you told the teenaged you that you would be sitting in a bar, sharing a cigarette with Thomas Shelby - feared mobster and leader of the Peaky Blinders - she would have said you were fucking stupid.

“Just talking,” Thomas reaffirmed.

“I heard stories of you, growing up,” you confessed, tapping your cigarette into the ash tray before you. “You struck the fear of God into me, Thomas Shelby.”

His chest seemed to swell a little at that. As though striking the fear of God into a young woman was something to be proud of.

Or maybe it was the fact you had heard of him.

“And look at you now. You’re not afraid at all, are you?”

There was a feeling - deep within your chest, nestled in the base of your stomach. It was warm, burning like a fire. It did not feel like fear.

No. You weren’t afraid. You were intrigued.

“You’re not asking me to be afraid,” you reminded him.

“No. I’m not.”

Your cigarette fizzled out between your fingers, a symbol of your meeting coming to an end. “You’re not what I expected,” you admitted.

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray. He stood, his chair scraping against the wood floor, echoing louder than it should have.

Everything he did left an impression.

Thomas took your hand, bent slightly, and kissed it politely.

His lips brushing against the skin of your hand sent a chill through your body.

“Neither are you,” said Thomas.

His gang began to retreat towards the doors of the pub. Their eyes raked over you as though you were something intriguing.

You did not look at them.

You just looked at Thomas.

He tipped his cap towards you, a gesture of farewell. “Good day, Miss.”

And like a beast disappearing into the night, he was gone.

-

You thought often of Thomas Shelby, even though you knew you shouldn’t. Should had never stopped you before. It was an odd word. You shouldn’t be involved in planning attacks for your fiancé’s gang.

You shouldn’t feel cold or unseen, laying next to the man you were supposed to marry.

And you shouldn’t be fantasising about your future husband’s mortal enemy. About his piercing blue eyes, the deep rumble of his voice, the calloused skin of his fingers brushing against your own.

That singular touch - one that lasted not even two seconds - ignited a fire within you that your husband never had. Never would.

The day of your wedding - your entrapment - crept up on you. One month. One week. Tomorrow.

Your groom had not been happy when word reached him that his woman had been sitting in a bar, sharing a cigarette with Thomas Shelby of the Peaky Blinders. Insults had been exchanged aplenty. Names flew out of his mouth that bounced off your skin. An opinion of a man like him did not matter to you.

“Are you Thomas Shelby’s fucking whore now?” he had demanded, spit flying from his mouth.

Your response was meant to anger him. You wanted him to feel the words burrowing underneath his skin, feel them festering there.

But your tone revealed the truth in the words.

“I’d rather be his whore than your wife.”

It was dark when you said it. The words travelled out into the moonless night, floating down the street as if leading you somewhere. Luckily, your pathetic excuse of a fiancé did not follow you out into the cold evening air.

Down the street. Towards an address you had seen scrawled on the back of threatening letters to your fiancé - inviting him to come and try his luck on the life of Thomas Shelby.

Or maybe it was an invite to you.

The knock on his door reverberated into the night.

There was that word again: should. You shouldn’t be here. You should hope that he doesn’t answer.

But you are. And you don’t.

You hope he answers - and he does.

His usual stoic expression did not soften when he saw you. Despite it being deep into the night, Thomas was still dressed to work. His vest, trousers and shoes pristine as ever, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his elbows. A part of you was expecting him to be stained with the blood of his enemies.

Preferably the blood of your husband-to-be.

“Your man know you’re here?” Thomas asked.

You laughed, the idea ridiculous to you. “He doesn’t know anything about what I do.”

Thomas smirked. Like that was the answer he wanted. “And what is it you’re here to do?”

You. No, too vulgar.

“I’d like to ask you something. If you can find the time, of course.” You added the last part almost scathingly. As though sizing him up, letting him know that you were equals. That you were not to be toyed with.

Thomas looked at you with an expression that suggested he was not used to being talked to like anything other than a leader, a boss.

But it didn’t look like he hated it. Not coming from you.

“Well,” Thomas clicked his tongue, and then he finally opened the door fully, stepping back and allowing you the space to cross the threshold into his home. “Come in and ask it in the warm, at least.”

It was almost like he cared.

Thomas lead you through his hallway into a room at the back of the house, where a fire was crackling welcomingly. The warmth of the room filled your whole body. A desk stood before the fireplace, half-written letters strewn across its surface.

Thomas did not invite you to sit. He resumed his position at his desk, the one you assumed he had been in before your knock derailed his work. You stood in front of his desk with your hands clasped in front of you, as though you were a choir singer about to serenade him, or a salesman about to con him.

“Your dear fiancé fears what I might do to you. That’s why you’re here, eh?” He did not look up from whatever important words he was writing when he spoke.

You tilted your head. “Partly,” you answered honestly. “What’s he got to fear? What might you do to me? Tommy?”

The use of his nickname made him raise his head. Those eyes met yours. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. Tommy leaned back in his chair, placing his pen down on his papers. “What do you want me to do to you?”

You shuddered at his words. “It would be sinful of me to say it.”

He quirked an eyebrow, as if he already knew what you were about to say. He welcomed it without batting an eyelid. “I’m a killer. I know all about sin. You’re in good company to be sinful.”

Tommy looked like sin. He smelled like it. Maybe he was your sin. And this time, you weren’t looking to repent.

“So go on,” he ordered. “Ask away.”

You stared into his eyes for a moment. They were the colour of a lake you could happily drown in. Thomas Shelby was captivating.

Really, you were just another of his victims. A victim of his words.

A victim of his gaze.

A victim of your own desire.

The words left you calmly. There was no more room within you for shame.

Just for him.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy.”

Like him, you did not ask. You demanded.

Tommy raised his eyebrows inquisitively. He leaned forward, the proposition intriguing. “You want me to fuck you?” he repeated.

He wanted to hear you say it again.

“I want you. To fuck me.”

He chuckled. “Fiancé not satisfying you?”

“He never has. And he never will. I will not let him own that part of me. I want it to be you.”

Something glinted in Tommy’s eyes.

Excitement.

Intrigue.

Desire.

Tommy stood, his eyes never leaving yours. He moved slowly around the desk, as if taunting you with the proximity between you both growing smaller and smaller. “You came here to ask me to fuck you. Pathetic, really.”

“I’m to be married tomorrow,” you informed him calmly, trying desperately to ignore the hammering of your heart against your ribcage and the growing pool of desire between your legs. “Tonight I make my own decisions.”

“And your last decision before you marry your husband is to fuck the man who wants to kill him.” Despite his degrading words, Tommy’s tone was not judgemental. It was almost impressed. Like he admired your honesty.

Like he wanted this as much as you did.

Tommy dared to touch you first. His large, manly hand caressed the side of your face, thumb running delicately along your jawline. “Why is it you’re not afraid of me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, low and gravelly in his throat.

There were a million ways you could answer that question. But you went with the one that flipped your stomach whenever you thought it. The one that felt like a crown of thorns wrapping around your heart. The one that was being whispered into your ear by the Devil on your shoulder.

“You’re not the only one who wants my husband dead.”

A proud smirk made its way onto Tommy’s infuriatingly handsome face. His whole hand fit around your face. He could cover your mouth if he wanted to. The way you were sure your fiancé would do.

But Tommy Shelby was not him. He was everything the man you were set to marry would never be. To your future husband, he was the man he hated the most. To you, he was the object of all your desires.

Tommy did not cover your mouth. He heard you. He worked with you. Instead, he gently squeezed your soft cheeks between his hand. Gentler than you had ever thought Tommy was capable of being.

“You’re his from tomorrow. So you’re mine for tonight.”

You would never belong to your husband. But you would take being Tommy’s. So you nodded. Opened your mouth enough to whisper, “Kiss me.”

He did. His lips were rough against yours, moving with passion. The same lips that threatened and cursed, that humiliated and insulted the man who was supposed to kiss you like this.

The hand that had been cupping your jaw moved down to your throat, wrapping around with no effort. Tommy squeezed gently, eliciting a desperate gasp from your mouth. He smirked against your lips, like that was the reaction he wanted.

With his other hand, Tommy touched every part of you he could. His fingers combed through your hair. He cupped your breast. He squeezed your ass. His hand roamed as though he wanted to mark every part of you he could, taint your soft skin with the sin the two of you were about to commit.

“Get on the desk.” Tommy moaned the words into your mouth, one possessive hand still wrapped around your throat, the other grasping your lower back, pulling your body as close to his as possible.

“What for?” you gasped.

“So I can kneel.”

Tommy practically shoved you into a sitting position on a free space of his wooden desk. Even now, he was anything but gentle - and you weren’t complaining a bit.

You weren’t here to be handled gently.

You were here to get fucked by the gangster you’d grown up hearing stories about. To feel his blood-stained hands all over your body.

Tommy wasted no time, kneeling before you like a man at a confessional about to confess his deepest of sins. This definitely wasn’t his worst of discretions. It was just another addition to his growing list.

And you were happy to be that, just for tonight.

“Those letters over there are to your fiancé,” Tommy murmured into the tender skin of your thigh, nodding towards the papers beside you on the desk. With one hand, his fingertips pressed into your thigh so hard you were sure you would be bruised in a matter of minutes. With the other, he tore off your underwear like they were a hinderance, ripping them clean in two. He tossed the fabric over his shoulder like it was nothing. “Shall I put this in writing?” he asked darkly, pushing apart your legs, revealing your already dripping pussy to his hungry eyes.

You had no time to respond, because Tommy seemingly could not hold himself back any longer. He licked a long, singular stripe along your folds, the sound of your loud moan music to his ears.

“If he could fucking see this.” Tommy groaned, moving his lips from your pussy to pepper sweet, tempting kisses along your inner thigh. “His woman, spread open on my desk.”

“Not his woman,” you breathed, your hands tangling in Tommy’s hair. “Yours tonight.”

Tommy smirked at you from between your legs, moving your legs so they were draped over his shoulders. The scratchy fabric of his vest irritated the back of your thighs but you were beyond caring about discomfort at this point.

“Good fucking girl,” Tommy practically growled, before reconnecting his tongue to your aching pussy, licking and sucking and nipping from your folds to your clit.

Your head hung backwards, eyes squeezed shut. You were certain at one point you could see stars bursting across your vision as Tommy continued his relentless lapping at your pussy. One hand pulled and tugged at his dark hair with every move his tongue made on your cunt, the other gripped the edge of his desk so hard your hand was aching already.

“Fuck yes, Thomas… Keep going, please,” your whines and moans spurred him on, sucking and licking at your clit like his life depended on it. You had never felt pleasure like this before and you were certain you never would again.

You let out a strangled gasp when Tommy shoved his index finger inside of you, continuing to suck on your clit like a man starved. He slipped a second finger inside of you, his fingers working in tandem with his mouth. With his fingers pumping rhythmically and his mouth sucking determinedly, your orgasm ripped through you. Incoherent words and gasps and moans spilled from your mouth as you came all over Tommy’s tongue. He lapped up every last drop, coaxing you through it with praises and groans that sent vibrations through your entire body.

Eventually, Tommy stood, his mouth slick from your juices and his eyes almost feral for you. Your chest heaved, your entire body trembled from the force of the orgasm he had just brought you to.

But Tommy was nowhere near done with you.

And Tommy Shelby got what he wanted.

Almost towering over you now, staring down at you with lust-filled eyes, Tommy continued to pump his two fingers inside of you, curling them just right to reach that sweet spot inside of you once more. “You can handle another one, can’t you?” Tommy murmured into your skin, pressing soft kisses up your neck and across your jawline.

“Tommy,” you whined, clutching at the shoulders of his vest now, the scratchy material bunching up in your fists from the sheer force of how hard you were holding onto him. “It hurts.”

“But it feels good, doesn’t it, love?” Tommy sighed into your ear, his free hand clutching your face.

You nodded. Because fuck, it felt good. Your entire body shook and you felt like you were on fire, but that sensation building up in your lower stomach was Heavenly.

“You’re a good girl, you’re gonna take it,” Tommy shushed you, teasing a third finger at your entrance. “You look so pretty when you cum for me.”

His words, combined with his fingers and their relentless work inside of you was enough to tip you over the edge. You clutched his shirt and let out a strangled moan, feeling yourself about to fall apart once more.

Tommy had one more request to make before you did.

“Look at me,” Tommy ordered, fingers knuckles deep inside of you. You did, lips parted and eyes heavy with desire. His ocean blue eyes met yours, his expression deadly serious, like this was an art form to him.

Your second orgasm in five minutes came rushing, every inch of your body shaking as you chanted Tommy’s name like a forgotten prayer. He continued to finger you through your orgasm, eyes watching you intently, almost intrigued by you and how your body reacted to him.

When the feeling of immense pleasure subsided, Tommy smirked satisfactorily and removed his fingers from your soaked pussy. His fingers were wet with your slick. “Taste yourself,” he ordered. “Taste how fucking sweet you are.”

You took his fingers in your mouth without question, swirling your tongue around them and tasting your own juices. Tommy’s breath actually trembled as he watched you. He used it to his advantage that he had you wrapped around his finger, but in reality, you had him exactly the same way.

“Good girl,” Tommy praised you, removing his fingers from your mouth. “All sweet and innocent. Just for me, isn’t it?”

You nodded, too overwhelmed and overstimulated from his mouth and his fingers to form a coherent sentence.

“Words, sweetheart,” Tommy commanded. “Use your words or I won’t fuck you.”

“Just for you, Tommy,” you breathed, barely louder than a whisper.

“He’s never gonna make you feel like this, is he?” Tommy growled possessively, lips ghosting over yours. “Never gonna make your pretty pussy cum like I do.”

You shook your head. Completely at his mercy.

“Open your mouth,” Tommy ordered, pulling your bottom lip down with his thumb before you even processed the request. You stuck your tongue out before he even asked you to, and when he spat onto your tongue, you gladly closed your mouth. “Swallow,” he told you, still clutching your jaw in his hand. You did as he asked, opening your mouth and showing him the smooth surface of your tongue once more to show him you’d complied.

Tommy groaned. “Such a good little plaything for me, aren’t you, sweetheart? Makes me want to keep you. He doesn’t deserve to have you like this.”

“Tommy, please,” you whimpered, tugging at his shirt, bringing his body closer to yours. You wrapped your still shaking legs around his waist, grinding your naked pussy against his clothed, hard cock. “Need you to fuck me.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows, smirking as he began to undo the buttons of his vest, tossing it away and then beginning to work on his shirt. “Want me to ruin you now, hm?”

“Think you want it just as much,” you argued, eyes raking over Tommy’s now bare chest. Even the faded ink of his tattoos enthralled you.

Your index finger ran over the tattoo on his pec. He watched you admiring him, his eyes still hungry, but something else shimmered behind his blue irises now. Something almost sweet, practically affectionate.

Tommy Shelby was not sweet.

But maybe for you he was willing to be.

You leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss over his chest tattoo. Your mouth acted before your mind did, your teeth softly grazing the skin just above his nipple. You bit him.

Tommy hissed through his teeth in surprise at your action. Though when you looked up at him, he was actually smiling.

You had never seen Thomas Shelby smile before.

Smirk, yes. But never smile.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked me, Mr. Shelby,” you smiled sweetly back at him.

“I do like you,” Tommy murmured, resting his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your cheek. Your hand once again came up to rest on the back of his head, bringing him closer to you. “I like how innocent you are even with all the blood on your hands. I like that you’re about to give this sweet little virgin pussy up to me.”

You heard the clinking of his belt and the rustling of the material of his trousers as Tommy freed his hard cock from his briefs. You stole a glimpse at his length, watching as his strong hand pumped his cock a few times. You were pleasantly surprised. You had no idea a dick could be so pretty.

Tommy’s lips feathered a soft kiss upon your jawline. “I’ll be gentle if you want me to.”

You shook your head. Tommy raised his head from your neck, his traditional Shelby smirk back on his face. “You don’t want me to be gentle?”

“If I wanted gentle, I wouldn’t have come to Tommy Shelby.”

You’d heard stories of the Boogeyman.

And you wanted the fucking Boogeyman.

Tommy tilted his head to the side, his hooded lust-filled eyes never leaving yours. “Whatever you like.”

One of Tommy’s hands gripped your lower back, pulling you as close to him as possible. The other rested on the smooth surface of the wooden desk so hard his knuckles were already turning white, giving himself balance as he shoved himself into you inch by inch.

Your head tilted backwards, mouth open in a breathy moan. You felt lightheaded at the length and the thickness of him, like you could fall backwards, but Tommy was supporting you and wouldn’t let that happen. Your eyes watered, a combination of the pain and the pleasure.

Tommy didn’t move for a moment, allowing you time to adjust to the new sensation of his cock buried inside of you. His eyes met yours, tone deadly serious as he asked, “Feel okay, sweetheart?”

“Feels- Feels good,” you breathed heavily. “Please move.”

Tommy tutted, giving a single shake of his head. He pressed light kisses along your tear-stained cheeks, whispering against your skin, “You’re gonna need to beg better than that.”

“Please,” you whined, pulling his lips down onto yours, moaning against his mouth. “Please fuck me, Thomas.”

Either he was satisfied with just your few seconds of begging, or he was just too impatient to wait. Tommy snapped his hips against yours, reaching an unforgiving, brutal pace, his cock hitting spots inside of you that you didn’t even know existed. His movements drew out every moan, every whimper, every guttural sound from your very soul.

Something animalistic glinted in Tommy’s eyes with every hard thrust. His arm wrapped around your back, supporting you as each roll of his hips forced you further back onto the desk until you were led on your back, splayed across Tommy’s important letters, the savvy businessman side of him overtaken by the primal beast of a man now hovering over you, pounding harder and harder with each passing second.

Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pushing him as far inside of you as possible. With his now free hands, Tommy pushed your thighs back to allow himself deeper access inside of you. His cock stretched you out painfully, but the pain was delicious. He slotted inside of you perfectly, like you were made to be fucked by him.

Every moan and shriek that left your mouth spurred him on, feeling himself getting closer and closer with each pretty sound you made.

“You feel - fucking - perfect,” Tommy groaned, each word punctuated by another brutal thrust that caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes.

Tommy’s hand curled around your neck once more, his pace never faltering. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he growled.

When you did, you saw him. Thomas Shelby - leader of the Peaky Blinders - the monster you’d heard stories about.

The monster you used to fear.

The monster stealing your innocence on the desk at which he had drafted countless death threats - smearing your lipstick all over a letter addressed to the man you were set to marry in a few hours.

He had officially fucked every ounce of fear out of you, and replaced it with an inhumane, Unholy dedication.

“Don’t take your eyes off me,” Tommy ordered in what you were sure was his gangster voice - it was hot as fuck. The muscles in his chest and arms flexed with each thrust, he bit down on his bottom lip gently, his brow furrowed with concentration, a bead of sweat running down his temple.

He was fucking gorgeous. You couldn’t even resent him for it.

Your nails scratched at Tommy’s biceps as his thrusts became more sporadic. You could tell he was close based on his movements and the desperate pants leaving his mouth, his hot breath fanning on your cheek.

“I’m close, Tommy,” you cried. “Gonna cum again.”

“Cum for me then, pretty girl. Let me feel it.”

Whatever Tommy wanted, Tommy got.

Your pussy clenched around his cock as you reached your climax. White spots burst across your vision. Your entire body felt like it was on fire and your legs shook. Your third orgasm crashed over you like the sea onto rocks, and with a string of exclcamatorys from his filthy mouth, Tommy’s orgasm followed yours, spilling his cum into your newly fucked-out pussy.

There was silence as the two of you caught your breath. Tommy helped you into a sitting position, his arm around your waist supporting your trembling body.

Tommy opened his mouth to speak.

You got there first.

“Kill him.”

Tommy froze, eyes locked on yours. “Who?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

There was that word again. Should.

You should not have just allowed the man who lusted after your future husband’s blood to lust after you.

You should not have just let Thomas Shelby fill you up with his cum.

You should not have a deadly gangster wrapped around your little finger.

But you did. And you do.

And that’s what made you decide it.

“My husband. Kill him.”

Whatever Tommy wanted, Tommy got.

What he wanted now, more than anything, was you.

And he was going to get it. With just one bullet, a bloodstain on your wedding dress and a glimpse at the merciless monster you’d heard tales of growing up.

And still, you did not fear him.

He was yours now.

Tommy Shelby - your perfect fucking monster.

-

[confused-pyramid]

It's Always Been You

pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x fem!reader

summary: As Iceman's daughter, you and Rooster grew up together, but your friendship transforms when you are assigned to train for a dangerous mission that's never been accomplished before.

word count: 5.7k

warnings: SMUT, p in v, oral (f!receiving), Top Gun: Maverick spoilers, mentions of illness

a/n: I watched Top Gun: Maverick twice (once for the plot, once for Miles Teller lol), so here's the Rooster fic that emerged from that

You push open the door to The Hard Deck, wiping away the droplets of sweat that are forming along the back of your neck in the dry California heat. Two weeks ago you got the call that you were being sent back to North Island to train for an urgent mission with an elite group of aviators, and you were excited for the opportunity to see pilots from your class at TOPGUN again. 

The Hard Deck was the place you went for a cold beer and a hearty game of pool when you were still in training, and you knew that this was the best place to look if you wanted to find the rest of the team. You don't see them at first, but you immediately hear the arrogant timbre of Hangman's voice, carrying across the busy bar. Smiling to yourself, you stroll up to the pool table that Phoenix and the guys are crowded around, announcing your entrance with a "So who's winning?"

Fanboy and Payback grin at you from across the table as Hangman shoots you a cocky smirk, "Who do you think, darlin'?"

Rolling your eyes, you grab the pool cue from his hand and line up a shot, feeling his presence still behind you. Taking a breath in, you slide the cue back, whacking him in the gut, before shooting it forward and sinking your ball into the pocket. 

You hear a groan behind you and you smirk, holding out the cue for him to take back, "Call me darling again, and I'll stick this somewhere you'll never find it."

A series of ooh's ring out around you, but you barely notice because another voice cuts through the chaos, "Come on now, Falcon. That's no way to make friends."

You spin around at the sound of your call sign, your jaw dropping as you take in the aviator-clad man grinning at you. 

"No fucking way!" you gasp, launching yourself forward and into his arms for a barreling hug. "Rooster!"

He looks good, you think, when did that happen?

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw wraps his large arms around you, squeezing you tight before letting you go with a husky laugh. "Good to see you too, y/n."

"Well, if it isn't the other half of the nepotism duo," Hangman quips, souring your mood almost immediately. "You know, some people had to actually work their way here, instead of being handed everything."

Rooster doesn't react, but you don't have the self-control he does, "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"We'll certainly see about that, won't we?" he smirks, cocking his head in a condescending tilt. "Admiral Simpson assembled us all here for a reason, and there's no way in hell he needs all of us for one mission."

You know he's right, but before you can think of a witty response, you hear a bell ringing, and cheering erupts from around the bar. You turn back to see Rooster grinning at Hangman, his finger pointing at the sign hanging above the bar, "You disrespect a lady and you buy a round for everyone."

Phoenix smacks Hangman on the back, laughing as she ushers him towards the cash register where Penny is waiting, her eyes twinkling with amusement. 

You're still trying to shake off Hangman's comment when Bradley sidles up next to you, his hip checking yours as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't let him get to you. Iceman was a legend, but we both know you did this all on your own."

You would think that having an Admiral for a father would have made your life in the Navy much easier, but the moment you showed any interest in flying, your dad, Iceman, had stopped supporting your dreams. When the diagnosis came in, everything else fell to the back burner and the only thing you could concentrate on was how much you loved him and wanted him to fight. But sometimes, the hurt was still there. You knew he was just scared for you, especially after what he had seen with Rooster's dad, but his efforts to keep you away from the career he had successfully built had strained your relationship. 

It was Bradley who pulled you two back together. After his dad died, he became a staple at the Kazansky household, always welcome for holidays and pretty much every other day too. He managed to toe the line between pushing you to become the best pilot you could be, and helping you regain your relationship with your father. He was your best friend growing up, and even though you split off in the naval academy, he was still a pillar in your life that was never going anywhere.

~~~

With Hangman buying, the night passes quickly, and the next morning you are sitting with the rest of the team, waiting on your instructor to show up. You tap your foot on the floor of the hangar, impatience building up inside of you, until the sound of footsteps alerts you.

Turning around, you spot the man walking towards you and your eyes widen with surprise and then concern. You sneak a glance at Rooster, trying to gauge his reaction to seeing Maverick for the first time in years, but the only response you get is the tightening of his jaw. The lesson starts off well, but when Mav begins the air drills, the tension between him and Rooster comes to a head.

He starts you off first, giving you a few minutes to get settled in the air, before he's right on your tail. You try to shake him, but your wingman is too far back and you don't have eyes behind you, so it only takes him a minute to "shoot you down". Payback and Fanboy's excellent idea to get some skin in the game has the three of you on your hands with Hondo, sweat dripping from your face onto the tarmac as the California sun beats down on you.

After what feels like an hour, you are hobbling back into the control room, listening to the radio as Rooster takes off. He starts off strong, managing to evade Maverick's maneuvers, but you don't miss the quiet snipes that shoot back and forth across the comms as they zoom through the air. You zone out for a moment, but you must've missed something important, because the next thing you know, Mav and Rooster are engaged in a dangerous maneuver that has been spinning towards the ground.

"They passed the hard deck," Phoenix gasps while everyone stares intently at the radio, as if hoping that this will somehow convince them to pull up their control sticks. You feel like you're under 10 Gs of force with how heavy your body feels as Bradley spins down to the earth, neither of them giving up even an inch of their pride.

It feels like a million years before he finally gives in, the nose of his jet a mere kilometer from the ground as he pulls out of the downward spiral. The weight on your chest finally lifts when he lands back on the base, and you don't wait for him as you head back to your cabin. No doubt Admiral Simpson will be chewing him out for his idiotic stunt today.

~~~

You're heading out to grab dinner that night when you run into Bradley, who is just getting back from the hangar. You're so angry that you can barely look at him, but he stops in front of you, forcing you to confront him. 

"I get that you're mad at Mav," you grit out, "but why the hell would you put yourself in danger just to prove whatever the hell you were trying to prove to him!"

He's all you have, your thoughts spiral against your will, doesn't he know that it would kill you to lose him?

His brows furrow with frustration as he straightens his back in an unconscious effort to size you up. "Don't patronize me. You wouldn't understand, y/n." 

You scoff. "The hell I wouldn't. We grew up together Bradshaw, I know you inside and out." 

"Yeah, well your dad isn't fucking dead."

You stop in your tracks, his words a slap in the face. Fluorescent hospital lights flash across your mind as you are unwittingly brought back to the early days of your dad's cancer diagnosis.

Rooster's expression falls immediately and you see pain flash across his eyes as he takes a step forward and says, "God, y/n, I'm so sorry, you know I didn't mean that. Iceman was like a father to me. What he's going through now is killing me too." 

He pulls you into a hug and after a moment, you reciprocate, your arms winding around his waist. You take a deep breath, breathing in his familiar musky scent that reminds you of home.

You both stay in the embrace for a minute before he whispers, "You were right. What I did up there today was stupid. I won't do it again." 

You can hear the sincerity in his voice as he says it, and you believe him. Bradley Bradshaw has never lied to you, even when it hurts. But you would take his steadfast honesty over all else any day.

~~~

You wake up the next day to a note on your door that says to 'dress light and head to the beach behind The Hard Deck'. You pull on a sports bra under a tee shirt and denim shorts, before meeting up with the rest of the team outside of the base. You all head over to the beach and find Captain Mitchell grinning, two footballs in his hands. 

"Welcome to dogfight football!" he yells over the lull of the waves crashing against the shore. "Form two teams and line up." 

Hearing his directions, you and Rooster look over at each other, an implicit agreement in your eyes. You both line up on one side with a few of the guys, as Hangman and Coyote grab the rest and form a line in front of you. Rooster and Hangman take the balls, crouching down into position as they get ready to start the game. Mav whistles, signaling the beginning of game play, and suddenly the makeshift field becomes a flurry of motion.

At first, you lose track of where your team is compared to the other guys, but as the game progresses you slowly realize Maverick's genius. This game is perfect for honing your precision and focus, which will be absolutely vital when a select few of you are bombing the uranium enrichment plant in a couple of weeks. 

Rooster catches the ball as Fanboy hikes it to him, falling back to get a better view of the beach and find open targets. He sees you slanting out to the side, but Coyote keeps getting in the way, so he turns his attention over to Payback, who sprints across the shoreline, losing his defender in the process. Bradley slings the ball across the sand, but just as it's about to reach Payback, someone from the other team swats it down. 

Clapping his hands to shake off the initial defeat, he swings his finger in the air to round up the team for another shot. He is scanning the beach, trying to locate everyone on his side, when his eyes land on you, all the way across the sand. He opens his mouth to call out to you, but then your hand grips the hem of your shirt and every thought flies out of his mind. 

You lift the edge of your shirt, pulling it over your head, and he knows he should probably be looking away, but he can't take his eyes off of you. He's barely paying attention as Phoenix presses the ball back into his hands, but then he regains his focus when you start sprinting to the opposite side. You swing around the side and dodge Hangman's arm as you yell, "Rooster, over here."

Blinking a few times to get re-oriented, Bradley zings the ball over to you, relishing in the satisfying thud as it lands in your waiting hands. Cheers break out all around him, and he grins at your success, but his mind is still stuck on the smooth expanse of your tanned skin that glinted at him under the harsh sunlight. 

The game continues for a while, and eventually you see a ball flying way over your head, zooming into what looks like no man's land. You start running but then it thunks into Bob's hands. Everyone pauses for a moment of shock, before you all erupt into cheers that end up in Bob being lifted into the air like he just shot the winning goal in the World Cup.

You pat him on the back, laughing at the proud look on Bob's face. As if pulled by a magnet, your eyes travel down the pile until they land on Rooster's. His eyes meet yours instantly, a bright grin plastered on his face. You're already sweating buckets under the hot sun, but one look from Bradley has a warmth spreading across your chest that you haven't felt since you were young. 

This was Bradley Bradshaw, the valiant knight who graced all your childhood dreams. He always is and always has been the face you search for in a crowd. He's never been fearless, but he's your rock. Whenever you look at him, you feel like the world is at your fingertips.

Stepping back as the boys jostle him around, you can't help the grin that crosses your face. For the first time since you started here at TOPGUN, you actually feel like you're part of a team. A family.

~~~

Everyone heads back to the cabins covered in sweat and sand, and the showers are filled up before you can even grab your clothes. As you're waiting for one of the stalls to open, you get a call from Mom that sends a jolt of panic down your spine.

"Mom?" you answer, trying to keep the apprehension from your voice. "What's going on?"

"Oh, honey, it's nothing sudden," she says kindly, clearly sensing your worry from miles away. She always knew what you were thinking, even when you tried your best to hide it. "It's just what we've seen coming for a while now, sweetheart."

You can hear the wetness in her voice and you know she's been crying. The image sends a dagger through your stomach. "It's getting close to the end. You should come see Dad."

Mom hid a lot of things from you growing up - always to protect you - but the one thing she never could was your dad's illness. The signs of his weakening state were ever-present and although he tried to ignore them, you never could.

"I'll come today," you say, your voice hoarse from the tears building in your throat. "See you soon, Mom."

The call ends and you open your phone again, the need to text him almost a gut instinct.

You going to see dad. come with?

His response is immediate.

Bradley🐓 always. i'll meet you outside in 20

You take the fastest shower of your life and head out front to see Bradley already outside on his motorcycle, helmet in hand. He must see the look in your eyes because he doesn't say anything as you hop on behind him and wind your arms around his waist. Your fingers dig into the hard ridges of his stomach as he zooms down the quiet streets of Fightertown. The cool breeze brushing past your face helps clear your head as you pass by the houses neighboring the glistening water. 

Bradley takes the turns carefully, but you were never much of a biker, and your arms stay tightly wound around his hard abdomen. You can feel the muscles in his back flexing against your chest, and not for the first time, you are struck by how much of a man he has become. You grew up with him, so you never really noticed how he was changing, but all of a sudden, he has become this gorgeous, hardworking man who's a far cry from the young boy who used to pull your pigtails on the playground.

It's not long before you arrive at your childhood home, Rooster's bike pulling to a stop by the front lawn. You haven't even made it fully up the porch when the door swings open, your mom's melancholy expression greeting you from the doorway.

When you two make it inside, she pulls you both into big hugs, remarking on how glad your dad will be to see you both again. The walk to Dad's study feels like a marathon, and by the time you get the door open, you can barely breathe. But then you see him, and the weight on your chest disappears. 

He looks worn down and tired, but he's here. He's alive, and he's okay, and even though it's taking everything in him to fight this illness, he's doing it. You fight back tears as he smiles at you from his desk, bundled up in a sweater even though the sun is shining brightly through the bay windows. 

"Hi, Dad," you smile, kissing his forehead and pulling out a chair, before Bradley shakes his hand and takes a seat next to you. "You look great."

"You really do, Admiral," Bradley nods, meeting your eye for a moment in a quick show of moral support. Just the one look from him settles you, and you turn back to your father, excited to fill him in on your mission.

You and Rooster tell him about the grueling training you've undergone this past week and he listens intently, smiling brightly as you talk about Maverick and how he pushes every boundary and limit he can find.

After about an hour, the sun starts to set and you know you have to get back to the base before it gets dark.

"It was great to see you again, Iceman," Bradley says, giving your dad a quick hug that you can tell means a lot to the both of them. 

When you guys start to leave, your dad beckons for you to stay back a moment. Bradley murmurs that he'll be waiting for you outside, and pulls the door closed behind him.

You take a seat again, turning to face your father, who has a look on his face that you don't recognize. He opens his mouth to speak, and you try to stop him, knowing that it just hurts him, but he waves away your concern, pressing your hand into both of his. 

"Y/n, you know I didn't want you following in my footsteps in the Navy after I saw how it affected my closest friends," he whispers, his voice raspy with disuse. This isn't what you wanted to talk about with him today, but since he brought it up, you can't help the nerves that bubble up inside of you before he continues speaking. " But you have become such a strong, beautiful, independent woman, and I am so grateful that I got to see it." 

You had long since come to terms with the notion that your father wasn't going to be in support of your life choices, but to hear him finally express what you've been trying to show him for years makes up for everything. Your eyes well up with tears and you exhale slowly, "I love you, Dad."

He stands up, and you rise with him, pulling him into a big hug that makes you feel like a kid again. You're about to pull away, when you hear his gentle rasp by your ear. "He loves you, too. I can see it."

~~~

You are still thinking about your father's words when you walk out front and see Bradley on his bike, waiting for you with a bittersweet smile on his face. He hands you your helmet and helps you onto the motorcycle, before turning back to look at you again.

"He's fighting so hard to stay here for you and your mom," he says, his voice bringing a welcome warmth to the pit that is slowly forming in your chest with each strained breath your father takes. "I'm so lucky that I got to know him as well as I did."

Leaning forward, you pull Bradley into a hug that he reciprocates immediately. Your body is small and warm against his, and he presses his face into your neck, enjoying the subtle scent of vanilla and hazelnut that wafts up from your skin. He lost both of his parents before he even got into the naval academy, but when he was with you, he never felt like he was missing his family. Over the years, you had become the family he needed, and with his arms around you, he knows he could stay like this forever and it wouldn't be long enough.

~~~

When the Pentagon receives new intel that the shipment to the uranium enrichment facility is coming early, the mission gets moved up, increasing the already monumental odds that are going against your team's ability to finish this and come home.

The intensity of your training is amped up and every night you are so exhausted that you sleep like a log. The week passes by too quickly, and before you know it, its the day before the mission. Maverick assembles all of you back into the training facility and takes a few moments before finally opening his mouth.

"You all have worked incredibly hard, and the choices I had to make when selecting the pilots for this mission were difficult ones."

You've heard this kind of speech what feels like a thousand times, and you find yourself tuning him out as you try to calm your nerves. After a minute, you pull yourself back into the present and realize that he's naming the teams.

"Dagger 1," Mav announces, "Payback and Fanboy."

You nod, agreeing with that pick completely. Fanboy was an amazing WSO and he complemented Payback well. 

"Dagger 2," Mav continues, "Phoenix and Bob."

Another great pick. You shoot them a small congratulatory smile, before turning your attention back to the Captain. This is it. Who's it gonna be?

"And my wingman will be...Rooster."

The air feels like its being sucked out of the room. A spike of fear jolts through you as his name ping-pongs inside of your skull, unable to fully sink in. This mission would take not one, but two miracles, and only then was there even going to be a consideration of trying to get home in one piece.

You barely hear Maverick explain that the rest of you are on standby, before everyone is standing up and filtering out of the room. You feel like you're sleepwalking, your feet moving of their own accord as they take you back to the cabins to turn in for the night. 

You take your time getting ready for bed, but even as you lay down, the exhaustion so strong you can feel it in your bones, sleep doesn't come. You try everything from counting sheep to meditation, but something nags at the back of your mind, keeping you from falling asleep.

It's not just something. It's Rooster.

Groaning with exasperation, you throw off the covers and pace around your room, trying to calm your racing mind. You try to turn your thoughts away from the mission tomorrow, but after a few minutes of walking back and forth across the small room, you know you have to get out of here. 

Desperate for fresh air, you push open the door and step into the hallway. Just as you are considering breaking curfew, another door opens down the hall and Rooster's head peeks out from behind the doorframe.

He's shirtless, only clad in a pair of cotton sweats, and you almost forget to feel ashamed as you ogle his beautiful body. He looks back at you, amusement filling his eyes, before its quickly replaced with something that fills you with the urge to wrap your arms around him and squeeze until you are bonded as one.

Deciding against the fresh air, you cock your head towards your door and leave it open as you walk back into your room.

The door shuts behind you and you sit on your bed, legs crossed under you, as Bradley plops down next to you, his head hitting your pillow as he makes himself comfortable. You are both silent for a while before he whispers, barely audible, "I'm scared."

You turn to look at him, and he sees the understanding in your eyes. In that moment, he immediately knows that you are his person; the person he always wants with him when he gets bad news or good news or whatever else life throws at him. He knows you like he knows the inside of an F/A 18F Super Hornet, and that will never change. Not if he can help it.

"I'm ready," he continues, finding his voice again, "but I'm still scared of what could happen out there. I trust Mav, I do. I mean, I didn't always, but I think I finally see what my dad saw in him, you know. But..."

"It's okay to be scared," you whisper, your voice low as if you're afraid that being any louder will break this spell. "But you're the best aviator I know and if anyone can complete this mission, it's you, Rooster."

He sits up slowly, his eyes never leaving yours and you become acutely aware of how little clothing separates the two of you. The thin material of your shirt is light against your skin and you can barely breathe as Bradley lifts his hand, threading his fingers in your hair as he cups the side of your face with so much care you think you might melt right there in front of him.

Neither of you says anything as his thumb lazily runs down your jaw, stopping right at your lips. "Bradley." your voice is a soft sigh that makes him stiffen.

His hand doesn't move as he looks at you intensely, his eyes seeing you in a way that no one else does. "I can go. Just say the word and-"

"Don't," you whisper, scooting forward slightly on the bed as confidence fills you again. "Don't go." 

You would be lying if you said you weren't afraid of the consequences of what was happening between the two of you. Of how this could affect your long-held friendship and your ability to function properly as a team. But in that moment, all you can think about is how his lips would feel against yours.

You lean into him, your palms flat on the mattress beneath you as you press your mouth to his. The moment your lips meet, sparks crackle behind your eyelids, and you let out a small whimper that has his fingers tightening in your hair. His mouth is warm against yours and the prickle of his mustache against your nose feeds the ache between your legs at the thought of it bristling somewhere else.

Bradley's hands move from your hair to your waist as he lowers you down onto the bed, his body hovering over you. His eyes never leave yours as he reaches down to the hem of your shirt, toying with the edge in an implicit question that you answer with a frantic nod. He pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it to the ground, before peppering kisses down your jaw and across your neck. The wet heat of his tongue against your skin has you gasping beneath him and you dig your fingers into the ridges of his back, your eyelids fluttering closed with pleasure.

You grip his shoulders as he returns to your mouth, sliding his tongue along the seam of your lips in a teasing pattern that has you squeezing your legs together to get some relief.

"Bradley," you gasp, feeling him pull back slightly, "stop teasing."

He chuckles softly, wrapping his arms around your back before lifting you up and forward until you're straddling him. "Yes, ma'am."

With one deft movement, he unhooks your bra and sends it falling to the floor. You don't have time to be impressed, because the next thing you know, his mouth is on your breast, his lips closing around your nipple with awe-inspiring precision. The warm wetness of his mouth on your sensitive skin snaps something inside of you and suddenly your hips start rocking against his, desperate for some sort of release. Bradley switches to your other breast, and when his teeth brush against you, a sound you don't recognize rips from your throat.

Your hips grind against his faster, the rough material of his sweats creating a delicious friction that has you gasping. He's rock hard against your core, and although there are multiple layers of fabric between the two of you, the feeling of his arousal under you sends waves of pleasure rolling up your spine.

"Y/n, darlin', you gotta stop doing that," Bradley groans, lifting his face from your chest. "I'm not finishing until I'm inside of you."

His words leave you breathless, and you nod frantically, making him laugh brightly. He tugs off his sweats as he moves down your body, kissing down your abdomen until he's at the waistband of your sleep shorts. Bradley takes his time pulling them down your legs, delighting in the small noises of impatience you make from above him.

"Bradley, hurry up," you complain, the ache between your thighs getting worse with each second.

He just flashes you that infuriatingly perfect smirk. "Patience, baby. We have all the time in the world. I'm savoring you tonight."

You can't ignore the jolt of heat his words send straight to your core, but that doesn't make you any less eager for him. When he yanks your shorts and panties off, you're finally bare in front of him, and the sight of you here, with him, has his mind dizzy with desire.

He opens his mouth to make some witty quip like he always does when he's with you, but instead what comes out is, "You're so fucking beautiful."

You've always been beautiful and strong and stubborn, and if he's being honest, he's always loved you. He just didn't realize it.

He wants to be inside of you more than anything, but with your dripping heat right in front of him, he would be remiss to not have a taste. His tongue darts out, licking a stripe up your core, and you gasp loudly, feeling the ache start to dissipate with each ministration. 

The sounds that escape your mouth encourage his movements and he presses your stomach down to the mattress as you try to arch off the bed. Your body is overheating and you can't seem to get enough as his mustache scrapes infuriatingly against your thighs. When his lips close around your clit, you're already so close that you come barreling to your release, crying out something that sounds like his name as he works you through your orgasm.

His lips find yours again and your fingers dig roughly into the hard ridges of his muscles as he doesn't wait before entering you slowly, the stinging stretch quickly turning to hot pleasure. You moan into his mouth as he pulls out fully before sinking back into you, his hard length reaching the deepest parts of you.

Bradley's body shakes with a pleasure that overwhelms him as your slick heat tightens around him like a vice grip. His thrusts get faster and faster and your head falls back, arching off the pillow as his name rolls off your lips.

"Y/n, fuck," he grits out as you contract around his cock, bringing him closer and closer to finishing.

Your body starts to shudder, signaling your impending release, and Bradley quickens his thrusts to get you there first. His hand reaches down between the two of you, and he rubs fast circles on your clit that send you flying over the edge in seconds.

You cry out with the force of your release, and the tightening of your pussy around his cock has him following you soon after. 

~~~

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed and a note on your nightstand that reads 'you're it for me. I'll be back in no time.'

You smile to yourself, but then your expression falls when you remember where he's gone. You quickly change into your gear and head up to the base to join Hangman and the rest of the reserve team.

Admiral Simpson has you all waiting by the tarmac, supplied with a radio that allows you to listen in to the mission. The flight over to the canyon is largely uneventful, but when the aviators reach the inverted dive, your heart seizes in your chest. They manage to achieve the first miracle, and then the next, and with each piece of good news, the tightness around your heart loosens up, but then you hear Rooster's frantic voice and your lungs refuse to work again.

When Maverick's plane gets hit by the missile, the whole base falls silent, except for the anguished sounds of Bradley's voice over the radio. When Rooster's comms go silent too, Hangman is sent out to do an assist and you can feel your heart in your throat, beating wildly as your lungs try to force air in and out.

You and the rest of the reserve team wait for what feels like a year, but then you see an old F-14 Tomcat enter the skies above you and all the tension finally leaves your body. When Rooster and Mav land, you let everyone else rush forward to cheer for them, seeing as how your feet can barely move because of how relieved you are. 

But then Bradley steps out of the plane and finds you in the crowd. You smile at him, tears glazing your eyes as he saunters over to you and stops in front of you. "Told you I'd be back." 

You let out a watery laugh before he lifts you into a big hug, your feet flying off the ground as he pulls you tightly against him. It feels like no time at all before he puts you down, and you're about to put a professional distance between your bodies when he plants a big kiss on your mouth.

You're staring at him, mouth agape, when you hear Hangman's voice behind you, "I fucking knew it!"

[confused-pyramid]

It's Always Been You

pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x fem!reader

summary: As Iceman's daughter, you and Rooster grew up together, but your friendship transforms when you are assigned to train for a dangerous mission that's never been accomplished before.

word count: 5.7k

warnings: SMUT, p in v, oral (f!receiving), Top Gun: Maverick spoilers, mentions of illness

a/n: I watched Top Gun: Maverick twice (once for the plot, once for Miles Teller lol), so here's the Rooster fic that emerged from that

You push open the door to The Hard Deck, wiping away the droplets of sweat that are forming along the back of your neck in the dry California heat. Two weeks ago you got the call that you were being sent back to North Island to train for an urgent mission with an elite group of aviators, and you were excited for the opportunity to see pilots from your class at TOPGUN again. 

The Hard Deck was the place you went for a cold beer and a hearty game of pool when you were still in training, and you knew that this was the best place to look if you wanted to find the rest of the team. You don't see them at first, but you immediately hear the arrogant timbre of Hangman's voice, carrying across the busy bar. Smiling to yourself, you stroll up to the pool table that Phoenix and the guys are crowded around, announcing your entrance with a "So who's winning?"

Fanboy and Payback grin at you from across the table as Hangman shoots you a cocky smirk, "Who do you think, darlin'?"

Rolling your eyes, you grab the pool cue from his hand and line up a shot, feeling his presence still behind you. Taking a breath in, you slide the cue back, whacking him in the gut, before shooting it forward and sinking your ball into the pocket. 

You hear a groan behind you and you smirk, holding out the cue for him to take back, "Call me darling again, and I'll stick this somewhere you'll never find it."

A series of ooh's ring out around you, but you barely notice because another voice cuts through the chaos, "Come on now, Falcon. That's no way to make friends."

You spin around at the sound of your call sign, your jaw dropping as you take in the aviator-clad man grinning at you. 

"No fucking way!" you gasp, launching yourself forward and into his arms for a barreling hug. "Rooster!"

He looks good, you think, when did that happen?

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw wraps his large arms around you, squeezing you tight before letting you go with a husky laugh. "Good to see you too, y/n."

"Well, if it isn't the other half of the nepotism duo," Hangman quips, souring your mood almost immediately. "You know, some people had to actually work their way here, instead of being handed everything."

Rooster doesn't react, but you don't have the self-control he does, "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"We'll certainly see about that, won't we?" he smirks, cocking his head in a condescending tilt. "Admiral Simpson assembled us all here for a reason, and there's no way in hell he needs all of us for one mission."

You know he's right, but before you can think of a witty response, you hear a bell ringing, and cheering erupts from around the bar. You turn back to see Rooster grinning at Hangman, his finger pointing at the sign hanging above the bar, "You disrespect a lady and you buy a round for everyone."

Phoenix smacks Hangman on the back, laughing as she ushers him towards the cash register where Penny is waiting, her eyes twinkling with amusement. 

You're still trying to shake off Hangman's comment when Bradley sidles up next to you, his hip checking yours as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't let him get to you. Iceman was a legend, but we both know you did this all on your own."

You would think that having an Admiral for a father would have made your life in the Navy much easier, but the moment you showed any interest in flying, your dad, Iceman, had stopped supporting your dreams. When the diagnosis came in, everything else fell to the back burner and the only thing you could concentrate on was how much you loved him and wanted him to fight. But sometimes, the hurt was still there. You knew he was just scared for you, especially after what he had seen with Rooster's dad, but his efforts to keep you away from the career he had successfully built had strained your relationship. 

It was Bradley who pulled you two back together. After his dad died, he became a staple at the Kazansky household, always welcome for holidays and pretty much every other day too. He managed to toe the line between pushing you to become the best pilot you could be, and helping you regain your relationship with your father. He was your best friend growing up, and even though you split off in the naval academy, he was still a pillar in your life that was never going anywhere.

~~~

With Hangman buying, the night passes quickly, and the next morning you are sitting with the rest of the team, waiting on your instructor to show up. You tap your foot on the floor of the hangar, impatience building up inside of you, until the sound of footsteps alerts you.

Turning around, you spot the man walking towards you and your eyes widen with surprise and then concern. You sneak a glance at Rooster, trying to gauge his reaction to seeing Maverick for the first time in years, but the only response you get is the tightening of his jaw. The lesson starts off well, but when Mav begins the air drills, the tension between him and Rooster comes to a head.

He starts you off first, giving you a few minutes to get settled in the air, before he's right on your tail. You try to shake him, but your wingman is too far back and you don't have eyes behind you, so it only takes him a minute to "shoot you down". Payback and Fanboy's excellent idea to get some skin in the game has the three of you on your hands with Hondo, sweat dripping from your face onto the tarmac as the California sun beats down on you.

After what feels like an hour, you are hobbling back into the control room, listening to the radio as Rooster takes off. He starts off strong, managing to evade Maverick's maneuvers, but you don't miss the quiet snipes that shoot back and forth across the comms as they zoom through the air. You zone out for a moment, but you must've missed something important, because the next thing you know, Mav and Rooster are engaged in a dangerous maneuver that has been spinning towards the ground.

"They passed the hard deck," Phoenix gasps while everyone stares intently at the radio, as if hoping that this will somehow convince them to pull up their control sticks. You feel like you're under 10 Gs of force with how heavy your body feels as Bradley spins down to the earth, neither of them giving up even an inch of their pride.

It feels like a million years before he finally gives in, the nose of his jet a mere kilometer from the ground as he pulls out of the downward spiral. The weight on your chest finally lifts when he lands back on the base, and you don't wait for him as you head back to your cabin. No doubt Admiral Simpson will be chewing him out for his idiotic stunt today.

~~~

You're heading out to grab dinner that night when you run into Bradley, who is just getting back from the hangar. You're so angry that you can barely look at him, but he stops in front of you, forcing you to confront him. 

"I get that you're mad at Mav," you grit out, "but why the hell would you put yourself in danger just to prove whatever the hell you were trying to prove to him!"

He's all you have, your thoughts spiral against your will, doesn't he know that it would kill you to lose him?

His brows furrow with frustration as he straightens his back in an unconscious effort to size you up. "Don't patronize me. You wouldn't understand, y/n." 

You scoff. "The hell I wouldn't. We grew up together Bradshaw, I know you inside and out." 

"Yeah, well your dad isn't fucking dead."

You stop in your tracks, his words a slap in the face. Fluorescent hospital lights flash across your mind as you are unwittingly brought back to the early days of your dad's cancer diagnosis.

Rooster's expression falls immediately and you see pain flash across his eyes as he takes a step forward and says, "God, y/n, I'm so sorry, you know I didn't mean that. Iceman was like a father to me. What he's going through now is killing me too." 

He pulls you into a hug and after a moment, you reciprocate, your arms winding around his waist. You take a deep breath, breathing in his familiar musky scent that reminds you of home.

You both stay in the embrace for a minute before he whispers, "You were right. What I did up there today was stupid. I won't do it again." 

You can hear the sincerity in his voice as he says it, and you believe him. Bradley Bradshaw has never lied to you, even when it hurts. But you would take his steadfast honesty over all else any day.

~~~

You wake up the next day to a note on your door that says to 'dress light and head to the beach behind The Hard Deck'. You pull on a sports bra under a tee shirt and denim shorts, before meeting up with the rest of the team outside of the base. You all head over to the beach and find Captain Mitchell grinning, two footballs in his hands. 

"Welcome to dogfight football!" he yells over the lull of the waves crashing against the shore. "Form two teams and line up." 

Hearing his directions, you and Rooster look over at each other, an implicit agreement in your eyes. You both line up on one side with a few of the guys, as Hangman and Coyote grab the rest and form a line in front of you. Rooster and Hangman take the balls, crouching down into position as they get ready to start the game. Mav whistles, signaling the beginning of game play, and suddenly the makeshift field becomes a flurry of motion.

At first, you lose track of where your team is compared to the other guys, but as the game progresses you slowly realize Maverick's genius. This game is perfect for honing your precision and focus, which will be absolutely vital when a select few of you are bombing the uranium enrichment plant in a couple of weeks. 

Rooster catches the ball as Fanboy hikes it to him, falling back to get a better view of the beach and find open targets. He sees you slanting out to the side, but Coyote keeps getting in the way, so he turns his attention over to Payback, who sprints across the shoreline, losing his defender in the process. Bradley slings the ball across the sand, but just as it's about to reach Payback, someone from the other team swats it down. 

Clapping his hands to shake off the initial defeat, he swings his finger in the air to round up the team for another shot. He is scanning the beach, trying to locate everyone on his side, when his eyes land on you, all the way across the sand. He opens his mouth to call out to you, but then your hand grips the hem of your shirt and every thought flies out of his mind. 

You lift the edge of your shirt, pulling it over your head, and he knows he should probably be looking away, but he can't take his eyes off of you. He's barely paying attention as Phoenix presses the ball back into his hands, but then he regains his focus when you start sprinting to the opposite side. You swing around the side and dodge Hangman's arm as you yell, "Rooster, over here."

Blinking a few times to get re-oriented, Bradley zings the ball over to you, relishing in the satisfying thud as it lands in your waiting hands. Cheers break out all around him, and he grins at your success, but his mind is still stuck on the smooth expanse of your tanned skin that glinted at him under the harsh sunlight. 

The game continues for a while, and eventually you see a ball flying way over your head, zooming into what looks like no man's land. You start running but then it thunks into Bob's hands. Everyone pauses for a moment of shock, before you all erupt into cheers that end up in Bob being lifted into the air like he just shot the winning goal in the World Cup.

You pat him on the back, laughing at the proud look on Bob's face. As if pulled by a magnet, your eyes travel down the pile until they land on Rooster's. His eyes meet yours instantly, a bright grin plastered on his face. You're already sweating buckets under the hot sun, but one look from Bradley has a warmth spreading across your chest that you haven't felt since you were young. 

This was Bradley Bradshaw, the valiant knight who graced all your childhood dreams. He always is and always has been the face you search for in a crowd. He's never been fearless, but he's your rock. Whenever you look at him, you feel like the world is at your fingertips.

Stepping back as the boys jostle him around, you can't help the grin that crosses your face. For the first time since you started here at TOPGUN, you actually feel like you're part of a team. A family.

~~~

Everyone heads back to the cabins covered in sweat and sand, and the showers are filled up before you can even grab your clothes. As you're waiting for one of the stalls to open, you get a call from Mom that sends a jolt of panic down your spine.

"Mom?" you answer, trying to keep the apprehension from your voice. "What's going on?"

"Oh, honey, it's nothing sudden," she says kindly, clearly sensing your worry from miles away. She always knew what you were thinking, even when you tried your best to hide it. "It's just what we've seen coming for a while now, sweetheart."

You can hear the wetness in her voice and you know she's been crying. The image sends a dagger through your stomach. "It's getting close to the end. You should come see Dad."

Mom hid a lot of things from you growing up - always to protect you - but the one thing she never could was your dad's illness. The signs of his weakening state were ever-present and although he tried to ignore them, you never could.

"I'll come today," you say, your voice hoarse from the tears building in your throat. "See you soon, Mom."

The call ends and you open your phone again, the need to text him almost a gut instinct.

You going to see dad. come with?

His response is immediate.

Bradley🐓 always. i'll meet you outside in 20

You take the fastest shower of your life and head out front to see Bradley already outside on his motorcycle, helmet in hand. He must see the look in your eyes because he doesn't say anything as you hop on behind him and wind your arms around his waist. Your fingers dig into the hard ridges of his stomach as he zooms down the quiet streets of Fightertown. The cool breeze brushing past your face helps clear your head as you pass by the houses neighboring the glistening water. 

Bradley takes the turns carefully, but you were never much of a biker, and your arms stay tightly wound around his hard abdomen. You can feel the muscles in his back flexing against your chest, and not for the first time, you are struck by how much of a man he has become. You grew up with him, so you never really noticed how he was changing, but all of a sudden, he has become this gorgeous, hardworking man who's a far cry from the young boy who used to pull your pigtails on the playground.

It's not long before you arrive at your childhood home, Rooster's bike pulling to a stop by the front lawn. You haven't even made it fully up the porch when the door swings open, your mom's melancholy expression greeting you from the doorway.

When you two make it inside, she pulls you both into big hugs, remarking on how glad your dad will be to see you both again. The walk to Dad's study feels like a marathon, and by the time you get the door open, you can barely breathe. But then you see him, and the weight on your chest disappears. 

He looks worn down and tired, but he's here. He's alive, and he's okay, and even though it's taking everything in him to fight this illness, he's doing it. You fight back tears as he smiles at you from his desk, bundled up in a sweater even though the sun is shining brightly through the bay windows. 

"Hi, Dad," you smile, kissing his forehead and pulling out a chair, before Bradley shakes his hand and takes a seat next to you. "You look great."

"You really do, Admiral," Bradley nods, meeting your eye for a moment in a quick show of moral support. Just the one look from him settles you, and you turn back to your father, excited to fill him in on your mission.

You and Rooster tell him about the grueling training you've undergone this past week and he listens intently, smiling brightly as you talk about Maverick and how he pushes every boundary and limit he can find.

After about an hour, the sun starts to set and you know you have to get back to the base before it gets dark.

"It was great to see you again, Iceman," Bradley says, giving your dad a quick hug that you can tell means a lot to the both of them. 

When you guys start to leave, your dad beckons for you to stay back a moment. Bradley murmurs that he'll be waiting for you outside, and pulls the door closed behind him.

You take a seat again, turning to face your father, who has a look on his face that you don't recognize. He opens his mouth to speak, and you try to stop him, knowing that it just hurts him, but he waves away your concern, pressing your hand into both of his. 

"Y/n, you know I didn't want you following in my footsteps in the Navy after I saw how it affected my closest friends," he whispers, his voice raspy with disuse. This isn't what you wanted to talk about with him today, but since he brought it up, you can't help the nerves that bubble up inside of you before he continues speaking. " But you have become such a strong, beautiful, independent woman, and I am so grateful that I got to see it." 

You had long since come to terms with the notion that your father wasn't going to be in support of your life choices, but to hear him finally express what you've been trying to show him for years makes up for everything. Your eyes well up with tears and you exhale slowly, "I love you, Dad."

He stands up, and you rise with him, pulling him into a big hug that makes you feel like a kid again. You're about to pull away, when you hear his gentle rasp by your ear. "He loves you, too. I can see it."

~~~

You are still thinking about your father's words when you walk out front and see Bradley on his bike, waiting for you with a bittersweet smile on his face. He hands you your helmet and helps you onto the motorcycle, before turning back to look at you again.

"He's fighting so hard to stay here for you and your mom," he says, his voice bringing a welcome warmth to the pit that is slowly forming in your chest with each strained breath your father takes. "I'm so lucky that I got to know him as well as I did."

Leaning forward, you pull Bradley into a hug that he reciprocates immediately. Your body is small and warm against his, and he presses his face into your neck, enjoying the subtle scent of vanilla and hazelnut that wafts up from your skin. He lost both of his parents before he even got into the naval academy, but when he was with you, he never felt like he was missing his family. Over the years, you had become the family he needed, and with his arms around you, he knows he could stay like this forever and it wouldn't be long enough.

~~~

When the Pentagon receives new intel that the shipment to the uranium enrichment facility is coming early, the mission gets moved up, increasing the already monumental odds that are going against your team's ability to finish this and come home.

The intensity of your training is amped up and every night you are so exhausted that you sleep like a log. The week passes by too quickly, and before you know it, its the day before the mission. Maverick assembles all of you back into the training facility and takes a few moments before finally opening his mouth.

"You all have worked incredibly hard, and the choices I had to make when selecting the pilots for this mission were difficult ones."

You've heard this kind of speech what feels like a thousand times, and you find yourself tuning him out as you try to calm your nerves. After a minute, you pull yourself back into the present and realize that he's naming the teams.

"Dagger 1," Mav announces, "Payback and Fanboy."

You nod, agreeing with that pick completely. Fanboy was an amazing WSO and he complemented Payback well. 

"Dagger 2," Mav continues, "Phoenix and Bob."

Another great pick. You shoot them a small congratulatory smile, before turning your attention back to the Captain. This is it. Who's it gonna be?

"And my wingman will be...Rooster."

The air feels like its being sucked out of the room. A spike of fear jolts through you as his name ping-pongs inside of your skull, unable to fully sink in. This mission would take not one, but two miracles, and only then was there even going to be a consideration of trying to get home in one piece.

You barely hear Maverick explain that the rest of you are on standby, before everyone is standing up and filtering out of the room. You feel like you're sleepwalking, your feet moving of their own accord as they take you back to the cabins to turn in for the night. 

You take your time getting ready for bed, but even as you lay down, the exhaustion so strong you can feel it in your bones, sleep doesn't come. You try everything from counting sheep to meditation, but something nags at the back of your mind, keeping you from falling asleep.

It's not just something. It's Rooster.

Groaning with exasperation, you throw off the covers and pace around your room, trying to calm your racing mind. You try to turn your thoughts away from the mission tomorrow, but after a few minutes of walking back and forth across the small room, you know you have to get out of here. 

Desperate for fresh air, you push open the door and step into the hallway. Just as you are considering breaking curfew, another door opens down the hall and Rooster's head peeks out from behind the doorframe.

He's shirtless, only clad in a pair of cotton sweats, and you almost forget to feel ashamed as you ogle his beautiful body. He looks back at you, amusement filling his eyes, before its quickly replaced with something that fills you with the urge to wrap your arms around him and squeeze until you are bonded as one.

Deciding against the fresh air, you cock your head towards your door and leave it open as you walk back into your room.

The door shuts behind you and you sit on your bed, legs crossed under you, as Bradley plops down next to you, his head hitting your pillow as he makes himself comfortable. You are both silent for a while before he whispers, barely audible, "I'm scared."

You turn to look at him, and he sees the understanding in your eyes. In that moment, he immediately knows that you are his person; the person he always wants with him when he gets bad news or good news or whatever else life throws at him. He knows you like he knows the inside of an F/A 18F Super Hornet, and that will never change. Not if he can help it.

"I'm ready," he continues, finding his voice again, "but I'm still scared of what could happen out there. I trust Mav, I do. I mean, I didn't always, but I think I finally see what my dad saw in him, you know. But..."

"It's okay to be scared," you whisper, your voice low as if you're afraid that being any louder will break this spell. "But you're the best aviator I know and if anyone can complete this mission, it's you, Rooster."

He sits up slowly, his eyes never leaving yours and you become acutely aware of how little clothing separates the two of you. The thin material of your shirt is light against your skin and you can barely breathe as Bradley lifts his hand, threading his fingers in your hair as he cups the side of your face with so much care you think you might melt right there in front of him.

Neither of you says anything as his thumb lazily runs down your jaw, stopping right at your lips. "Bradley." your voice is a soft sigh that makes him stiffen.

His hand doesn't move as he looks at you intensely, his eyes seeing you in a way that no one else does. "I can go. Just say the word and-"

"Don't," you whisper, scooting forward slightly on the bed as confidence fills you again. "Don't go." 

You would be lying if you said you weren't afraid of the consequences of what was happening between the two of you. Of how this could affect your long-held friendship and your ability to function properly as a team. But in that moment, all you can think about is how his lips would feel against yours.

You lean into him, your palms flat on the mattress beneath you as you press your mouth to his. The moment your lips meet, sparks crackle behind your eyelids, and you let out a small whimper that has his fingers tightening in your hair. His mouth is warm against yours and the prickle of his mustache against your nose feeds the ache between your legs at the thought of it bristling somewhere else.

Bradley's hands move from your hair to your waist as he lowers you down onto the bed, his body hovering over you. His eyes never leave yours as he reaches down to the hem of your shirt, toying with the edge in an implicit question that you answer with a frantic nod. He pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it to the ground, before peppering kisses down your jaw and across your neck. The wet heat of his tongue against your skin has you gasping beneath him and you dig your fingers into the ridges of his back, your eyelids fluttering closed with pleasure.

You grip his shoulders as he returns to your mouth, sliding his tongue along the seam of your lips in a teasing pattern that has you squeezing your legs together to get some relief.

"Bradley," you gasp, feeling him pull back slightly, "stop teasing."

He chuckles softly, wrapping his arms around your back before lifting you up and forward until you're straddling him. "Yes, ma'am."

With one deft movement, he unhooks your bra and sends it falling to the floor. You don't have time to be impressed, because the next thing you know, his mouth is on your breast, his lips closing around your nipple with awe-inspiring precision. The warm wetness of his mouth on your sensitive skin snaps something inside of you and suddenly your hips start rocking against his, desperate for some sort of release. Bradley switches to your other breast, and when his teeth brush against you, a sound you don't recognize rips from your throat.

Your hips grind against his faster, the rough material of his sweats creating a delicious friction that has you gasping. He's rock hard against your core, and although there are multiple layers of fabric between the two of you, the feeling of his arousal under you sends waves of pleasure rolling up your spine.

"Y/n, darlin', you gotta stop doing that," Bradley groans, lifting his face from your chest. "I'm not finishing until I'm inside of you."

His words leave you breathless, and you nod frantically, making him laugh brightly. He tugs off his sweats as he moves down your body, kissing down your abdomen until he's at the waistband of your sleep shorts. Bradley takes his time pulling them down your legs, delighting in the small noises of impatience you make from above him.

"Bradley, hurry up," you complain, the ache between your thighs getting worse with each second.

He just flashes you that infuriatingly perfect smirk. "Patience, baby. We have all the time in the world. I'm savoring you tonight."

You can't ignore the jolt of heat his words send straight to your core, but that doesn't make you any less eager for him. When he yanks your shorts and panties off, you're finally bare in front of him, and the sight of you here, with him, has his mind dizzy with desire.

He opens his mouth to make some witty quip like he always does when he's with you, but instead what comes out is, "You're so fucking beautiful."

You've always been beautiful and strong and stubborn, and if he's being honest, he's always loved you. He just didn't realize it.

He wants to be inside of you more than anything, but with your dripping heat right in front of him, he would be remiss to not have a taste. His tongue darts out, licking a stripe up your core, and you gasp loudly, feeling the ache start to dissipate with each ministration. 

The sounds that escape your mouth encourage his movements and he presses your stomach down to the mattress as you try to arch off the bed. Your body is overheating and you can't seem to get enough as his mustache scrapes infuriatingly against your thighs. When his lips close around your clit, you're already so close that you come barreling to your release, crying out something that sounds like his name as he works you through your orgasm.

His lips find yours again and your fingers dig roughly into the hard ridges of his muscles as he doesn't wait before entering you slowly, the stinging stretch quickly turning to hot pleasure. You moan into his mouth as he pulls out fully before sinking back into you, his hard length reaching the deepest parts of you.

Bradley's body shakes with a pleasure that overwhelms him as your slick heat tightens around him like a vice grip. His thrusts get faster and faster and your head falls back, arching off the pillow as his name rolls off your lips.

"Y/n, fuck," he grits out as you contract around his cock, bringing him closer and closer to finishing.

Your body starts to shudder, signaling your impending release, and Bradley quickens his thrusts to get you there first. His hand reaches down between the two of you, and he rubs fast circles on your clit that send you flying over the edge in seconds.

You cry out with the force of your release, and the tightening of your pussy around his cock has him following you soon after. 

~~~

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed and a note on your nightstand that reads 'you're it for me. I'll be back in no time.'

You smile to yourself, but then your expression falls when you remember where he's gone. You quickly change into your gear and head up to the base to join Hangman and the rest of the reserve team.

Admiral Simpson has you all waiting by the tarmac, supplied with a radio that allows you to listen in to the mission. The flight over to the canyon is largely uneventful, but when the aviators reach the inverted dive, your heart seizes in your chest. They manage to achieve the first miracle, and then the next, and with each piece of good news, the tightness around your heart loosens up, but then you hear Rooster's frantic voice and your lungs refuse to work again.

When Maverick's plane gets hit by the missile, the whole base falls silent, except for the anguished sounds of Bradley's voice over the radio. When Rooster's comms go silent too, Hangman is sent out to do an assist and you can feel your heart in your throat, beating wildly as your lungs try to force air in and out.

You and the rest of the reserve team wait for what feels like a year, but then you see an old F-14 Tomcat enter the skies above you and all the tension finally leaves your body. When Rooster and Mav land, you let everyone else rush forward to cheer for them, seeing as how your feet can barely move because of how relieved you are. 

But then Bradley steps out of the plane and finds you in the crowd. You smile at him, tears glazing your eyes as he saunters over to you and stops in front of you. "Told you I'd be back." 

You let out a watery laugh before he lifts you into a big hug, your feet flying off the ground as he pulls you tightly against him. It feels like no time at all before he puts you down, and you're about to put a professional distance between your bodies when he plants a big kiss on your mouth.

You're staring at him, mouth agape, when you hear Hangman's voice behind you, "I fucking knew it!"

[ohtobeleah]

Day Nine [Frozen]

Summary: Jake is so intoxicated he forgets he played a life-threatening prank on you. Leaving you to freeze, for hours.

Warnings: Violence. Violence against women. Drunk!Jake. Hypothermia

Word Count: 1.5k

Whumptober Prompt Day Nine: Hypothermia, heatstroke, “You look pretty pale.”

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. Disclaimer: I do not condone nor endorse the actions that are written about during the month of October. These works of fiction are just that, fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for this year's prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Researchers have theorised that nightmares are the brain’s way of processing unsettling events of the past. Others believe nightmares are how our subconscious mind prepares us to deal with our real-life fears. Either way, they agree that nightmares are most commonly brought on by one thing…..

Stress. 

“Trick or treat Y/n,” Jake cooed as he cornered you in the hallways that led not only to the bathrooms of the Hard Deck, but also to the fridge, freezer and storeroom. 

“Not now, Hangman, I've got too much on my plate to entertain whatever stupidity is about to come flying outta your mouth,” You sighed as you pushed Jake away softly. It had been a long day and was about to be an even longer night. 

Halloween had the Hard Deck going crazy with costume contests, two-for-one specials, half-price beer and speciality spooky season cocktails. You barely had time to breathe, let alone entertain Jake's cheesy pickup lines. 

“You wound me, Kerner, what's a guy gotta do to get a second of attention?” Jake followed you drunkenly down the hall as you made your way to the walk-in freezer. The kitchen freezer was running empty on fries and burger patties, so you offered to do a run to the bigger, more versatile freezer. 

“Find someone with attention to give?” You replied as you rolled your eyes. Jake stood right behind you as you unlocked the freezer door. He was standing so close that he could almost see the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. “I’m really busy, Seresin, I don’t have a second to piss let alone stroke your ego tonight,” It was a little hash, but you and Penny were truly run off your feet. It was only that you were home visiting family that she’d asked you to work a few shifts. 

“Maybe you should take a break then?” Jake nearly hissed as the alcohol he’d consumed coursed through his veins. He’d been drinking nearly all afternoon with Rooster. “Even if it's just for five minutes?” He wasn't thinking straight. Hell, he couldn’t even see straight at the moment. 

“Jake, take a hint man–” You groaned as you slid open the door to the freezer. You handed him the lock and key as you stepped inside. The freezing cold air was harsh against your exposed skin. “I. Don’t. Have. Time. For. This!” You couldn’t deal with Jake and his incessant ability to get under your skin. You weren’t in the mood to deal with his normally flirtatious ways. “You can stay if you wanna help me carry these boxes out but–” 

“Take a damn break, Kerner,” Jake chuckled as he shut the door behind you. You didn’t even have a chance to finish your sentence before the door had rolled across its tracks and shut completely. “Trick it is,” 

“Jake?” You frowned as you tried to open the door as your own breath blew back into your face. You could see it bouncing off the door. “Jake open the door!” There was no answer, only the sound of the very lock you’d just given him, clicking back into its place. 

“Five minutes, Kerner,” Jake chuckled to himself as he pocketed the key. “Maybe a few minutes in the ice box will,” Jake paused as he found humour in his own actions. “Cool you off,” 

“JAKE THIS ISN’T FUNNY!” You panicked as you tried to open the door once more. “LET ME OUT!” As the reality of the situation hit you like a freight train, panic set in on a seismic scale. “OPEN THE DOOR!!” 

“I’m a catch,” Jake slurred to himself as he stumbled down the hall, barely able to stand straight in his American Pscycho-esk costume. “A damn catch,” 

“HELP!!!” The chill was all-consuming. “SOMEONE HELP ME!!!” You shouted as you hit your first against the sliding door, begging someone to help you. “JAKE! SOMEONE!” 

The burn was serial, it dug into every fibre of your being as you screamed at the top of your lungs. Your tears dried frozen on your cheeks the longer you stayed inside the walk-in freezer. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into an hour. Two. Three. 

“I haven’t seen her, George, I swear! I’ve been wondering where the hell she is too,” Penny sighed as she looked around the Hard Deck. Her eyes immediately fell on the group of rag-tag aviators crowded around their favourite corner. “Hey!” She called out as her steps took her across the bar. 

“Penny!” Fanboy called out with a smile smeared across his slightly intoxicated self. “How’s it going!? Happy Halloween!” he cooed, somewhat captivated by the Leia costume she chose for the evening. “Woah, is Penny hot?” 

“Dude,” Rooster spat his beer back into the bottle he’d just sipped at the thought of his teammate having a crush on the woman who had become a second mother to him. “You just said that out loud,” 

“Has anyone seen my barback?” Penny sighed as she held her nose to ward off a headache. “I can’t find her anywhere,” She explained briefly as Jake shot out of the conversation he was having with another unsuspecting Hard Deck visitor. 

“Oh my god–” His eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he fished the key to the walk-in freezer out of his back pocket. “Holy fucking shit I didn’t mean to leave her in there,” 

“Leave who where?” Bradley asked as he followed Jake, all the colour had been wiped clean from his face as he made his way through the crowded Hard Deck. “Jake!” 

“It was an accident!” Jake’s drunken hands shook violently as he made his way to the freezer where he’d forgotten he locked you in. “I-I didn’t mean to–” 

“Oh my gosh,” Penny was in utter disbelief at what her brain was trying to put together. There was no way Jake locked you in the freezer. He wouldn’t? Would he? “Tell me you didn’t,” 

“Give me the key–” Bradley growled as he shoved Jake to the side. Jake immediately forfeited the key as he slid down the wall in unimaginable shame. 

“Kerner!?” Rooster shouted as he worked to unlock the sling door. He had known you for years, you were like a little sister to him. Always a pain in the ass but a good, genuine person. He’d lay down in traffic for you. 

But the minute Bradley saw you sitting up against one of the freezer shelves with blue lips and closed eyes, his heart stopped inside his chest. 

“Y/N!” Bradley panicked as he stepped inside. “Hey!” He slapped your cheek softly, but hard enough to gain your consciousness. “Hey! Y/n, you alright?” 

“Oh my gosh, she’s probably hypothermic, Rooster, I’ll call an ambulance,” Penny added as shock overcame her. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. 

“And the fucking police!” Rooster made sure he said it loud enough for Jake to hear. “Come on sweetheart, open your eyes, you’re alright, I’m here,” 

“I’m sorry!” Jake cried as he slumped over himself in the hallway. “Y/n I’m so sorry!” His apologies fell on deaf ears as Penny ran emergency services, one of them being the police. “I didn’t mean to forget!” 

Sometimes your worst nightmare comes true, but you find it’s really nothing to worry about. Occasionally, you discover what your dread is really a blessing. And your life is better because you persevere, despite your fears. 

“Rooster?’ You could barely speak as Bradley carried you out of the freezer to the shock and horror of the rest of the squad. “M-so cold,” 

“You look a little pale, Kerner, but you’re gonna be alright,” Bradley tried his best to sugarcoat the situation, but with every step he took, his heart broke a little more. He’d promised your dad he’d keep you safe, he just never thought he’d have to keep you safe from Jake. He’d let his guard down, never again. “I’m gonna burry him six feet under for this,” 

“He l-locked m-me away,” Sometimes your worst nightmare is truly scary. And it feels like it’s never going to end. “No one came,” That’s why support from friends and family is vital. 

“I did,” Bradley corrected you as he held you in his arms, warming you up as much as he could as sirens grew louder from the distance. “I came for you, I’m right here,” 

You only ever want to surround yourself with people who will wake you up from your nightmare……and bring you back to reality.

[arcane-vagabond]

Amhrán na Farraige

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Selkie!Reader

Summary: For centuries there have been legends of beautiful women who disguise themselves as creatures from the sea, only coming to land to sate their curiosity about the world above. Bradley was a simple man who had a taste for simple pleasures. A whole life spent at sea meant he was accustomed to these tales, but nothing prepares him for the reality of them.

Content Warning: ANGST, smut (brief, p in v), Pregnancy, References to the supernatural, Third person narrative, Some fluff, Dub-con, Kidnapping, Forced marriage (kind of, you'll see), Stockholm Syndrome, Some domestic violence (against spouse and towards children. Nothing heinous, just some grabbing and shaking), Anger, Celtic myths/legends, Celtic songs, Depression, Lies, Men driven mad, Descriptions of blood. I think I got everything, but PLEASE let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 13.2k

Helpful pronunciations (not exact, but close):

Amhrán na Farraige - [oh-ron nuh far-ig-uh] "Song of the Sea"

Sidhe - [She] "Fairy" (Also there's a whole etymology thing with this but yeah)

A Chroi - [uh khree] "My heart"

A Ghrá - [uh graw] "My love"

A Mhuirnín - [uh wor-neen] "My beloved"

A Stóirín - [uh store-een] "My Little Treasure"

Song One (The cliffs) || Song Two (The end)

God was not real, of this Bradley Bradshaw was sure and certain. At the very least, if he had existed at all, he was surely dead now. Or perhaps he was a neglectful deity. Bradley had seen too much death and hardship in his life to think otherwise.

He had seen men gasp for an unhearing god as they lay on battlefields, blood coursing out the holes in their bodies as tears streamed down their unseeing eyes. He had seen children starve, begging their still mothers for food that would never come, not while hardship endured in the land. He had heard the wails of women as their sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands never returned home, hand reaching out for an embrace that would never be returned.

All eyes looked to God, but God did not look back.

The only thing Bradley was sure of, was the existence of the fair folk, the Sidhe his mother had always called them. The beings who walked the between, never staying long in this world or the next.

“That shadow that lingers in the corner of your eye?” She had smiled, stroking the hair out of his face. “That’s the fair folk, honey. Always watching, but never seen. If they do let you see them, Bradley, then it’s already over. They’ve gotten you.”

His mother had done her best to keep him sheltered from the horrors of the world, but death and famine followed the people along the coast. His father had died in a shipwreck off the coast when he was young, and while his mother had done her best to keep her sorrow hidden, Bradley often caught her eye turned towards the sea. She disappeared when he was only sixteen.

Bradley had heard stories of people being taken by the fair folk, lured to the hills beyond the town, some never to be seen again, while others came back different. He wondered if the men who had gone off to war had been taken, replaced with something hollow, something not quite all there. Had his mother been taken by the Sidhe? Taken to the land beyond to be with his father? Or had her sorrow and longing for her long-dead husband become too much all at once, the grips of the icy waters too tempting an offer to resist?

It didn’t matter anymore, though. Bradley was alone and took work where he could, soft hands of youth turning to calloused hands of adulthood. His once bright eyes grew dull from the monotony of the jobs at sea, life becoming routine as day after day he boarded a ship to earn his livelihood.

As he grew older, the wages from the odd jobs allowed him to purchase his own vessel, a small boat that rocked in the choppy waves as he hunted the seals that littered the coasts.

He remembered watching from the small house he and his mother lived in as the creatures hopped out of the water to lay on the rocks. He would inch towards the door until she caught him, a stern look on her face as she scowled at him.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” she scolded him, hands on her hips. “You leave those creatures alone. They’re not doing anything to bother you.”

“Elijah’s da’ hunts them,” he remarked once, only serving to deepen her scowl.

“He does,” she muttered. “And he’s a lucky man that the selkies are a forgiving lot.”

“What’s a selkie?” Bradley had asked, eyes lighting up in intrigue. His mother regarded him for a moment before gesturing for him to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Bradley settled in, eyes eager as he waited for his mother to explain.

“The selkies are fair folk of the sea,” she began, eyes serious as they darted above his head to look out the window towards the beach. “They may look like seals, but underneath their blubber and fur, they look like people just like you and me. They’re beautiful, Bradley, but curious to a fault. They walk on land in human form, shedding their seal skin once every seven years.”

“Why seven?” He had asked, voice small with wonder.

“Just the way the magic works,” she had replied with a shrug. “You can always tell when a seal is a selkie based on the size. The bigger the seal, the more likely it is to be a selkie, Bradley. Killing it and taking the skin will earn you pay, but you’ll have blood of the fair folk on your hand. Remember that.”

And he had remembered, for a while at least. He would watch the seals as they basked on the rocks, always wondering if the ones that met his curious gaze were one of the fair folk - a selkie.

Now the years had passed, grown from a small boy into a man of large stature. He commanded respect from those in the small, seaside village. Long had the days passed when his mother had warned him of hunting the seals and long had passed the days when he took those warnings seriously. He had joined the few who hunted the creatures around the rocky shores, braving the misty seas to earn himself a living.

He sat in his boat, the waves rocking him side to side in the way they often do during misty weather. Bitter cold clawed at his skin, numbing his fingers as he waited. Waited for something to come out of the water. Waited for any sign that he would earn a meal.

He fiddled with the ropes that lie around the floor of the boat, tying knots that he would need later. Undoing them, tying them, undoing them again. Anything to keep himself occupied while he lay in wait.

His breaths came out as white puffs of clouds, matching the ones surrounding him. Ice water clung to the whiskers on his upper lip, dripping down to run along his jaw and throat. He shifted, burying himself further into the warmth his coat provided. It was worn. He would need a new one soon. All the more reason to keep hoping for a prize catch.

The sound of disturbed water drew his attention towards the shore, and he slowly crept forward to peer over the side of the boat. A large seal bobbed at the surface, taking slow, deep breaths of the cold air that surrounded them. Slowly, Bradley reached for his harpoon, watching as the seal floated closer and closer. He raised his arm slowly, taking aim. He took a breath. Then another.

He released the harpoon just as a wave crashed into the side of his boat, sending the weapon veering off course. The harpoon struck the seal’s side, creating a gash that seeped blood into the water. The seal gave a pained cry, diving down into the murky depths of the sea, and Bradley cursed.

He stared at the spot where the seal had disappeared, already feeling the pangs of hunger stab at him. His nostrils flared as the desperate sense of anger welled up within him. How could he have been so careless? The size of that pelt would have brought in enough money to last him months. He heaved a sigh, pulling the rope to bring the harpoon back towards him. His fingers dipped into the icy water, the pain of it distracting him momentarily from his despair.

Bradley tossed the harpoon to the floor, the item landing with a thud as he slumped onto the bench. He buried his face in his hands, mind moving with blinding speed. He could still earn enough money to survive, he thought to himself. He could still do this. He just had to be more careful next time, should wait until he’s closer so he doesn’t miss. Still, his mind wandered back to the seal. The sheer size of it had his mind drifting back to the stories his mother had always told him. Of course, Bradley was older now, and he wouldn’t be scared by tall tales. However, the foolishness of youth still clung to him, for though he was now considered a man, he was barely twenty-two summers old.

Bradley heaved a sigh, sitting up and rubbing his hands together to create some warmth that would awaken his freezing fingers. He gripped the oars in his hands and began to row back to shore, the sun already dipping towards the horizon. He was always tempted to stay out past dark, but the older fishermen and hunters warned him of the dangers that came about at night. While Bradley was a fool, he wasn’t stupid.

He neared the dock that stood on the beach outside his home, moving to secure the boat to one of the posts when something caught his eye.

It floated in the water, a silvery grey blob that moved with the tide. Bradley’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place what it was in his mind. The blob slapped up against the side of the boat, and it was then that he realized what he was looking at. It was a perfectly preserved seal pelt, much like the one he had just seen. He supposed that it had fallen off a cart on the way to market, the winding roads by the cliffs being one of the few ways to make it into town. It wasn’t unusual for things to be knocked off of carts, finding their way onto the beaches and eventually into the sea.

Bradley wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, not after his blunder. He scooped the pelt into the boat, laying it out to dry before lifting himself onto the dock. It would be days before he could take it to the market to sell, and he hoped no one recognized it when he did make his way into town.

An odd feeling overcame him in that moment, a feeling of unease and tension winding up his spine and gripping his throat. The feeling told him he was being watched, but by what, he did not know. His eyes darted around, expecting to see one of his neighbors by the house, but no one stood atop the cliff. The wind picked up around him, the cold of it stealing the breath from his lungs, and he curled in within himself to try and preserve some of the warmth he had left. The feeling told him he was making a mistake, but he ignored it, surmising that what he felt was guilt at having come into fortune from another’s strife.

Bradley shook his head to rid himself of the feeling, taking one last look around before trudging across the beach and up the path to his home.

The house was cold, but not for lack of warmth. Bradley kept the rooms heated well. No, the house lacked the happiness that made it a home, and this was something he was keenly aware of. It had been a home once, way back before his mother had disappeared.

Now, Bradley existed within its walls, hoping one day that he would find himself ready to settle for one of the pretty girls in town, the ones that smiled at him sweetly whenever he deemed it necessary to venture in. Perhaps he would finally give in to Orla’s flirting. She was a sweet thing, always filling his cup more than she ought to, setting it down in front of him with a bat of her eyes. She wasn’t a bad choice.

Bradley shook the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t entertain the idea of taking a wife, not when his circumstances were so uncertain.

He settled further down into his chair, feet propped up by the fire, the glowing embers serving to help warm him from his time out in the cold air during the day. The wood cracked and popped as the fire consumed it, and Bradley soon found himself dozing off. Exhaustion seeped down to the very marrow of his bones, his muscles stiff from the hours spent hunched over on the boat. His eyes began to flutter shut, urging him to embrace the sweet oblivion that came with sleep.

His body jerked, eyes snapping open. He wasn’t sure what had startled him at first, his heart hammering away in his chest as he let out a shaky breath. His ears perked, eyes darting as he waited for whatever it was that had roused him. He didn’t have to wait long, a second cry sounding from outside.

It was one of pure, unadulterated sorrow. The cry of someone so grief stricken, they sounded almost like an animal. A chill ran down Bradley’s spine at the sound, and cautiously he moved to stand, heading towards the front door. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to leave well enough alone, but he worried that someone might be heart or in trouble. Grabbing his coat, he slipped back into his boots and walked out the door.

The cold was something he thought he should be used to at this point, but it still shocked his system every time he stepped foot out into it. The moon was the only source of light save for the faint, orange glow that filtered out of the windows of his house. The air stung his lungs, and he suppressed a shiver that threatened to run up his spine. The cry had sounded far, coming from towards the beach if he had to guess. He began to walk, boots crunching against the dirt path as it gave way to sand. The waves crashed against the shore like thunder, so loud that he almost didn’t hear the faint cries coming from further down the strip of sand.

He almost missed her huddled in the sand, back pressed up against one of the large rocks at the edge of the shoreline where sand met grass. Her head was buried in the crook of her arms, shoulders shaking as she cried, quiet whimpers wracking her body.

“Miss?” He called out once he was a few feet away. “Are you okay?”

Her head snapped up, hair falling in her face as sorrow filled eyes peered up at him. The look of her knocked all air out of his lungs, and for a moment he couldn’t focus on anything but how beautiful the woman in front of him was.

“Can’t find it,” she croaked. Her voice was still sweet sounding despite the hoarseness of it, and Bradley found himself captivated even further by her. His eyes left her face then, realizing for the first time that she was naked.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, rushing forward as he shrugged off his coat. “Here, take this.”

He wrapped the coat around her smaller frame, the material dwarfing her. Her lips trembled, though Bradley suspected it wasn’t from the cold. She didn’t seem to see him as she continued muttering to herself, eyes darting wildly between her hands and the sea.

“Can’t find it,” she said again, her voice growing in pitch as the desperation took hold.

“Can’t find what?” Bradley asked, brow furrowing in confusion as he glanced around the beach. “Did someone hurt you? Where are your clothes?”

A choked cry spilled past her lips as a fresh wave of tears began to stream down her face. She shook her head wildly, hands darting out to grasp at his shirt. Her fingers seemed to push him away and pull him closer at the same time as another wail climbed up her throat.

“Can’t find it!” She shrieked, eyes growing wider as she stared at the water. “Wanna go home.”

“Where is home?” Bradley asked, his own anxiety beginning to peak as he gripped onto the woman’s shoulders. Her eyes glanced to his, but they did not see him.

“Between the light, between the dark,” she whispered, eyes boring into him. “Between the cold, between the warmth. Between the moon, between the sun. Between the north, between the south.”

The between was something Bradley’s mother had always cautioned him about.

“It’s where the fair folk live, Bradley,” she had told him. “They don’t live here, but they don’t live fully in the other. They’re from somewhere in between.”

He shook the thought from his head. He knew he was being superstitious, ridiculous even. The fair folk were prideful beings, surely one wouldn’t be sitting here talking with him like this.

And yet, as Bradley looked upon this woman, heard how she spoke, a voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that there was something strange about her. Something…otherworldly.

“Are you alone?” He settled on, trepidation clear in his tone. “Is there someone I can go get for you?”

“Can’t go home,” she muttered, eyes turned longingly to the sea as tears streamed down her face. “It’s too late.”

Bradley heaved out a sigh. He would have to take her home, let her rest and try again in the morning.

“Can you stand?” He asked her. She said nothing, nails biting into the skin of her arms as she continued to stare out at the water. Bradley reached out to her, Taking her arms gently to help her stand. Her lips curled in a wince, hand flying to her side. His eyes flickered down, and for the first time noticed the dried blood on her side.

“You’re hurt,” he frowned, moving closer to inspect the wound, but she shied away from him, her own frown tugging on her lips. His tongue darted out to wet his own nervously, as he glanced from her to the house.

“My house is a bit of a ways up the hill,” he started, nodding towards it. Her gaze was more focused now, eyes flickering towards where he gestured. “Do you think you can make it?”

She didn’t respond, instead tilting her head to the side as she regarded the distance. Finally, she nodded, and Bradley felt his shoulders sag in relief. The wind whipped around them, and he was reminded of how cold it was. It would be best to get her inside as soon as possible, though he couldn’t help but notice that she seemed holy unaffected by the freezing temperatures even though she stood in nothing but his coat.

He waited for her to move towards the house, but she remained still, watching him watch her. Finally, he pressed his lips together and began to walk towards the house, boots crunching against the ground once more. The woman made no sound as she moved behind him, her gaze fixated on him the entire time.

He paused outside the front door, hand hesitating above the knob. Slowly, he turned to look at her once more. Her eyes stared back at him, eyes that reflected the orange glow cast into the night, eyes that swirled with knowledge that Bradley could only dream of. She said nothing as they watched each other, those sorrowful eyes watching him with curiosity, so much like seals that littered the shores. Bradley sucked in a quick breath before turning around to push the door open.

The warmth was welcome, and he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he stepped into the main room, turning to watch as the woman stepped across the threshold. Her eyes darted around, taking in the various pieces of furniture and decorations that were scattered about as Bradley closed the door softly behind her. She took a few more tentative steps into the house, head cocking to the side in such an unusual way as to further confirm what Bradley was slowly accepting.

She walked past him, eyes glittering with intrigue as she came up to the fire. She crouched down, head still tilting to one side, and Bradley was captivated by the sight of this beautiful woman bathed in the light of the fire in his home. Before he could react, she reached a hand out into the flame, letting out a startled, pained yelp as she retracted it. A whimper left her lips as Bradley rushed forward, kneeling in front of her and taking her hand in his.

“Why would you do that?” He asked, no real heat behind his tone as he inspected her fingertips. “Don’t you know it’s hot?”

Her fingertips were a little pink, but otherwise no real damage had been done. She stared at him with an unreadable expression, eyes still studying him. He hesitated for a moment before moving to stand, keeping her hand in his.

“I can show you to your room,” he told her, tugging on her hand lightly. Her eyes scanned him from head to foot and then back again before allowing him to pull her to her feet. The two padded down a small hallway before he pushed the door open to a bedroom that had long stood unoccupied. He tugged her inside, motioning for her to sit on the bed. She sat obediently, watching and waiting for him to make his next move.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he exited the room. He made his way to the washroom, grabbing bandages, a cloth, a bowl, and a pitcher of water. He returned to the room quickly, finding that the woman had not moved an inch in the time he was gone. He sucked in a breath as their eyes once again met, wary meeting curious. He set the items on the bedside table as he gestured at her.

“You’ll need to take that off so I can see the wound,” he murmured, heat rising to his cheeks as he glanced at her uneasily. She paid no mind to his discomfort, easily shedding the coat and exposing her naked body to him as simply as if he had asked her to close the door. He cleared his throat, eyes darting down to look at the angry-looking gash on her side. The wound appeared to be superficial, but he couldn’t be sure until he cleaned it.

He turned to ready the cloth, keeping the bowl of water close so he could rinse if he needed to. Tentatively, he reached a hand up, running his fingers over the dried blood upon her skin, eyes darting up to search for any sign of distress. Her face remained impassive as she watched him, and Bradley’s jaw clenched as he began to wipe gently at the wound.

He had been correct in his initial assessment, the gash was more of a flesh wound and thankfully wouldn’t require stitching. He grabbed some of the salve he had brought in, applying a decent layer before wrapping a bandage around her midsection. Bradley tried not to think of how close he was to the woman, of how beautiful she was, especially when she seemed wholly unbothered by his presence.

“I, um,” he stuttered, cursing his nervousness, “I can bring you something to wear. I still have some of my ma’s things.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, not that she would give him one if the last half hour had been any indication. He made his way down the hall to the door he had not opened in years, taking a deep breath to steady himself before pushing inside.

The room was just as his mother had left it all those years ago, the only thing having changed was the layer of dust that coated everything. Bradley moved quickly to the wardrobe on the far side of the room, opening it to reveal several different clothing options. He grabbed what he could carry, making sure to grab some of the sleeping garments before heading back down the hall. The woman sat unmoved once more as he appeared, draping the options on the chair to his left by the vanity.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he said lamely, gesturing towards the clothing, “so I grabbed what I thought might look nice.”

The woman’s gaze moved slowly to the clothing before she rose to her feet. She padded across the room, not a sound from her as she walked over towards where he stood. Her eyes darted up to his for a moment before back down to the clothes. Small hands reached out to pick up one of the nightgowns he had grabbed, eyes studying it with a frown. Her hands tightened on the fabric, a look of despair washing over her face and disappearing just as quickly before she slowly eased it over her head, letting it drape down her form. She reached her hands up to pull her long hair out of the confines, letting it run down her back as she stared up at him.

There was something inherently wild about her, something that sent Bradley’s heart racing as he looked at her standing there in the room. She looked so out of place but so at ease with her surroundings, and he could hardly stand it.

“My room is just down the hall,” he told her, shoulders pulling back a fraction as he regarded her. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”

He gathered the things he had brought in, moving to leave when she grabbed his shirt, stopping him. He glanced at her from over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion as he waited for her to speak.

“Do you hear them?” She asked, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re calling for me.”

Bradley listened in the silence that followed, and it was a second before he heard the quiet, distant barks of seals mixed with the keen of something he could not place - something not quite human, not quite animal. He looked at the woman, her eyes having grown distant once more as a tear slid down her face. Bradley sucked in a quick breath as a shudder ran up his spine.

“You should get some sleep,” he whispered, breaking the silence. “You seem like you’ve had a long day.”

The woman looked at him once more, sadness swelling within her eyes before she slowly nodded, letting him go. She turned towards the bed, padding silently across the room once more.

Bradley closed the door behind him as he left, hands shaking as he listened for the click of the latch before putting away the items in hand. He put out the fire, washing the room in darkness as he dragged a hand over his face. With a glance towards the hall, he crept towards the front door, opening it and shutting it behind him carefully as to not make a sound. The cries from before could be heard louder now, and Bradley thought his heart would burst from his chest from the unease that enveloped him.

The moon still shone bright, lighting his path down towards the dock and his boat. The waves lapped against the shore, the cries louder the closer he came. His boat knocked against the wooden stands of the dock with every crash of the waves, and sitting there, on top of the bench, lay the pelt.

Bradley’s heart quickened at the sight, a sense of dread filling him at what he might find once he inspected it. His boots clicked against the wood as he made his way down to the edge. He kneeled down, snatching the pelt from its perch and into his hands. It was soft, nearly dry. He ran his hands over it, inspecting it closely as he squinted in the dark.

He was lost in the sensation of the pelt, how smooth and soft it felt in his hands, and for a moment he allowed himself to close his eyes and compare it to how soft the woman’s skin had felt under his fingertips earlier. He was pulled from his thoughts as the soft fur transformed into a matted and cracked mess. His eyes flew open, breath catching in his throat as he took in the bloodied tear down the side of the pelt.

Right where the gash on the woman was.

There was no denying it in his mind now. The woman in his home was one of the Sidhe - a selkie.

The cries grew louder, and Bradley’s head whipped up to stare out into the water. He couldn’t see them, but knew they were out there, searching for a sister that was lost to them. His grip on the pelt tightened, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He scrambled back to his feet, boots stomping against the wood and then the ground as he ran back to the house. His mind raced with thought after thought as his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. His hand reached out to open the door, but he stopped short, fingers hovering over the knob.

The cries off in the distance sounded as he stared at his front door before looking down at the pelt in hand. He could return it to the woman, let her return back to the sea she called home. But a more sinister thought crossed his mind. Why should he give it back? The woman was safe with him, after all. He could protect her from those that wished to hunt her, keep her warm and fed like a man should. He could love her, give her a life beyond what the sea had to offer. The memory of her skin under his fingertips once again rushed to the forefront of his mind, and he allowed his hand to drop back to his side. Yes, he would keep the pelt. Keep it hidden away where she nor anyone else would ever find it.

He turned on his heel, running towards the small shack just a few yards away from the house, ripping the door open and stepping inside. The structure held mostly items necessary for fishing and repairing his boat, but an old trunk sat in the back, practically hidden by various tarps and other objects. The cries of the other selkies grew louder, almost like they could sense the pelt in his hands and were coming to find it.

Bradley pulled the trunk out into the open, moving to the workbench and grabbing one of the keys that sat in the top drawer. He kneeled down in front of the trunk, unlocking it and opening the lid with a quiet creak. Inside lay old photos and trinkets that his father and mother had collected over their years together. He pulled a few items out before placing the pelt gently into the trunk, covering it back up with the aforementioned items.

He closed the lid, locking it. The wailing cries coming to an abrupt and sudden stop as he did so. He stayed there for a moment, the only sound to be heard being his heavy breathing and the waves crashing against the shore below. Slowly, he moved to stand, shoving the trunk back where he found it and hiding it away once more. No one would think to look in there. No one would know what he kept hidden. He tossed the key back into the top drawer, stepping out of the shack and back into the night.

The air was still around him, eerily so, and Bradley made his way quickly back to the house. His fingers were numb, whether it be from cold or nerves he wasn’t sure, but the tension didn’t ease as he closed the front door quietly behind him, his back pressed against it for a moment as he listened for any sound that the woman might have heard him. Hearing nothing, he toed his boots off, setting them by the door before making his way quietly towards his room, noting that no light shone under the woman’s door. He changed quickly for bed, crawling under the blankets as if they might shield him from the consequences of his actions that evening. He took a few calm, steadying breaths before closing his eyes.

Sleep did not come easy to him that night.

The first morning had been awkward, Bradley rising with the dawn to find the woman already sitting at the dining table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of the nightgown. Her eyes darted up to meet his as he entered the room, stopping short at the sight of her.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, shock clear in his voice as they stared at one another. She blinked at him, saying nothing. She seemed perkier this morning, albeit still cautious as she watched him walk further into the room. Bradley grabbed the box of matches from the shelf, taking one out and striking it with a pop. The woman jumped at the sound, eyes flickering to the watch as he leaned down to light the stove, shaking the match out once he was done.

“What is that?” She asked, and Bradley turned to look at her in surprise.

“What is what?”

“The colors,” she supplied, nodding at the burnt match in his hand. She pointed towards the fireplace. “They were in the cave over there last night as well.”

Bradley’s gaze flickered over to where she pointed before landing back on her.

“It’s called fire,” he started slowly, a frown tugging on his lips. “I use it to cook things and keep the house warm.”

“Fire,” she repeated, testing the word out on her lips. “It hurts.”

“It can,” Bradley agreed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You shouldn’t touch it.”

She nodded solemnly, clasping her hands out in front of her. She watched as he began to prepare breakfast, turning on the toaster and slicing up the fish to cook in the pan.

“I like those.”

Bradley turned back around to find the woman sitting with most of her torso on top of the table, her legs stretched to accommodate her. Eyes shone with delight at the sight of the fish, and Bradley arched a brow at her.

“Yeah?” He hummed. She nodded enthusiastically, tongue darting out to lick at her lips.

“There’s lots of them,” she told him. “They swim in groups and they’re easy to catch. The fishermen catch them using nets.”

“They do,” Bradley nodded, laying a strip of the mackerel down in the pan. It began to sizzle, and he was struck with how hungry he truly was.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, turning to look where the woman now stood, eyes wide as she watched the fish cook down. He stared at her for a moment before turning his attention back to the fish, flipping it over before it burned.

“I’m cooking,” he told her. The woman leaned forward, sniffing at the food before wrinkling her nose.

“It smells weird,” she muttered, and Bradley laughed.

“It smells fine,” he smiled, sliding the fish onto one of the plates on the counter. “You’ve just never had it cooked, I’ll bet.”

He ushered her back towards the table, setting the plate down at the spot she just occupied and handing her a fork. He turned back towards the stove, laying another slice of the fish down as the woman took a tentative bite. Chewing slowly, she perked up as the taste rushed over her, shoveling more into her mouth with a satisfied purr. Bradley soon joined her, chuckling as he watched her. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so light, the last time he laughed so freely.

“You should slow down,” he smirked, taking a bite from his own plate. “You don’t want to choke.”

She peered up at him, pausing in her feast as she considered his words. She cocked her head to the side in that curious way before taking a slower bite, looking up at him for approval. The two ate in silence for a few moments before Bradley cleared his throat, drawing her attention.

“My name is Bradley,” he said, glancing up at her as he swallowed a mouthful of fish.

“Bradley.”

“What should I call you?” He asked, and she frowned in confusion.

“What do you want to call me?” She asked him.

“Don’t you have a name?” He chuckled, disbelief coloring his voice. Surely even the fair folk had names to give. Her face drew tight in sorrow once more, and Bradley felt a twinge of pain in his chest at the sight. Her gaze slowly turned towards the window where the sea lay just out of sight.

“Only the water knows my name,” she told him, grip loosening on her fork as it clattered against the plate. “Only it can say it.”

Bradley watched her. Watched how her breathing grew ragged. Watched how her eyes glistened with unshed tears for a home she would not return to. Her lips trembled, and Bradley cleared his throat.

“I need to head into town,” he said. “Need to see a man about a job. Do you want to come with me?”

She turned to look at him, eyes still hazy from wherever she had let herself wander. She blinked once, twice.

“I suppose,” she whispered finally. Bradley nodded, clearing the plates from the table.

“You’ll need to change,” he told her. “You can’t go out wearing that.”

She looked down at her nightgown with a frown before looking back up at him.

“It’s, uh,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not appropriate for others to see you dressed like that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just,” he blew out a breath, “please pick a different dress?”

She gave him a sour look before standing and disappearing down the hall. Bradley blew out a breath before moving to clean the kitchen area. The woman reappeared, wearing a simple, blue dress. Bradley nodded in approval before his eyes landed on her bare feet.

“Stay here,” he told her, walking down the hall to the far bedroom. He walked in, straight up to the wardrobe and began rummaging through until he found a pair of his mother’s old shoes. He reappeared in the kitchen, handing the woman the shoes with a shy smile.

“I don’t know how well they’ll fit,” he started, “but they should work until we get you some new ones.”

She eyed them distastefully, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“I don’t want them,” she said finally, moving to hand them back to Bradley. He shook his head.

“You need them. They’ll protect your feet, and people will expect you to wear them.”

She scowled, pushing them forward once more, but Bradley stopped her.

“Please, a chroi,” he pleaded. “Just while we’re in town. You can take them off as soon as we’re home.”

Her gaze softened at the endearment, and reluctantly, she shoved her feet into them. He helped her lace them, calloused fingers making nimble work of them, and soon they were ready to go. He grabbed a thin jacket for himself while he made sure to hand her the heavy coat to combat the frigid air outside. The walk to town took about an hour, and the weather was sure to still be cold and damp as it often was during the time between spring and winter.

Bradley turned to her, a thin-lipped smile on his face as his hand rested on the door. He gave her a once over.

She looked like any other person upon first glance, but if you stared too long, something wild shone on her person that drew you in. Like it would suffocate you if you stared too long. He sucked in a breath, torn between keeping her in his sight and making her stay. If she came, the townsfolk would surely be able to guess that she was not a mere human girl, but if she stayed? If she stayed, she might find the one thing he hoped she never would.

“Alright,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

Weeks had passed, and the two had developed a routine of sorts. Bradley had started work as the lighthouse keeper, walking every day down the path along the cliffs to clean and polish the light that guided ships to shore. When he finished, he began work on the nets for when he ventured out into the sea to catch fish. It was a steady source of food, and food was not something Bradley took lightly. Memories of what it felt like to go hungry when there was so little to go around, fueled his drive to ensure there was enough, always enough and plenty to spare. He showed mo chroi how to prepare and salt the fish they couldn’t eat, showing her how to store it for future meals.

She was a quick learner, performing the tasks diligently as the days passed, and soon she took over most of the household chores. The widow Callahan checked in on them from time to time, her wise eyes studying the new woman of the house every time she came by.

“Be careful, young man,” she’d always say, dark eyes narrowed up at him. “You may have tamed her now, but the fair folk were not meant for gilded cages. Don’t give her what you cannot spare.”

Bradley would assure her that he wouldn’t, but in truth, he had no idea what she was telling him. He was content with how things were, content to have a partner by his side to help with the work he had done by himself for years. He still caught her staring longingly out at the waters she once called home, but the longing looks grew farther and farther apart the longer she stayed with him, resigning herself to her new life on land.

He was mending a tear in one of the nets when she appeared beside him, silent as always. He was used to it now, no longer startling every time she appeared around him without a sound. He became attuned to her presence, sensing when she came and when she left.

She said nothing to him at first, content to watch him as he worked, and he was content to keep working. It wasn’t until she kneeled beside him, gentle hand placed on top of his arm that he stopped.

“What is it, a chroi?” He asked, gazing up at her. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting a faint golden glow onto the summer evening. Bradley couldn’t help but to admire her beauty in the dimming light, eyes glittering and skin smooth as porcelain as they looked at him. She wore only a white chemise, something she was prone to do when it was just the two of them. She didn’t like the heavy, scratchy feel of the dresses, only wearing them when there was company or when the two ventured into town. Bradley complied with her whims, finding it hard to say no to her.

“Why do you not have a woman?”

The question caught him off guard, eyes widening as his jaw went slack.

“What?” He blinked, scrambling to make sense of her question. She hummed, pressing closer to him. Bradley found it hard to think with the feel of her soft, warm body so close to his, one hand tracing over the planes of his chest as she continued.

“The men in the village,” she pressed, eyes never wavering as they bore into his own, almost hypnotic in the way they captured him, “they all have a woman to keep them company, to hold them, to love them. But you do not.”

Bradley’s eyes darted back and forth between her own, words failing him. She lifted a leg, resting it in between his own as she straddled his thigh. The hand that rested on his arm trailed up to play with the curls at the base of his skull, her body flush with his now as his hands came up to rest on her thighs. The hem of her chemise rode up to reveal smooth thighs that had Bradley reeling with lust. She leaned forward, a purr on her lips as she trailed her nose along his jaw and up to his ear.

“Is it me?” She asked softly, hand splayed on his chest as her lips brushed along the shell of his ear. A shudder ran up along Bradley’s spine at the sensation, mind growing hazy and clouded with lust for the creature before him.

“Am I yours?” She breathed, meeting his eyes once more. The air between them was charged, and for a moment Bradley could think of nothing but the way she felt against him. The way her lips hovered over his.

He lunged forward, pulling her impossibly closer as their lips melded against one another. He was spellbound, captivated, obsessed. His hands tightened on her thighs, and she sighed against his mouth, spurring him on to nip at her bottom lip. She granted him entrance, gasping as he licked hungrily into her mouth, the sweet taste of her driving him mad as a hand slid up to press against her lower back.

She wasted no time lifting herself off of him long enough to free him from the confines of his trousers, small hands gripping his hardening length. He let out a pleasured groan, head tilting back as she stroked him slowly before positioning herself atop him. There was no buildup between them, Bradley gripping at her as she slowly eased herself down onto him. A keen left her lips as he stretched her, mind numbing pleasure coursing through his veins as her velvety walls fluttered around him.

Her eyes were closed tight as she rested on top of him, her hips flush against his as her hands rested on his chest for balance. Bradley had never seen a more beautiful sight. Slowly, she rolled her hips against his, breathing ragged as she built a rhythm. Bradley laid against the wood of the dock as he watched her take her pleasure from him, a hand running up her stomach to rest between her breasts. He could die a happy man right then and there.

Her pace grew faster as she approached her climax, whimpers and cries spilling past her lips as she rode him, and Bradley pushed himself into a sitting position, careful to not disturb her. A hand rested on her back as he nuzzled into the space between her breasts where his other hand had just been. The sleeve of her chemise fell off her shoulder, and Bradley lifted his face to nip and lick at the skin there. He could feel his own high approaching as she ground down on him, and his free hand rose up to wrap around her throat, squeezing gently. She froze, hips stopping as they locked eyes. The only sound to be heard between the two of them was their ragged breathing.

For a second, Bradley thought he had crossed the line, but she made no move to remove his hand. The two stared at one another for a long moment before one of her hands came up to rest atop his own, squeezing them lightly as she began to move her hips once more, slower this time, drawing out the inevitable. He groaned at the sensation, feeling his stomach tense as her eyes never left his, her gaze intense as she chased release. Her walls fluttered and tightened around him, and with a final cry, she came, her head thrown back and her hot, wet cunt milking his own orgasm out of him with a shout. His spend coated her walls, leaking out around him as he shuddered and fell back against the dock with eyes pinched closed. Her hips still moved against his, drawing out every ounce of pleasure she could, giving herself to him with every movement.

She was his now, he had marked her.

Her hips finally stilled against his, and he could feel her staring at him. Her fingers trailed up his chest, along his jaw, before finally stilling on his lips. Bradley peeled his eyes open slowly, and he would have sworn he had died and gone to heaven for if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was looking at an angel. The setting sun cast a halo around her head as her hair blew in the wind, hypnotic eyes boring into him as the golden glow of the evening enveloped her. His lover smiled down at him softly, fingertips stroking his lips before leaning down to press her own against them.

She didn’t look to the sea much anymore, her longing gazes turned to brief flickers as she went about her days. Still, there were nights when her eyes would glaze over as the sound of seals calling out in the night made their way up to the confines of the house. Bradley would watch as her lips trembled briefly, the look in her eyes growing farther away until suddenly she would snap back to the moment, offering him a loving smile as she continued her mending.

Her stomach began to swell in the autumn months, and Bradley often found himself reluctant to leave her side. He would place a hand on her stomach, eyes lighting up in delight every time he felt a kick to it. He’d rest his head on top of her, muttering sweet words and promises to the babe that grew within. She would rest her hand on his head, stroking his hair soothingly as the fire crackled in front of them.

They were happy.

There was one night, however, when Bradley came back from the village to find his wife no longer at home, and panic overtook him. He tore through the house, ripping open every door he could find until he was faced with a horrifying possibility. He ran outside to the old shack, nearly ripping the door off of its hinges in his haste to open it. His eyes scanned the dark interior, his lantern casting shadows across the walls as he sighed in relief at the realization that his secret was still hidden underneath tarps and old traps.

His brow furrowed as he stepped back out onto the open cliffs, the wind whipping around him as he scanned the dancing grass. His eyes stopped at the edge of the cliff, terror gripping him once more at the thought that his lover might have done the unthinkable. Had she tried to return to the depths from where she came? Her body would not survive the plunge, not without the skin that lay hidden in shadows. He trudged towards the edge of the cliffs, the wind biting his skin and seeping to his bones as his heart thundered in his ears. He peered down at the rocks below, stopping only when a song sounded on the wind.

Little sister, sister hu ru

My love, my sister hu ru

Can you not pity o hol ill eo

My grief tonight hu ru

The voice was beautiful and full of sorrow, cries carried on the wind and out to the sea. Bradley swung the lantern towards the rocky path that led up to the lighthouse, the moon casting ribbons of silver that silhouetted the tall structure.

I am a poor woman hu ru

Sad and miserable hu ru

I climbed up o hol ill eo

Ben Sgrìobain hu ru

Bradley moved quickly through the grass and up the path, the sound of the song growing louder with each step he took. The stone structure stood proud against the backdrop of the sea, the waves crashing against the rocks below, almost drowning out the song as he rounded the walkway, finding his wife standing on the edge of the cliff.

I didn’t find there hu ru

What I wanted hu ru

A girl o hol ill eo

With hair like a daisy hu ru

Tears streamed down her face as he watched her, her hair whipping in the wind as her hands cradled her heavily swollen belly. Her feet were bare, and she wore a thin chemise that did little to protect her from the gusts that enveloped her body. No sobs left her as she finished her song, only the look of someone who had been lost, lost and never found in a world that was not her own. Bradley sucked in a breath, lips pressing firmly together before he stomped towards her. He dropped the lantern at his feet, the flame within dying at the impact as he gripped her shoulders and whirled her around to face him. Her eyes grew wide as his rage flooded to the surface, nostrils flaring and fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“What were you thinking?” He hissed, shaking her with every accusation. “You scared me half to death! What are you doing out here dressed like this? It’s too cold for you to be out here with nothing to protect you. I thought you had-”

He gestured towards the cliffs, the words dying on his lips as he choked on a sob. The tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly, rolling down his cheeks as his hands gripped onto her even tighter. If he held on tighter, she would never leave, would never return to the sea, would never leave him. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again, not when he had tasted a life that was shared.

She stared at him, eyes wide and searching as the wind danced around them. Her hand slowly reached up to cup his jaw, thumb smoothing over the stubble that grew there.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, voice almost lost on the wind. She leaned forward, and Bradley lurched back, eyes wide and scared as they watched her. The two stayed like that for a moment before she moved once more, hand holding his face in place as she brushed his nose with hers before pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. Tears continued to stream down Bradley’s face as his eyes flickered closed, embracing her as different emotions swirled inside him.

“Never leave me,” he begged in a whisper against her, one hand dropping down to cup her stomach as he rested his forehead against hers. He opened his eyes to find her already looking at him, black water dancing in her gaze.

“Never, a ghrá.”

Their son was born a month later, loud cries spilling into the night as Bradley waited outside with some of the older men from the village. His head perked up at the first wail, eyes shining with excitement as her screams were replaced by those of the infant. The widow Callahan opened the front door moments later, apron covered in blood as she wiped her hands on a rag.

“You have a son,” she announced with a small smile, and Bradley grinned so hard, he swore his face would split in two. The men around him clasped him on the back, cheers ringing out in the night as they opened up spirits brought with them for the occasion. Bradley was keen to see his wife and son, but one of the men shoved a mug into his hands.

“Have a drink first, lad,” he hollered with a laugh. “The misses and the wean will still be there after.”

Bradley downed the drink as quickly as he could, much to the amusement of the others. He shoved the cup into the hands of the man nearest to him, not waiting for it to be refilled as he made his way into the house. The widow Callahan was cleaning up her supplies along with her apprentice when Bradley entered the room. His wife lay propped up in the bed, a small smile on her face as she cooed at the small bundle in her arms. Her eyes flickered up to his for a moment before back down. He crossed the room, easing down gently beside her on the bed. The babe gurgled, eyes closed as he yawned, and Bradley felt his heart swell.

He reached a hand over to run a finger over his son’s hands, heart dancing in his chest when the babe gripped it, small hand so strong for someone who was only moments old.

“What should we call him?” Bradley asked, cuddling into her side, exhaustion seeping through her.

“I thought we might call him Ronan.”

Bradley paused. The meaning of the name was not lost on him, and his gaze flickered to her profile for a moment before nodding.

“Ronan,” he murmured, eyes turning back to his son, nodding. “Aye. I like it. Ronan it is then.”

The babe gurgled once more, and Bradley reached over to take him in his arms, cooing softly as the bundle fussed.

“We should let your mother rest,” He whispered to the baby, a small smile on his wife’s lips as she nestled into the inviting warmth of the bed, her eyes drooping as she fought to remain awake. “She’s had a long day, don’t you think? It’s not easy bringing someone into the world.”

He tore his eyes away from his son to gaze at her, adoration shining bright as he reached a hand to smooth the hair out of her face.

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, bouncing the baby lightly as he moved to stand, his eyes already fixated back on the bundle in his arms. Her eyes followed him as he walked towards the door, lips curled into a smile as she slipped further and further into oblivion.

Bradley offered her one last smile as she fell asleep, walking towards the main room and sitting down by the fireplace, the orange glow of the fire bathing the two in the warm light. The men outside still celebrated, and Bradley rolled his eyes, smiling down at his son.

“I wanted to talk to you, man to man,” he started, rocking the baby in his arms. “I can’t guarantee you an easy life, Ronan. In fact, it might be a hard one. What I can promise is that I’ll be by your side as only a father can be for his son.”

Ronan cooed, opening his eyes for the first time to look up at his father, and Bradley’s heart soared.

“You’re born from two worlds, you know,” Bradley continued, a small frown tugging on his lips as he considered what this would mean. “A living bridge between the seen and unseen, but what does that mean for you, I wonder.”

The fire popped as it consumed the wood, the crackling the only thing heard besides the faint sound of Ronan breathing. The men had left to continue their drinking in the village, and soon even the widow Callahan and her apprentice left, bidding him a good night as they did. Bradley said nothing to them in response, eyes trained on the baby in his arms even as the sun rose above the horizon.

Ronan grew quickly, much to Bradley’s surprise, and soon he was toddling around and talking, a smart lad whom Bradley found he never had to instruct more than once, eager to take on the responsibility of being the eldest. Two years after he was born, another bundle joined their home, a boy they named Rían who grew to fill the house with peels of laughter everywhere he went. His wife showed no more signs of longing for the sea, too enamored with her children to pay much mind to the sea which she once called home.

Three years after Rían was born, they welcomed Cillian into their fold, a quiet babe who grew into a curious and bright little boy. Bradley was happy with his life and even prouder of his family. He soon began teaching Ronan how to weave nets for fish and how to fix the traps they used to catch the migrating salmon, and it wasn’t long until Rían joined them. Cillian was too young, staying behind with his mother as the other three made their way out to sea to bring home food for the next day.

Their evenings were spent sitting by the fire, the boys playing with their toy soldiers as their mother worked on her mending, Bradley resting from a hard day’s work as he smoked a pipe, a habit he had picked up to help ease the tension he often felt these days as he grew older. It was on one such evening that Cillian pulled on the skirt of his mother’s dress, eyes so much like hers as they gazed up in curiosity.

“Ma,” he chirped, earning her attention. She smiled down at him, setting down her latest project to give him her full attention.

“What is it, a mhuirnín?” She asked.

“The people in town say you’re not from here,” he continued, earning the attention of the two other boys and Bradley as well. “If you aren’t from here, then where do you come from?”

The silence was heavy in the room, not a soul moving as the words hung in the air. His mother’s eyes glazed over slowly as she thought about the home she left behind so many years ago. A look Bradley had not seen since before their first son was born made its way onto her face, and his heart began to thunder in his chest. Time seemed to stand still as she considered her words.

“Between the here, between the now. Between the day, between the night. Between the land, between the sea. Between the awake, between the asleep. Between the real, between the myths. That is where I am from,” she told him, a hand coming up to cup his chin gently. In that moment, Bradley remembered the wild that dwelled within his wife, the constant call from within to return back to the sea. He remembered that while he grew older, she remained forever the same, never changing. He remembered the fear that gripped him each night at the thought that she might leave, and rage filled him.

“Enough,” he snapped, drawing all four pairs of eyes to him. Bradley was a kind, easygoing man, not prone to anger, and the sight of him now shocked his children, fear flashing in their eyes at the look of anger that clung to his face.

“I won’t hear another word,” he hissed, grip tight on the pipe in hand. He gestured wildly at his children as they sat, paralyzed with fear. “To bed, all of you!”

They did not need to be told twice, scrambling to their feet as they hurried down the hall, the sounds of doors shutting behind them. Regret filled Bradley almost instantly, but it was not enough to quell the fear that still raged on inside of him. His eyes watched the hall before sliding over to look at his wife. Her head was bowed submissively, an impassive look on her face as she continued her mending, and Bradley settled back into his chair, an air of unease settling in around him.

It was a few weeks later when Bradley had taken the two older boys off that his world turned upside down.

Cillian was a curious boy, too curious for his own good, one might say. He loved to experience the world around him and oftentimes found himself in more trouble than he could handle. His father had warned him to stay away from the old shack that stood by the cliff, telling him that there were things in there that could hurt him if he wasn’t careful. Cillian heeded the warning, but grew more and more curious the longer it remained unexplored. It was for that reason he found himself opening the door, the creeks of the old hinges causing him to turn around to make sure he wasn’t heard. Confident that his actions still remained a secret, he crept into the dark shack, eyes wide as he took in the different trinkets strewn about.

It was nothing of import, mostly old tarps and broken traps his father had not seen fit to fix yet. An old desk sat against the far wall, and as Cillian crept farther and farther into the room, he noticed how more and more things lay stacked atop one another, as if trying to convince him to turn back. There was something that called out to him though, and the need to find what it was became stronger with each passing second. The pull pulsed around him, almost like a heartbeat as he inched closer and closer to the far side of the shack. It wasn’t until he came upon an old chest that the energy suddenly calmed, almost like it disappeared and Cillian reached out his little hands to try and pry the lid open. It did not budge, locked so that prying eyes would not find what was not theirs to seek.

Surely there must be a key? His eyes scanned the area around him, frowning when one couldn’t be found. His gaze landed upon the desk, and he stumbled over the items strewn about as he made a beeline for the lone piece of furniture. His hand reached up to drag the top drawer open, little legs stretching as far as they could to allow him to look inside. There were several keys that lay on the bottom of the drawer, but only one was carved ornately enough to match the old chest. Grinning at his prize, he seized it in his little fist, scrambling back over to the chest.

He let out a giggle as the key slipped easily into the lock, twisting it until a click could be heard. Looking behind him to make sure he was still alone, he lifted the lid of the trunk slowly. He vibrated with excitement at the thought of the treasures he might find, only to be met with the sight of trinkets tossed haphazardly inside. He reached a hand in to rummage through the piles of junk, frowning at the piles of nothing. He was about to close the lid once more when his fingers brushed against something soft, and his breath caught in his throat. He gave it a tug, but the object did not move. Huffing, he wrapped both hands around the object, grunting as he tugged it free from the confines of the trunk. He fell back with the force, landing against an old crate with a thud and a shout. He scowled at the crate, rubbing his backside before turning his attention to the prize at hand.

It was a seal pelt, the silver reminding him of the moonlight that danced through his window at night, the same beams that glittered atop the water of the sea. His hands ran over it, delighting in how soft it felt against his skin, and with a grin, he wrapped it up in his arms and ran out of the shack into the late afternoon sun.

His mother was hanging laundry out to dry, the sheets billowing in the wind as she pushed hair out of her face. Her stomach was swelling once more, just enough to be noticeable through her dress.

“Ma!” He cried out, running to her quick as his little feet could carry him. “Look what I found!”

She smiled down at him, gaze adoring before landing on the item in his hands. Her smile faded, the faraway look from that terrible night when his father had lost his temper returning to her face as she beheld the pelt in his hands.

Bradley and his sons walked up the path, smiling amongst each other as they hurried home, eager to be reunited with their mother and brother. Bradley’s eyes darted up the path, itching for a glimpse of his wife when his eyes landed on the scene unfurling before them. Her hands reached out to the pelt his youngest son held up to her, and his stomach dropped as he blanched.

“No!” He shouted, breaking out into a sprint up the path, but it was too late. Her fingers wrapped around the pelt, and something awakened inside of her, something long thought dead. A grin stretched across her face as she snatched the skin into her arms, letting out a delighted cry as she ran down the path, narrowly avoiding her husband’s arms and past her children. Bradley stopped short, turning on his heels to chase after her, legs pushing as hard as they could in a desperate attempt to catch her, hand reaching out to grab her. He was so close, fingers brushing the ends of her hair, but the call of her nature was stronger than any love he carried for her. She threw the pelt around her shoulders, a laugh leaving her as her feet touched the water, and with a leap into the air, the woman was once more a seal, landing in the water with a quiet plop. Bradley continued after her, feet pushing through the resistance of the sea as he clawed his way forward.

“Come back,” he cried, water up to his waist now. “Come back!”

It was no use, his wife was gone, stolen back by the sea, and tears streamed down his face as he scanned the surface for any sign of her. The water was oddly calm given how frantic he had become, and the despair inside him rose to a fever pitch, released in a guttural cry as he unleashed his anguish for the sea to hear.

“You promised!” He screamed, throat strained with the force of it. He let his face drop into his hands, clawing at the skin of his face as his eyes darted wildly all around like he was a man possessed. Sobs wracked through his body as the reality of what happened settled over him.

“Come back.”

Bradley was not the man he once was, and he would never be again. The house felt cold and empty with his wife gone, and he could not find it in him to do much of anything. Numbness filled his bones, the sorrow of losing that which he loved too much for his mind to bear. Most days were spent along the shore, desperate eyes searching for any sign of his wife before one of his children was able to coax him back to the house, usually well after the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

He didn’t eat much, sullen gaze turned down towards his plate, but never eating more than a mouthful or two of whatever was placed in front of him. His face grew gaunt as the weeks turned to months, dark circles growing under his eyes.

A house that was once filled with laughter now served as a tomb, the once happy memories enshrined within its four walls. The children no longer laughed, no longer played. The love of their mother was no longer there to keep them warm. Few words were uttered amongst each other, and no one was quite able to meet the eyes of another.

Utensils scraped against each other, not a word spoken as all eyes remained cast downward.

“I saw a seal today,” Rían whispered, jumping as the sound of metal dropped against a plate. Bradley’s eyes bored into his son, a haunted look on his face as he turned to him.

“What did you say?” He asked, leaning forward, tears gathering in his eyes. Rían stared at his father before casting a nervous glance to Ronan. Bradley pushed out of his chair, kneeling in front of his son as his hand gripped his shoulders painfully. Rían whimpered, trying to get out of his father’s grasp.

“Where did you see it?” Bradley rasped, voice croaking from under use. His nails dug into the boy’s skin, a pained cry spilling out of Rían’s lips. Ronan scrambled up out of his seat, hand wrapping around his father’s arms to try and pull him away from his brother.

“Tell me where you saw it!” Bradley shouted, shaking the boy roughly, eyes wild and unseeing.

“Da please!” Ronan hollered, pulling with all his might, and Bradley’s grip loosened, sending Rían flying back into his chair with a cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at his father, limbs trembling from fear. Bradley’s eyes focused, seeing his son for the first time in that moment.

“Rían,” he whispered, eyes darting around to look at the other two. Cillian sat on the opposite side of Rían, tears streaming down his own face as his bottom lip trembled in terror. Ronan stood behind him, face unreadable as stone as he watched his father.

“I’m,” Bradley breathed, stumbling to his feet as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t wait for a response, exiting the room in a hurry.

The next day had them returning to their new normal. Ronan took charge of the fishing, bringing home what he could, which was just enough to keep everyone fed. Rían had taken up the housework in the absence of their mother, Cillian helping where he could at his young age.

Bradley’s days were spent at the shore, watching and waiting for a love that would never return to him. His thoughts often turned to the happier memories, of days spent in her embrace, the feel of her lips against his, the way she smiled at him. He longed for it. Longed for the time when he didn’t feel so alone, so listless.

The children had changed in the months since their mother left as well.

Ronan had taken up the mantle of provider, taking what he could to the village to barter and trade, but few would do dealings with someone who was not wholly human, mistrustful eyes that had once been focused on his mother now turned to him with disdain.

Rían’s once bright laughter was now nothing but a memory, something thought about only in passing now as he worked his way through the chores that needed doing. He slowly forgot how it felt to smile.

Cillian, who had once been the most inquisitive of the bunch, now never strayed far from his brothers, never moving far from sight. He did only as he was told, and his brothers started to wonder if he ever used to talk at all.

Much like every other night, it was Ronan who bade his father to return to the house once the sun set, frost hanging in the air now that winter was upon them. Bradley allowed himself to be pulled back to their home, head hung low as he trudged up the path behind his son. He sat in his chair by the fire, hand stretched out to hold someone who was not there as he stared into the flames, eyes unseeing, and his children wondered if they would forever see the unseen.

One by one, the boys left for bed, Ronan being the last to bid his father a goodnight, a frown tugging on his lips before shaking his head and disappearing around the corner.

Bradley sat motionless as the minutes turned to hours, still as a statue as he continued to mourn.

A knock sounded at the door, and he shifted in his seat. Another knock had his head turning in that direction. Who would be calling at that time of night? Slowly, he rose from his chair, walking towards the front door. He grasped the handle, twisting it and pulling it open.

The night was dark, the moon, which normally cast light onto the path that led down to the beach, was hidden behind the clouds. Bradley stared into the night, unfeeling and unmoving. He moved to close the door when a song rang out, the voice so alarmingly familiar.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mairg san tìr seo, 's mairg san tìr 'G ithe dhaoine 'n riochd a bhìdh Nach fhaic sibh ceannard an t-sluaigh Goil air teine gu cruaidh cruinn

His eyes alighted in recognition, tearing out of the house and onto the path as fast as his feet could carry him. The voice grew no closer as he ran, breaths coming out ragged as he gulped for air. The waves crashed against the shoreline as loud as thunder but never drowning out the voice he had longed to hear.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mise nighean Aoidh mhic Eòghainn Gum b' eòlach mi mu na sgeirean Gur mairg a dhèanadh mo bhualadh Bean uasal mi o thìr eile

He stopped, spinning wildly in search of her, crying out in frustration when he saw no one. A scream ripped its way through him, desperate and haggard as he continued to spin, only stopping when he caught sight of something on the dock. The same dock he and his lover had spent countless afternoons on, basking in the glow of each other and sharing stolen touches. He walked slowly towards it, boots crunching in the sand and then knocking against the wood as he came to the end of the dock. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he kneeled down beside the small bundle.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

Thig an smeòrach, thig an druid Thig gach eun a dh'ionnsaigh nid Thig am bradan thar a' chuain Gu Là Luain cha ghluaisear mis'

His hands reached out, stopping when the bundle moved, a gurgle sounding. His heart skipped a beat, the cold seeping through him in the winter’s night. It was then that the clouds moved, allowing the moon to shed light down on where Bradley crouched.

It was often said that Cillian was the son that bore the largest resemblance to his mother, but gazing at the babe in front of him, Bradley knew that this was the child his wife carried before she left. His hands crossed the distance to pick her up, hands gentle as he cooed down at her. He was struck then by the discovery that she was wrapped in silvery grey fur, the same size as a seal pup.

The baby let out a tiny cry, and Bradley shushed her softly, rocking her gently. He and his wife had discussed different names before that fateful day, but only one stuck out to him as he gazed at the babe in his arms.

“Aisling,” he whispered reverently, holding her tighter to his chest as tears streamed down his face. Aisling let out another cry as Bradley moved to stand, never taking his eyes off of her.

“‘s alright now,” he cooed, turning back towards the house. “Your da is here now, a stóirín.”

His fingers wrapped around the fur with a frown. The small bundle in his arms would never leave him, not like her mother had. He would see to it this time.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

A/N: I kid y'all not, this fic has been on my mind for MONTHS ever since someone suggested it. Selkies have always been one of my favorite stories from Celtic legends, and I really hope I did this justice because it was such a pleasure to write and pour my heart and soul into. I highly recommend you check out the stories if you have time because a lot of the inspiration for this fic came from them!

Another quick note as I wrap up here, I wanted to touch on the meaning of the names I chose. Ronan actually translates to "seal" or "oath, promise." Rían (pronounced Ree-on) means "king" or "ocean" depending on the etymology. Cillian (pronounced kill-ian) means "war, strife." Finally, Aisling (pronounced Ash-ling) means "dream, vision."

The first song I actually looked up the English translation, but it's a song sung by a woman who was stolen by the fae, calling out for her sister to come and help her. I thought it would be interesting to see it used in the reverse. The second song is actually one said to be sung by the selkies themselves, very fitting for this fic, I think.

Thank you all so much for reading this one! As always, reblogs and comments are appreciated. You can also find me on AO3 under arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

[verthandi-0201]

Works

Pomegranate (Thomas Shelby x goddaughter)

Mumbling

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7