hey girl!!! I love your work so much!! You’re writing is so good it’s actually like im reading a novel! But I wanted to ask if you are going to continue the “I wanna be yours series” since I saw your note saying you were going to have at least 10 chapters? But I just started reading them four years later and if u made a note saying u werent going to continue it I apologise 😭😭
Hi anon, that’s so nice! Thank you!!
This felt like some sort of signal because I was just thinking about this story and how I’ve left it incomplete for so long while still having in mind the plot I wanted to follow. So yes, I’ll finish it no matter what. I should be posting soon 💖
summary: you were right, he was wrong. he can't admit it.
word count: ~3.2k
tags: fluff? angst? scott's a jerk. minors dni, suggestive content, fingers in mouths, making out, hands on throats but no choking, scott and reader are hateful to each other
notes: first scott fic... i need to haunt his mind... thank you @lunalockley so so so so much for reading it first! i appreciate your thoughts on it endlessly <3
From the bathroom you hear a quiet, hateful mutter as the hotel door clicks shut and Scott slides the lock chain into place for the night. Part of the routine, you'd both 'head to bed' ten, maybe fifteen minutes apart?
No one had figured out the pattern yet. Or didn't care enough to say something even if they had. Or were too afraid of Scott's sour temper to say anything.
You didn't expect him to actually come tonight. Not after… well, after you were right and he was wrong. In front of everyone. Exponentially.
"Wasn't a waste." He took his hat off and threw in on a chair. He'd keep up with these petty whispers all night if you let him. "You know, we got details. I wasn't wrong, we got details."
You roll your eyes at that. He couldn't just let you be right. "Could've gotten a hell of a lot more if we followed my path."
Scott didn't care for the words that were pouring out with steam from the open door of the bathroom. Neither of you could stop yourselves it seemed.
"You don't know that." He replies with spite seeping.
He really needed to convince himself, huh?
"The storm went directly to my path!" You laugh from the shower, water sputtering from your lips.
"Project's not ready for that kinda heat anyway." You couldn't see him, but you knew he was waving his hand at you and turning away. Always so dramatic.
"Oh yeah?" You shut the water off, yanking the curtain open. "We've got it, we've got it! Just stay on route, I mapped it out! Job's about to be done!"
You were mocking him? Heat boiled through him. His nose was probably scrunching the way it always does when he's pissed at you. You smile to yourself.
"Well, it ended up being bigger than any of us could've known. It would've torn the equipment to shreds." He wouldn't budge. He never does. And he's got too big of an ego to even force him to.
Dried off, you pull on your underwear, pajama shorts, and a tank top. Your eyes roll again seeing the shirt of his that he had left the night before. You wouldn't be wearing that right now.
Your hand swipes fog from the mirror, "Why can't you just admit you were wrong, Scott? Put us both out of our misery."
The door is shoved fully open with that, Scott looking at you with that exact scrunch you had predicted. Like he's disgusted by the idea that he could be wrong.
"But I wasn't wrong, the storm touched my path." He's gripping the door, standing just outside the bathroom still.
"By what?" Your hand is on your hip, the condensation that had collected on your hand seeping through the fabric of your tank top now. "A couple yards? For one minute? The tornado ran my path, even died off on it."
"You're such an asshole." He scoffs and walks away.
He knows you won. You know he knows. He can't stand that you do.
"Wow, you getting soft on me?" You tease, facing the sink again and continuing your routine. "Would've used to scream out a string of insults. Asshole? That's the best you've got?"
"I'm not in the mood for your shit." Yet he's unbuttoning his shirt, untucking his undershirt.
"You came here knowing that you'd have to deal with my shit." You chuckle, applying chapstick and rubbing your lips together.
"I came here to get today out of my system." He retorts, undoing his belt.
Standing in the doorframe, you look out at him as he sits on the edge of the bed. So he's staying the night? Hmm.
"We can talk all night long to get it out, but I'm not doing a thing else if you don't admit you were wrong." You cross your arms over your chest.
Scott laughs at that. The nerve of this man.
"I wasn't wrong." He shrugs.
You just raise a brow at him. He wouldn't go down easily. He never does.
"I'm not saying it." He sounds so sure, tugging off his shoes and tossing them towards the entrance.
"Then you're not getting it." You shove off the frame, walking right by him to the side of the bed.
Scott turns, pulling one leg up onto the bed and watching you. You peel the duvet back, adjust the pillows. Jesus, are you seriously just going to go to bed?
"You can't be serious?" His eyes are on your shorts. He hasn't seen those ones before. Cute.
"Long day, Scott." You slide into the bed, pulling the covers over yourself.
It's a shame, too. He looks particularly hot when he's mad at you. The way his eyes darken, how his jaw clenches like he's got zero control when it comes to you. And, god, how he looks even in a stupid plain, white tee shirt.
"You're being so petty." He stays watching you.
Right. He's a dick. Hot or not.
"Look, we could cut right to it if you'd just admit that you're wrong." You laugh bitterly, adjusting the pillows beneath you to really settle in. "But you are physically incapable of admitting that I'm right, so it seems that we're at a standstill."
"I can too!" He stands.
You pause, folding your hands on top of the duvet. Fine. He wanted to play that? You'd bite.
Staring at him, it's clear he's becoming uncomfortable. He shifts his weight, looking over your face in a attempt to size you up the same way you're doing to him. "What?"
"I'm waiting," you reply. "For that 'you were right, I was wrong'."
He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. His muscles move in a way that you really wished wouldn't drive you crazy. "I said I could, not that I was going to."
You hum and nod. "Right. Because you can't."
With that you turn over, switching the lamp on your nightstand off and leaving you both in darkness. You can practically hear the steam shooting out his ears, though. You find yourself smiling again.
Scott Miller is too self centered. And, to be fair, he was rarely wrong. He's well researched, clean cut. And, typically being a man where less is more, it saved him from saying something that could be proven wrong. He just couldn't shut his damn mouth around you.
Which… made the silence in the room feel so eerie. Had he left without you noticing?
"Scott?" You quietly call, head turning to visually check too.
You find his frame in the darkness, still standing at the end of the bed. He's slumped over, just barely. You saw the outline of his fallen shoulders, and his head hanging in his own form of defeat.
"Yeah." His voice is the quietest you've ever heard it.
Had you hurt his feelings? That'd be new.
You sigh, sitting up in the bed and turning the light back on. He looks even more pathetic with the light on. It made your heart skip. Was that wrong?
"Jesus, Scott. Sit down." You adjust, sitting on your knees.
He looks over his shoulder at you, and suddenly you don't feel so bad for him. He's still got that signature look on his face. Darkened eyes, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Sit down, hateful." You crawl to the end, hands wrapping around his bicep.
He's warm, always. And he shivers under your touch. Your hands are always cold.
He won't do as you say, he never does. But he complies in his own way. His body turns to face you, arms still crossed in a stance that is trying to shut you out. But his eyes on yours welcomes you in.
"You're such a baby." Your hands move with him, holding onto his forearm now.
Your voice is dipped in some drug that he needed to be cleansed of. He surely couldn't fall for it every time. But he always does and never admits it.
"And you're…" He tries to think of some equal.
His fingers brush your cheek, clearing his view. He always forgets himself when you're below him like this. Looking up at him through your lashes, a fire burning in your eyes that was just waiting to burn him.
"An asshole?" You call back his lame insult with a grin.
He's cupping your cheek, thumbing over your bottom lip. His chest vibrates with a hum. "Yeah."
He's just so pretty.
"You kinda like it." You press a kiss to the pad of his thumb.
His tongue runs over his bottom lip. "Not right now."
His fingers press into your cheeks, dipping slightly to hold onto you. You shift on your knees. His eyes follow your movement, and his hold flows with you.
"Let's just do what we're good at." He leans in, nose brushing yours. "Shutting up, at letting it out."
The heat of his words roll from his lips, brushing over your skin to coax your desires to the surface. It's enough for this moment. Enough to let go, to let it slide that you had a certain victory against him today. You'd already won, so why not claim the prize?
"You're playing dirty," you whisper. Your eyes finally peel back to his. What a mistake.
"I've never been fair with you." His eyes are illuminated with something callous.
You try to follow. "It's a new level."
"Stop talking." His thumb pushes, breaching your speech and pressing your tongue down.
You hum in the way that you know will plague him. Vibrations through your lungs, to his connecting hand. His head lifts, just slightly. The power feels as if it's in his hand. It's perfect. You'd entrap him with ease.
Your lips close around his thumb, a light pressure pulling. Holding his wrist, you push yourself up on your knees. His hand is slowly pulling away, a soft pop as you separate him from you. Another kiss to the pad of his thumb.
The game was on, and he was already losing. It's all yours for the taking. As much fun as you've had bending to his every whim, it feels good to have the upper hand on him. It's this constant back and forth with him, the constant fight for power.
His lips part as he watches you. His fingers slide down your throat, as gentle grasp as they wrap around to hold you. "Much better."
Your hands let go, drifting to his belt. Trying to finish his job of removing it, you're stopped. The tips of his fingers delicately press into your skin. You softly inhale, looking up at him again.
"Huh uh," he shakes his head.
Maybe you weren't in the lead after all. Scott is a desperately needy man, it's true. But worse than that, he's stubborn.
"You said I'm not getting it," his head tilts and he mimics the pout he loves to see on your lips. "Fine by me."
The pout disappears from his face, and a pitiless smile takes its place. You're in no mood for him. The way he thinks he's so slick in distracting you. The fact that he thinks you'll fall for it. And, yes, the burning in your stomach is begging you to throw out the petty fight and let him have it how he wants. But, holy shit, he's so infuriating.
"And here I thought you could be a big boy." You tease, patting his hip and slipping out of his grip.
You're crawling back to your spot, ready to leave him hanging. You're decided. He wasn't going to give you anything that you couldn't give yourself with your right hand anyway. Why bother?
But the bed sinks down behind you, and hands tug your waist to him. Your hand shoots to his arm for stability. And, god damn it, you're smiling. You quickly bite your lip to hide it.
"What the fuck are you doing?" You seethe through your best angry tone.
Scott's nose brushes your neck, teeth nipping at your soft skin. He slowly inhales, breathing in the smell of your body wash. It always gets him.
A low hum flows with his response, "Can't have it, so I'm gonna give it."
His hand is sinking down, fingers already finding themselves halfway beneath your shorts. Your back adjusts against his chest. His free arm wraps over you, holding onto your opposite shoulder. You're going nowhere, even if you wanted.
"You're not the giving type." You reply, breath hitching. "What's the catch?"
"Why does there have to be a catch?" The way his chest vibrates against your back shouldn't feel so good. "If you look at our history, I've been nothing but generous with you."
If that's what a person wanted to call it.
"Touching you," his fingers are skimming along the edge of your underwear. "Congratulating you."
You try to squirm, hips lifting to make him get to where you wanted. Within a second he's turning tables. His hand leaves your waistband, holding onto your hip as he spins you around. Your back is pressed to the mattress, Scott just above you with a hungry gaze.
"Thanking you, really." He goes on, eyes scanning your chest shamelessly. "For all the things you do only for me."
Your cheeks flush, and the burning spreads to your throat. "I don't do anything for you."
The way he laughs at that doesn't bring any comfort.
"Please," his eyes grace yours with a glance. "Lie all you want. I might not always perfectly read the signs of a storm, but I know you."
A hand comes up, gently pushing the strap of your tank top off your shoulder. A kiss takes its place. He repeats on the other side. It's not a side that you always see, but you have seen it.
His lips leave a sickening kiss in the center of your chest. Hands are beneath your tank top now, trailing up your sides. A shiver shoots through you, watching him with caution. This speed, or lack of, was something you only saw when he was feeling a certain type of way. When he'd take his time fucking you like you're the love of his life, then be gone within the hour and pretend he hardly knew you the next day.
Fine by you, the guy's an ass. …Right?
"Scott…" you hesitate. You can't stop him, you don't want to either.
"Just let me have this." He kisses your stomach, "You say I can't have it? That's fine. I'll get it eventually anyway."His fingers are pulling your shorts down several inches.
It hits you. This isn't for you. Well, not entirely. Scott may know you, but you know him just as well.
He knows how to piss you off, how to make you squirm, how to go dumb with just a few touches. He knows how to redirect your anger into something active for the both of you. How to get what he fucking wants from you.
"No fucking way!" Your smile is lost, and you're forcing your mind away from the haze it was happily disappearing within just seconds ago.
Your fingers run through his hair, tugging him up to look at you. In part, it's to stop him from doing much else with his mouth. From making you melt entirely beneath him.
The asshole is smiling at you when he looks up. "What?"
"You're such a dick." You scoff, letting go and shoving his head to the side.
"Because I was going to go down on you?" He plays dumb, but he doesn't do it well.
You hold yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him with a scowl. "Because you were going to use going down on me to make me forget that I was right, and you were wrong. Glaringly, blatantly, obviously wrong!"
When you roll out from under him, he lets out a deep sigh of defeat. His head hangs where your body had been, and his fingers run through his hair. You're impossible. He wants more.
"I admitted it, didn't I?" He looks at you with raised brows.
You're still close to him, though. "You didn't."
"I said 'I might not always perfectly read the signs of a storm'!" He gestures in offense.
"You suck at reading storms, actually." You tug your straps back onto your shoulders. "And that isn't admitting anything."
"Okay, well, no one asked your opinion on how well I read storms." He flops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
"You suck at admitting when you're wrong, too." You pull your shorts back up.
"Again, didn't ask." But his hand lands on your thigh.
Why was conversation with him so easy yet so impossible? He absolutely refused to be observed by you, but begged to be beneath your lens. Insisted, actually. Got horribly jealous that time someone else was under your lens, even for just a few hours. What the hell is this?
"You're getting it anyway, Scott." Your hand goes to his stomach, right where his shirt was raising up. "Just admit it."
His chest sinks with a sigh, looking up at you with a look you haven't seen. Like he was melting. Like he was actually going to do whatever you said. It'd be a first. But there's a first time for everything.
"You look good." He mutters, squeezing your thigh.
You shake your head. It's easy to lean into, though. Body is moving before you know it, you're straddling his waist and he's holding you. Your hands are pushing his shirt up, view opening up beneath you. But a view isn't the goal.
"There's no end with you, is there?" You whisper.
"You don't want an end, anyway." He shrugs.
He's right.
"Why can't you just say it?" You're pulling his belt off, tossing it aside.
His hips lifted you with ease for the removal. "What would it change if I did?"
Not a thing.
"Maybe I'd gain some respect for you." You joke, working to unzip his pants.
"Don't want it." He slides your straps off again, fingers lingering at your collarbone.
He already had it.
"It'd do you good." You lean down, gently kissing his lips.
"Might amount to nothing." He returns it.
Probably would.
His head lifts, enticing you for another kiss. You give just one more before your hand streams up his neck. You're holding his jaw, looking at him with half lidded eyes. It's new. He's into it.
You dip in for another kiss, tongues meeting with an eager rush that is far more familiar than the tenderness of tonight. Your heads are bobbing, trying to keep up with one another for every kiss. Scott's teeth tug at your bottom lip as you pull back for a quick breath.
He teases, "Thought I couldn't have it?"
"Stop talking," your breath is sloppy, air cooling your swelling lips with an inhale. You get it now. What he gets out of this. You'd be a dick too, if you got to do this.
thinking about how he’d roll his eyes when he realized you were messing with him, cross his arms, and physically, dramatically turn his entire body away
but also thinking about that little smile that would crack on his lips as you fawned over him with apologies, no matter how hard he insisted he’s upset with you
I’ve been working on this planner for a few months now, and even though I didn’t meet any of my own deadlines (and I’m definitely late to the whole “new year, new me” moment) I’m really happy I actually finished a project (hopefully the first of many) and learned a completely new program along the way.
So if you’re thinking about getting a planner to help structure the months ahead, feel free to check this one out 🤍
summary: clark just wants to get lost in you (request, and lazy thoughts)
word count: ~2k (fluff)
warning: suggestive content, making out, i never proof read
notes: yes, that is the same picture from my moodboard for afterglow. but... i made this moodboard first, okay? hope you enjoy! let me know your thoughts <3
For you, it is like a wildfire. Flames lapping at your skin. Daring to burn you once they get too close, yet you step into the fire anyway. Spreading, taking over every inch of your body. The only fire Clark won't put out.
He hasn't gotten to see you for nearly a week now. Duty calls as Superman, and Perry calls to remind him of his job too. He was so lost in life the last several days. Like there was hardly room to breathe.
It was driving him insane. Guilt of his absence, but just plain desire too. He's missed you.
Clark is very… physical? He needed to feel you again.
The warmth that radiates from your skin as his hands travel so lightly across. The steady pattern of your beating heart, broken up by whatever move he pulls just to hear it skip. The sound of a deep, grounding breath filling your lungs, or the feeling of your nails pressing digging in to his not-so-sensitive skin.
So there he stood, pulling off his glasses and putting them in his pocket. The door opened, and there were quiet apologies with a small smile. One for being gone, and one for knocking on your door at 7am on a Saturday.
His breath paused as he heard you coming to the door. Quietly grumbling to yourself, probably tugging your robe tight against your body. You must've checked the door viewer to see it was him. Though he swore to himself he would stop, he heard your heart skip a beat and the quiet whisper of his name. But, for Pete's sake, he's gotta get better at respecting your privacy.
Still, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of you in his mind. Sleep probably prevalent on you, still in your pajamas and doing your best to straighten up for him. You didn't need to change a thing, but you wouldn't let him tell you otherwise.
The door opened, and his eyes were quick to follow the widening gap. He needed to see you as soon as possible. To confirm the vision he had going. To just forget it all and lose himself with you. He'd already started to.
"You're wearing my sweatshirt," it's the first thing he said, with a smile of pure adoration.
Your smile mirrors his. "I told you I was gonna sleep in it."
"I told you I left it just for that." He steps inside.
You're moving with him, it's so easy. No push back, no battle. Just his eyes scanning you for every sight he was missing, and your eyes scanning him for any sign of damage. Cute. How you fussed over him when everyone else swore that he is invincible.
"I got your favorite," he holds up a drink carrier that holds two cups. "From that place a few blocks down."
"Hmm, knew you'd need an apology gift?" You almost smile. It's all pretend.
This isn't a battle. This is fluidity.
"You've been gone too long." You pretend to scold him, but you're taking him in from every possible angle.
"The world needed Superman." He plays into the game.
"Yeah, well, I needed Clark Kent." You always hit him with that line. He always falls for it.
The drink carrier is pushed onto the edge of the bench by your door, and his coat is shrugged off his shoulders. You let go of the grip on your robe, hands on your hips to play on.
He pulls his glasses from his pocket, sliding them onto his face. "You've got him."
Here's where you crack, the game ending as quickly as it started. He's so corny. It's so perfect.
"'kay, here's where you apologize and I reluctantly take you in." You're waiting with a faux annoyance.
He chuckles, shaking his head and his eyes shimmering down at you. It's so easy to pick right back up with you. He needed this. In all the noise, all the running around for everyone else in the world. He needed you back.
"I'm sorry." He states it simply. One hand finds your waist, the other cups your cheek.
Your hands hold onto his torso, trying to confirm with 100% surety that he is still breathing. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."
How had he gone so long without you giving him grief? The kind that mentally stimulates him. That drives him mad, and has him doing any old thing you so much as murmur.
Clark was quick to discover that you missed giving it, too. Turns out, you missed the consciousness of your relationship just as much as he did. The physicality too.
Your hands rested on his shoulders the second he dipped down to kiss you, trying to keep him right where he was. Not that he had any plans of leaving. You could do whatever you wanted anyway.
The situation is quick to be swept away. He shuts the door with his foot, and your body is bumping into every possible obstacle as you back in with him melting against you. He breathes in, the perfume that he swears always lingers fills his lungs in a way he hopes lasts.
It started with a 'sorry for being gone for so long' kiss to the lips, followed by a 'oh, how I've missed you' kiss to the corner of your admiring smile. And, of course, he had to follow that with a 'let's make up for lost time' kiss to your jaw. By this point he was making it to your collar bone.
Somewhere along the way, Clark decides it's easier to just lift and carry you. Where was he even going? Only his lips know the path.
And you're leaning into it. Or… your head is falling back into his hand, but your chest rises to make his job easier. He knows it's reactionary, he hears the way your heart is skipping as his fingers curl to lightly tug at your hair. He anticipates the hot breath that will roll from your lips and warm his skin just like the fires that make the sun glow.
His hand slides down the back of your neck, the other holding your thigh as he leans you down onto the couch. Apparently this is the destination. Your arms had been tossed over his shoulders, and your hands now make their way down his chest.
He's looking over you with a ragged breath. Your eyes are closed, trusting him entirely. Your breath is recovering too, chest rising and falling slowly before a deep inhale. You'd be asking him to keep going if he waited just a few seconds longer.
The second his eyes catch his sweatshirt rising up your torso, the tips of his fingers are seeking to feel the skin peeking out. Anything to have more of you. He considers waiting longer, just to hear you say his name. To have another part of you.
"Clark…" your chest his sinking again. Your voice is feather light, eyebrows wrinkling with disapproval of his pausing.
The couch dips, his knee sinking into it to the left of you. He's journeying down, hand pushing the sweatshirt out of his way.
"Right here." His nose brushes the bare skin of your stomach.
You feel the heat of his breath, one hand lifting above you to hold onto the pillow supporting your head. He smiles with self satisfaction. You're waiting so patiently for him. Yet he knows you need him to just go for it.
You're arching up, trying to get him to make contact. His hand carefully pushes you back down. He teases, "I thought you were mad at me?"
"Oh, come on, that game's over." You huff, finally looking at him again.
He smiles up at you, loving to catch a glimpse of the desperation of knowing his next move "Not yet."
His finger tips find their way beneath the band of your pajama pants, tugging them down ever so slightly. A kiss lands several inches below your belly button. It's all it takes. Your eyes are closed again, accepting whatever he is willing to give.
For him, it's like wading water. Lapping over his heart. Promising to calm him in the storm of his life, calling him to swim further out. Permeating, taking over every inch of his soul. The only water you'd so willingly dive into.
His fingers splay across your ribs, lips finding yours again for repeated exchange. You're quick to keep up. He loves that it's like you know his every move. He trusts you.
Fair's fair, you needed to feel him too. Your fingers work to undo the top few buttons of his shirt. It's a fumbling guess, but you get there.
Your hands, knowing him so well, dive beneath the fabric of his shirt and glide over his chest. It almost makes you freeze. Clark didn't remember that he should be cringing. How could he? In a moment like this?
"Clark?" Your voice is quiet.
His eyes open just wide enough to decide where the next kiss will land. "Hmm?"
"Your suit?" Your hands stop their movement. He wished they wouldn't have. He needed it to go on.
He looks down at his chest, wanting to get past whatever this was.
"Oh," he whispers, pausing hesitantly. "Yeah, that. It's… there's been a lot going on, and I've been rushing around…"
Clark sighs, eyes closed and lips pressed flat together. He'd really forgotten all about the suit. How? He couldn't really justify it. But, he'd try.
He's been running on hardly any sleep these last days, and wanted nothing more than to just see you. When he realized he had the chance, he jumped on it. Threw on a shirt, tugged on some pants, and tossed his coat over top it all before rushing out the door to go to you.
It was that much simpler to forget about, too, when he was breathing you in, wading in your shore and wanting you to pull him under. He loves being Superman, but he also loves being Clark.
"I'm here, though. I'm not looking for any trouble, or trying to skip out. It's just us." He has complete honesty in his response. Just a minute ago his brain wasn't able to think of anything but this moment. But you.
And he's right back into that. Watching the way your lips curl into a smile as he explained. His heart skips as you reach up.
"Okay." It's all you have to say.
You delicately slide the glasses from his face, putting them on yourself and slipping your fingers into the collar of the suit. He huffs a silent laugh, feeling the honesty in your acceptance of his reason. He adores you.
"Okay." He repeats, giving a quick, testing kiss.
You pull him in for another kiss, longer this time. "Okay." A new game.
He'll let you win.
He gives you one last kiss on the lips before maintaining his previous position. He's sinking back down, causing your hands to slip from his collar, to his neck, to his hair. His messy, wavy, devilish hair.
Just like that, the flames are lapping again. He kisses your bare ribs, then your stomach, then tugs your pajamas further down. You bite your lip and close your eyes, equally as excited to jump right back in.
"I love you," Clark whispers before planting another kiss right along your waistband.
Your fingers tug as his hair. He's doing everything right, and knows it by the way you're enraptured. This is what he's needed. You, lost in him. Himself, lost in you.
"Hear me?" He looks up.
He knows it's making you impatient. That you want to get right to it all. But he's been waiting all week to take in each and every detail of you. He planned on doing just that.
He pulls up on your pants, a physical attempt to get a response.
"I know," your nails lightly scratch his scalp. "I love you. I've missed you… so can we just…?"
He grins, another kiss to your bare skin. "I'll get you there, honey. Just gotta have some more patience."
It’s all a blur. A sleepless, hazy, heavy, blur. So much was lost to untamed and unexplored emotion. Pent up aggravation, and a defense that was let loose too easily and without reason.
“I should be better at balancing this.” “I should be better at supporting you.”
“I need to do something for the world.” “I need to do something for you.”
Your relationship with Clark was all consuming, and you couldn’t take it anymore.
In the beginning, it was the light of the sun hugging you as it set over the horizon. Warming every corner and crevasse of your life, melting ice frozen grounds that you’d been walking on for years. It was deep, and true, and necessary.
And now, it feels akin to a smothering darkness that paws at your every insecurity. A shadow stretching across your once again barren land. A screaming, pleading, merciless cry for the need to be something just as great as Clark is.
How do you face that? How can you ever possibly admit to someone— admit to Clark Kent, the sweetest person you have ever known—that your relationship felt like a competitive drive to reach some impossible, godly standard.
A standard he never set. A standard he could hardly even fathom, but you knew he’d try his best to understand where you were coming from. That is, if you ever did confess.
But a confession wouldn’t come. Instead, it was constant silence.
You took on more hours at work, at times staying until you were the last employee in the building. Spending hours and hours avoiding Clark and attempting to come up with some piece of information that just might lead to a breakthrough. To something that might make yourself worthy of having him.
You needed evidence. Proof of your own good. You would never be a hero like Superman, but you could at least be a hero like Clark Kent. You were trying to convince yourself of at least this.
Conviction had led you to avoidance. You couldn't face him fully again until you had something to show for your absence. And at the start, Clark let you get away with it. He hated himself for that now, but you were so convincing.
It was easy to believe that you were simply getting lost in your passion for your work, which is a part of the truth. Regardless of your passion, too, it was simply a demanding job. He could spend all day making excuses for you, and he had.
He isn't one to pry, or to jump to any sort of conclusion. He loves, and trusts. Clark doesn’t need you to exist solely in his world. He didn't want that, either. But there is no stopping the doubt that was now crawling beneath his skin, beginning to wrap around his heart and slow its' rhythm.
Excuse after excuse could be made, until the end of time. But it wouldn't stop your absence, or bring you home to him. In fact, your absence increased.
Days of avoidance went to weeks, and weeks went to months. You’d talk for maybe an hour each night, with cold, minimal contact. Clark recognizes the frost forming beneath your feet again, and it seemed he couldn't melt it this time. You weren't allowing it.
"Just another late night on the story," you murmur, removing your jewelry at your dresser.
There would always be a hope that he would let it go, and a wish that he would push for more.
Clark knows you. He knows every shadow within your mind that you’ve hidden away in before, just as well as he knows every beam of light that you couldn’t quite snuff out. He knows what will bring tears that nearly drown you, and what will make the light flicker back on when you swore it was out forever. Knowing you made this harder.
"Any new movement in it?" He'd feed into your lie, if it meant he got to talk to you.
"No, it's a tough one." You felt nauseous. How had minimal conversation become so easy with him? You used to have absolutely zero control to do anything but share every detail of your life with him.
"You'll get it. You've got such a mind." His lips held a small, admiring smile.
He meant it. You're one of the brightest people he knows. The way your brain kept running, connecting, solving. He always would wish to have a piece of that.
He also knew that it was exactly that— that need to stay going, to stay focused on one thing or another—that was making you run from him. Maybe knowing you so well didn't help either. You tried so hard not to be known. Clark couldn’t help but know you. Was it making him lose you?
Your hum showed a quick bit of gratitude before you slipped away into the bathroom to continue your nightly routine. Clark's heart was screaming at him to follow you, or reach out, or ask you to just sit with him for a moment. His lips didn't move.
He felt small. Smaller than he'd ever felt before.
"I was thinking we could get take-out?" He just wanted you to be with him.
Clark didn't mean to, but he'd caught the sound of your quiet exhale. He could see the slump of your shoulders through the closed door, and your hands searching for the sink to lean on. He wasn't even facing the bathroom.
"Oh, I grabbed something quick on the way home. I figured you would've eaten already." You regurgitate such a boring lie.
"I would've eaten again even if I had." He knew it probably sounded desperate, but that was exactly how he felt anymore. "But," he sighs, rubbing his eyes. "You've eaten, I'll just have something easy here. We can watch those episodes we missed, the next one comes out in just a few days so might as well catch up."
"I'm just really tired, Clark. We'll both be off in a few days, can't we do it then?" You turned the shower on, needing an out.
When he heard the water, he knew the next step in your routine. You'd need to come get your pajamas, so he scooped them up off the beds, waiting patiently. It felt like trapping you.
Yet you came out, eyes immediately locking on the bed. He saw the way your face drained when your quick escape plan was ruined. Even if it was just to tell him to fuck off and give you your pajamas, you'd have to talk to him now.
"Thanks," you tried to get out of it with a quick kiss to his cheek. At least you weren't mad at him.
He didn't let go. "What're we doing?"
His question couldn't have caught you off guard. He should've asked it sooner, really. Or he had every right to.
"I'd like to shower, but you seem pretty attached to my stuff." You gently pull at it again, eyes on his hands sinking into the fabric.
"Because you'll disappear as soon as I let go." His grip on it wasn't even strong. Maybe you wanted to talk too?
You shake your head, "I won't disappear, I'll be right in the shower."
"You know what I mean." He hated the way he was losing every single thought he wanted to vocalize.
He had weeks to come up with some huge speech to beg you to give him a moment of your time. And he had certainly materialized a hefty list of possible problems. But, now? Here, standing on your battleground just inches away from each other? He felt his feet slipping for the first time.
"I know that you've been busy, and I know how important this story is to you…" He's still patiently waiting for your eyes to find his.
"Don't do this, Clark." Your voice whispered, tugging on the clothes with one final attempt at being gentle.
"And I know you really have been at work." His grip tightened, but he did let you pull him closer. "You wouldn't lie about it, but also several people at The Planet have started voicing their own concerns to me."
"We really don't have to do this." You spoke a little louder. Why couldn't he let you just stay in your shadow?
"I do, though!" He huffed a dejected laugh. "We don't talk anymore, you won't even look at me. You spend every chance you get working on that story, and even make time for it after hours that you never would've sacrificed before."
"The longer that I take to figure it out, the more lives that get ruined by LexCorp." That was a stronger response than you've managed up lately.
Clark gives a deep, ironic laugh at that. "Oh, fuck LexCorp."
His hands let go, going to rest on his hips as he turns away. He finds his heart hurting, and his ego feeling angry. Angry that, of everything, Lex Luthor was taking you from him. But this was so much more than that.
"No, sorry," he sighs, running a hand over his face. "This story is important, I know that. But let's just be real, it's not just the story."
You're shaking your head, and Clark can't help but notice you still won't look at him. What did he have to do to get your interest? To peel your passion back to him?
"What? You're saying it really is just work?" He crosses his arms.
You press your lips together and think of how to reply when you've been caught.
"Lex is sneaky," you try to reason. The less you said, the less that could be used against you.
Clark was learning how to navigate in your darkness now, though.
"Don't give me that crap." He waved a hand, turning away to start up his own nightly routine.
A snippy response from him isn't new. It also isn't new from you.
"It's not crap. You know better than anyone what Lex is capable of getting away with, Superman."
"But it's not about Lex, or LexCorp, or The Planet, or—" his hands are waving around, trying to be sure he grabs every excuse you've listed the last few weeks. "Or that Perry is pressuring you, or that, I don't know, the sky is falling, or whatever it is you throw my way. I see you in it, I see the way you're avoiding me and… and, I miss you."
It's now that Clark can hear the sounds of the city again. Impatient drivers honking their cars, pigeons cooing to be fed, chattering friends on their way for a night out. Couldn't the two of you be a part of that noise again? The quiet, but living noise?
All he gets is silence. Silence, and burning eyes followed by wet cheeks.
"Talk to me, please…" his voice cracks. He can't help himself, he steps forward.
You can't help yourself either, so you stay. You let him be close to you. After all, it wasn't that you didn't want that. But Clark still felt surprised when you stayed. Or maybe relieved? Both.
Maybe you couldn't find the words? You really have been busy, maybe your brain is overrun? Maybe he could help you piece it together.
"Do you want a break?" He asks, lamely rubbing his cheek dry with his sleeve. "From us. Are you wanting a pause?"
"What?" Your eyes squeeze shut and you're pinching the bridge of your nose. "No."
He breathes in slowly. "Are you tired of me?"
Clark felt like a heel asking that. While you're lost in your isolated tundra he was asking about himself. What about me?
Even in selfishness, it hurt when you didn't immediately answer. He wasn't supposed to notice that either?
"You are." His chest fell.
"I didn't say that." You rubbed your face, the way you always do when your brain has too much going on. He couldn't figure out more than that.
"Well, you didn't not say it." He steps away again, feeling nauseous. It seems he can't look at you either now.
Superman doesn't get sick, but Clark gets anxious.
"I'm not tired of you." You say it with a surety that brings him comfort, even if he might regret that. "I'm embarrassed to explain, and I know you'd be so understanding- or you would've been if I hadn't treated you like shit these last weeks, or months, or however fucking long I've been trying to justify myself."
Words are spewing out of your mouth, much to your own chagrin. His light always has a way of finding you. No matter how far away you were, or undeserved it felt.
"You haven't treated me like shit." He'd always defend you. "You been shutting down. And I, being my overbearing self, have just pushed you further away."
"That's not true. I've done this all myself. It's not you, and I know how stupid that sounds." Thank god he couldn't see the tears slipping from your tired eyes. "But it's not, Clark, and I need you to believe that."
Seeing his head drop and shoulders slump just make it all so much worse. It was near impossible to make him feel broken, but it was clear you had done just that. Yet you were asking him to believe in you? Even after weeks of only skating on the surface of truth?
"We don't have to do this." He murmurs, face in his palms.
Your chest staggers a breath. "I do, though. I owe it to you."
Neither of you knew where this bilateral conversation would land.
"I have been avoiding you." You started with simply admitting. The details could crack through from there.
"I noticed," he replies with an upset sarcasm.
You'd take the blow. "But it's because I…"
What? …have a rotting mind? …am selfish? …have a point to prove?
"Because I love you." How that was where you settled, you weren't sure. But you were trying to go with it. "And I admire you, I look up to you like the rest of the world does, even though you beg me not to. I've been avoiding you because… I'm not half good enough, but I really want be good enough to be a part of you."
So he is a heel.
His head lifts, and his palms are wiping off sweat on his slacks. This is the most you've spoken to him in so long. Maybe it was wrong, but it eased him. Right before reminding his nervous system to stay fired up.
He has been standing at the face of your abandon, just centimeters away, begging for some break. For you to brush your hand with his, to tell him it was all okay. No wonder you couldn't speak.
His Pa has always said 'you know what they say when you assume.' It's just in his nature to problem solve, though.
"I made you feel like you aren't good enough?" He finds himself pacing, mumbling to himself. "Geez, I've really screwed this up…"
He knew he asked one too many questions, tried too many times to keep up with small talk just so you'd say anything at all to him. He sees it now. He has been begging you, practically goading you, to give him attention.
"It's not you," you try to remind him. But he seems to be the one lost now.
"You don't have to try to make me feel any better," he rubs his chin. "I've been down your throat lately, I should've just been giving you space all this time."
"You did, Clark."
"I didn't— It's like I couldn't stay away, I can't even stay away now. When I know that I've overstepped." He's rolling his bottoms lip between his teeth, concocting a new theory.
"Well, you are now." You can't believe him. How is he spinning this to make himself the problem?
He spins to face you. "What?"
You shrug, hands gesturing lazily. "It's not you, and I mean that. Apparently I'm doing a terrible job at explaining why? But I really need you to know it's me."
You didn't look away from him.
Clark smiles, everso slightly. "Okay. I'm sorry, I'll listen."
Your heart skips, and your brain is quick to catch it before it can go too wild. Both of you have a cascade of tears streaming down your faces, and he finds something to hold onto. Unreal.
With a new awareness that his attention is wholeheartedly your's, your posture straightens. If you couldn't find the words to explain yourself before, you had forgotten every word you knew now. It's a lot of pressure to know that Clark Kent is focused on you.
"I—" you clear your throat. It's Clark. You know how to talk to him. Even if your brain is screaming. "I knew when I met you that you were some sort of exception to the world. Or… I might've even known just by seeing you across the room."
Already, he could disagree. But it's not about proving you wrong, or proving that he isn't these things he is very much viewed as. He knows this is you. This is the distance between the two of you.
So you continue.
"You were getting Steve sugar for his coffee, even though he's an ass to everyone." Two quick, trembling breaths. "Which doesn't matter, but the point is I've always known that you were good. And you just prove it every single day, in every single interaction that you're a part of."
He stays right where he is. You don't feel a need to hide anymore.
"And I do admire you, like I had said. You're Superman, but you're also Clark Kent. You have so much love, and you manage to find beauty in absolutely everything. I just want a piece of that, you know?" Your eyes flicker to take in any reaction you could get from him. "I want to be good, I need to be good. Because someone that is so kind, and understanding, and patient deserves to have someone that is at least one of those things."
Another moment where he could disagree. You are all of those things to him. But, that probably just proved your point. So, he just listens. He takes your hand into his, thumb skimming over your knuckles.
Your heart is pleading for this to be over. You just need him. "So I threw myself into work. And I have had several breaks, Lois says they're big, but they just never felt like the one. The one that I could hang on the wall in our apartment and feel proud of. Or the one that would make it feel like I could come home to you."
He was understanding it now. Pa was right about assuming.
"So, no, I don't want a break, and I'm definitely not tired of you." You laugh sheepishly, "I wish I could just completely wrap you around my entire life. I'd make everything about you if I could. In a way, I did, I guess. But not the way I wanted, and now I'm realizing it's not what I wanted at all."
He cups your cheek, brushing it clean. "You wanted kindness to surround you."
There's no mercy in letting your heart go now.
"Yeah," you're barely audible. But he caught you.
"Let me help you." He kisses a tear from your cheek. "I hear I'm pretty good at the whole 'kindness' thing."
Your chest fumbles laughter, and your eyebrows knit together. He's so good at everything he does. Inviting deep conversation, but balancing the natural discomfort of it.
Sniffling, you just look at him. You haven't gotten to really see him in so long that you were close to forgetting some of your favorite features. The dimple in his smile, the glistening in his eyes as he listened so tentively.
It wouldn't hurt to let in the light. Your frost bitten flowers would thank you, even.
Staying this way for eternity felt entirely possible. In the light of his love. Healing, warming, melting into him.
Steam pulls you from it, though, rolling out of the bathroom. You'd forgotten the shower was running. Perfect.
"I'm wasting water." You mumbled, lips falling back into their month long frown.
Clark didn't let your hand slip from his this time. He pulled you gently back to him. "Just promise you'll finish your side?"
Promise you'll come back.
It felt horrible. That he was asking for a promise that you'd return from just shutting off the shower. That he thought you'd abandon this to go back to being alone.
"Promise." You do it for him.
It doesn't feel so daunting when you walk away this time. There was reason being brought to light. You were talking to him, looking at him, letting him hold your hand. Letting him be a part of you.
Lately the air felt thicker. Filling your lungs, clinging to them with a refusal to leave. You could breathe in, over and over and over. You could gasp, and heave, and choke on it, but you couldn't exhale.
There wasn't time. There wasn't space. It didn't matter.
Holding your breath became a forced skill. It was much easier to fade out with not even so much of a chance at a single breath for life than it was to swim through waters of a storm that you hadn't the resources to face. There was no life raft tossed out to your sea.
None that you had caught, at least.
Clark was right at your side, and the air didn't seem to be constricting his breathing the same. It didn't claw it's way down his throat, scrap along his esophagus, nor set into his lungs like cement. No.
You felt his hot exhales. Saw his chest rise and fall in success of another breath. As his air hit your skin you were served a reminder of what you couldn't have.
How did he do it?
It's the most obvious of answers. He's Clark Kent, that's how. Because, sure, he's The Invincible Superman, but at the very core of who he is, he is Clark Kent. And who were you beneath the shining light of divinity?
This question led you to silence. The kind of silence that a person couldn't ignore or miss was there. The kind that made Clark miss you even when he had you in his arms. But he can take a breath, decide how to pull you from this emptiness of your own suffocation.
You needed him to believe it was okay. To believe that air did in fact whirl from your lungs when your chest rose and fell. To fail to notice it was nothing more than reenacting a motion on a repeated schedule. Because, yes, Clark is breathing. But you couldn't be the one to put something on him that would weigh down his chest.
Agreeing to go to dinner was meant to be convincing, but you were well aware that your act was beginning to crumble. You could only replay this show so many times before Clark had no choice but to pick apart the most trivial scenes, expressions, and dialogues. It seemed he was learning to sail the storm that you feared.
And, of course, he's so perfect at it. At swimming his own waters, just to reach the shore of the next person that needed help. He had himself so well balanced that he could do it all. That's how it felt, even when you had pulled him from the depths of his own sorrows before.
Here he was, walking home with you and allowing the silence. Giving you time, probably mentally perfecting the soft words that will likely come out as smooth as honey dripping from a spoon. It just looks like he can do it all.
Admitting that about yourself wasn't the struggle, it was very evident that you couldn't do it all. The issue was that you couldn't do more. Clark could do so much— saving a bus load of children, going to the Planet for work, making sure to call home like a good son does, taking you out to dinner like an amazingly sweet boyfriend.
And here you are, ready to cave from balancing work and home. Sinking deeper in the depths of your sea, watching through a wave-blurred haze as lightning cracks above water. Letting the storm roll until… him.
"In your head?" Clark's voice was quiet, a soft start to the conversation that he knew could be heavy.
Your chest rises again, lungs still caught with last year's inhale. "Busy week."
Busy month. Or was it several months now? Time was undecided when below surface.
Clark saw the tightness in your chest, the hesitance to even look in his eyes. You could only bring yourself to look in attempt of selling a point of wellness. It was a mistake to look at him.
He could read your eyes perfectly within seconds. It would've been a mistake not to look too, seeing as he could read your avoidance just as well. You figured this was the price of being known now. There was no hiding away, because, unlike all others, Clark would never be the one to leave you gasping in salty water.
His life raft was extended, all you had to do was take hold.
"Let's talk about it." He nudges your shoulder. An attempt at keeping things light, inviting.
Your chest falls without meaning. "I just wanna move on from it, I think." He'd accept that. "I really appreciate you taking me for dinner. It was really sweet of you to plan it for us."
Thank you for seeing me drowning and throwing me a raft. Even if I can't get a grip on it.
"'Course," Clark has that small smile. One that reassures you he read all the words in between.
It was the obvious thing in his mind. You were stressed, he wanted to treat you. Work has been a part of the issue, and his immediate thought was to get you physically away from it. That reminded him of that restaurant you mentioned months ago, so he made a quick call and scheduled a time.
His second thought was to get you mentally pulled from work. He directed the conversation towards compliments on your signature looks, observations of the beauty of the restaurant, sampling each other's food and comparing notes. It was hard to stay stuck in your mind when Clark smiled so widely when you saw a butterfly on the walk there, or when his eyes were sparkling in awe at the soft lighting in the restaurant, or whatever small thing he found to fawn over at any given moment.
He's beyond any realm you're capable of reaching. And he chooses you like it is the most obvious choice. That felt so unfamiliar to you. To him, though… who else would he choose?
There was no chance you could ever repay him the same way. Because Clark saw it all. He so effortlessly reads between every line, and goes about living practically three full lives without a second thought about it. Your issues seemed so small in comparison to the life Clark lives.
Only one of you was weighing that scale. He's too good for that.
The remainder of the walk was silent, much to your relief. The door quickly clicked shut and your routine came to motion. Peeling your coat off part way, Clark's fingers brushing yours as he took it fully off and hung it for you. Always taking care of you and needing no reason. Just because.
"Thank you," you always whispered. Clark wondered when you'd catch on that no thanks was ever going to be necessary.
"You're welcome," he always returned. He'd be patient with you.
The choking feeling was back, words desperately wanting to escape but your heart refusing to let them go. You couldn't even think of what could be said, or maybe what wouldn't be said. It scared you.
Water. You needed a drink. The kitchen seems impossibly far. Or, no? You already had a glass in your hand, head tilted back and water rolling past your lips with a gulp. You don't even remember walking past the entryway.
The water was cooling. This typically is what would wash these thoughts away before their tendrils could latch on too tightly. It swirled, mixing with that oceanic mess you've been washed around in the last several weeks. You kept an eye on that raft Clark had thrown.
Accept his help.
"Thank you for dinner." You hadn't said that explicitly before. He knew, and you know that, but you had to say it. He cleared his schedule, set Superman aside, just because he saw your struggle.
He was behind you, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. "Thank you for going with me."
What?
But he moved on, trailing kisses down your neck. Because, again, this is second nature to him. Kindness, doting, a gentle force.
The water was sloshing in you, a wave forming in your stomach. But you went along, tilting your neck and closing your eyes because it feels nice. Because he makes you feel like you do deserve this regardless of how convincing your poisoned brain can be.
"I would've been crazy to not." You half joke.
That light air was trying to find its' way back to the conversation. Maybe you just had to be more receptive to it.
Clark chuckles, vibrations tingling the crook of your neck as his lips pressed another kiss. "Then I'm just double lucky. Lucky you're not crazy, and lucky you were at my side tonight."
It makes you sick. Or sicker? Not that that was really possible anymore. Yet… it made you smile, too.
Your hand found the back of his neck, following his dipping motions while he lead his lips back to yours. Each kiss against your neck reminds your sickness to settle down. He's going nowhere. He thinks you deserve each and every kiss, otherwise he wouldn't give so many.
If he didn't intend on staying, his hands wouldn't so softly trace their way down your body, making you shiver such a gentle touch. They find their place right below your butt, lifting you up to sit on the counter and be more at level with him. If he was going to go, this wouldn't be so easy.
It had to settle it all. If you weren't good, Clark wouldn't be so tender. He wouldn't have memorized that chill that was always sent up your spine when his fingers did their best to crawl beneath the waist of your pants.
"What's wrong?" His breath rolled hot against you, and you saw a concern in his eyes that you didn't expect. His fingers left their task, reaching up and brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles. "I lost you, what happened?"
Lost you.
It's now that you feel the cooling of your cheek, when his fingers swipe off and you feel a smudged tear drying in wake. God, it's not the night you wanted to have.
"I really needed tonight." Your voice was much quieter than expected. Your eyes shot down, feeling your lip quiver and wishing you could do absolutely anything to hide. "You saw that, but also did something about it. And I know I've been off all week…"
He continues his perfection. Eyes locked on you, hands giving you the space your glance away silently asked for. But he was still there, holding your waist and standing between your legs.
"Or probably longer," a bitter laugh, and quick swipe of falling tears. "But you've put up with work, saving the world, taking care of your Ma and Pa, and taking care of me on top of it all. I can't stop wondering how it's possible."
Clark could pretend to be lost in understanding, but it's not the first time he's been here. He is Mr. Perfection, after all. Even if he is the only one that knows it isn't true.
He knows you don't need to hear him go on and on about how he hasn't got it all figured out. He knows you know that he isn't Mr. Perfection. He's Clark.
"I'll always take care of you." He settles on these words, gently cupping your cheek again.
You smile solemnly. "I believe that, too."
Because you deserve it. You could always find him between the lines.
"So the tears?" His thumb massages your cheek gently.
"I figured out how you do it." Why hide? Take the raft. "It's possible because of how deeply you care."
He smiles at the idea, dimple popping. "How'd you mean?"
"You have so much hope, and love, and good." Your hand is on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "And I just feel so incredibly lucky that I get to receive even a fraction of that."
Your eyes betrayed the honesty of your confession, tears still threatening to spill. But they stayed right there. It didn't have to be a betrayal. Maybe just a representation of your own love that you didn't quite know what to do with?
"You've been a beacon for millions of people, but I don't think I have shown enough appreciation to you for being with me through it all." Because it's not just about how he can do it all. "So thank you, again. For being my personal beacon too, and taking the time to find me in my own problems."
You playfully tug the collar of his shirt, sniffling and letting the final tear fall and clear your vision. You'd never be ready to look at him again, so you did it anyway. He's, as always, a vision.
His curly hair sat askew, falling over his forehead and reminding you to find the light in the day you spent together. His cheeks are tinted red like they always are when someone gives him a compliment. His glasses had slowly begun to slip down the bridge of his nose. And his eyes? Oh, damn. He's too perfect.
His smile never faded. "I love you."
His hands both come out to hold your face, lips finding yours again with a complete lack of reserve at this point. One kiss, two, three… six? Ten? The score didn't matter anymore.
He hums against your lips. "I love you, and I'm always going to find you." Another kiss. "Cute you thought you could escape that, though."
You laugh quietly, eyes opening again. "Escape it?"
He's looking at you through his lashes, lips curled into a grin that pairs with his joke. "Yeah. I'm a particularly good finder, and I do have a pretty large beacon, after all. No escaping that."
Your eyebrows raise, and lips mirror his grin. "I never said that."
"You said it reached millions, that sounds pretty large to me." He rebuttals, hands trailing beneath your thighs again.
"I never said that!" You laugh, arms looping around his neck.
"You absolutely did." A kiss to your cheek, to your jaw, to your neck. Suddenly your in the air again as he carries you off, legs wrapped around his torso.
"I said you have been a beacon for millions." Your fingertips scratch the back of his neck, encouraging him on.
"Well, maybe I just wanted to hear it a certain way. Point got across still." His teeth graze your neck before landing another kiss.
Laughter rings out again as Clark hoists you unexpectedly, holding you up with one arm around your back. His hand swipes around to find the bedroom doorknob without having to stop kissing away at your neck. The kisses are falling a bit more haphazardly.
"And, I mean, c'mon." It's like that smirk of his is stapled in place suddenly. He looks at you through lidded eyes, pulling from your neck just long enough to gesture his head down. "You can't exactly deny—
"Stop talking." Your fingers grasp hold of his hair, chest rising and cold air swirling around your lungs.
Apparently you needed him in more ways that you'd realized as of late.
Convinced it will make them better partners, Judy asks Nick to take the 5 Love Languages Quiz. He refuses, of course. Obviously, the solution for this is to secretly love him in all five ways, and figure out what he likes best!
The results of this… vary greatly. She winds up discovering far more than she expects.
ZOOTOPIA 2 (2025): << Click here for more!
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah... you?"
Requested by @writervick! Here you go!
This has to be one of my favorite scenes from the movie! Nick had zero hesitation at all! Judy's safety is top priority to him. He risked his own life going after her, managed to get them both to safety, & made sure she was okay before getting angry with her. He's such a green flag! I do take a bit of issue with Judy for not at least thanking him though.
Croki is my spirit animal @lunalockley - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
