labels: amab!reader, pre-established relationship, uses "you" to refer to reader, bottom!reader,
word count: 2,114
sure, it was currently 4 in the morning, and you’d been out clubbing with your boyfriend, dick grayson, all night, but you were in the mood and he’d been ignoring you ever since his head hit the pillow. there you lay, your head resting on his chest, watching keenly as he mindlessly scrolled through his phone.
you’d both retreated to your bedroom after deciding to call it a night, the silence growing, as if the universe had decided to make this entire encounter as awkward as possible just to spite you.
it hurt, you wanted him more than anything, yet it seemed he was entirely too engrossed in whatever mindless nonsense the internet had to offer at this hour. the sheets were messily thrown across you both, he was shirtless, you were far more modest with your t-shirt and briefs shielding your nether regions for now.
“dick,” you murmur, finally deciding to break the silence, mostly for the sake of gaining attention from your boyfriend.
he didn’t respond, letting his phone fall screen-first onto his bare chest. he looked over at you, his dazzling blue eyes meeting yours with an intense glare, your combined desires making themselves known to each other, though it was foolish to think he’d act on them.
“I had fun tonight..” you continue, trying to spark a conversation from thin air.
he offers an infuriatingly sexy smile back, but refuses to add more fuel to this proverbial fire. you sigh in response, bowing your head downwards even though you’re fully aware that he’s not looking at you anymore.
you shift over, positioning yourself on his lap. if dick paid even an ounce of attention to you, he’d see the look of pure satisfaction that crept across your face as you grinded on his crotch. the response was immediate, and even through the bedclothes and his boxer shorts, you felt his dick hardening.
your own dick began to twitch and pulsate excitedly as you continued going to work. at some point, dick acknowledged what you were doing, lowering his phone screen once more to offer a confused look in response. though no words were spoke, his lips were tucked, he was clearly holding back his pleasures.
“what?” you pry, hoping to finally egg a response out of your boyfriend, especially now that he felt the pressure and tightness bulging in his underwear. you were good at that, fuck.
his eyes widened as you shifted your stance, throwing the sheets off the side of the bed, a hand reaching to grip it’s bulge as it fully widened in his pants. you gripped the hem of his shorts, peeling them down until his thick, veiny cock was exposed. it fell flat against his stomach with a satisfying flap, and the lack of protest gave you even more initiative to move further.
you shifted yourself over onto his lap, moving yourself down a little to allow extra room for yourself. the sight of his hard cock throbbing was enough to send a pulse down your own spine, which resulted in your own cock twitching in your briefs, your bulge noticeably growing as you cozied yourself on dick’s lap. you swore you could’ve came right then and there, but you held back your own pleasures in favour of your boyfriend’s.
he barely seemed to register that you’d pulled down his underwear until he felt you taking a grip of his cock in your hands. the feeling sent jolts of pleasure up his thighs and into his shaft, he pulsed once, half-moaning as he tried to get his words out coherently.
“wait–what are you–!” his legs twitched as you moved your hand down, stroking him all the way down to his base, and all the way up to his tip. his abs tensed, he was just so damn hot you could hardly resist tracing the left three with your finger.
you look up, beginning to move your head down, the most satisfied grin ever-present on your face.
“what, do you want to tell me anything?” you tease him, knowing just how much he’s enjoying this, knowing just how much he wants you to continue.
you take a grip of his cock in your left hand, raising your right hand up towards your mouth. you spit into it, gripping his tip before slowly stroking downwards, sliding your hand up and down his firm shaft.
“fuck, you’re so hot.” he whispers, watching as you move your head all the way down, until it was level with his cock.
you part your lips, sticking your tongue out halfway, just enough so that it could meet his tip. the instant shift in sensations caused his thighs to tense, and a chill was sent through your own body knowing that you were bringing him immense pleasure. you swivelled your tongue around his tip once over, before gliding it down along his shaft, all the way down to his base, all the way back up to his tip.
his knuckles were white with how hard he was gripping the sheets. you revel in it, slowly bringing your mouth up and off of his cock, leaving him restless and wanting more.
your mouth envelops his cock again, and this time he’s ready for it. his right hand is removed from the sheets, and is instantly placed down on the back of your head. he offers a firm pressure, forcing you down onto his cock once more, sucking the air out of your cheeks as his tip presses against the back of your throat.
the sensations grow stronger for him, he struggles not to force your head up and down, fully allowing you to control the pace of things. you pull him out of your mouth, stroking his moistened dick, staring intently into his eyes as if trying to communicate just what you wanted without any words at all. the message was received loud and clear. he shifted himself forth, maneuvering you off of his lap and further into the middle of the bed.
his hand guided your head down onto the mattress, situating you on all fours. though your face was positioned against the mattress, your ears perked at the sound of him fumbling through his bedside drawer. your eager listening was interrupted by the feeling of his hands on your waist, pulling you back onto him.
you felt his cock through the fabric of your briefs, the sheer thought of him fucking you causing your dick to twitch once more. this time, you felt the all-too-familiar sensation of pre-cum soaking the front of your underwear. he places his hand on the small of your back, his fingers trailing all the way down until they gripped your waistband. he slowly pulled it down until your bare ass was revealed for him to see.
you shifted awkwardly, allowing him to full remove your underwear and toss it off to the side, providing more courtesy for you than you did for him just moments prior, especially given by how his own boxers were messily trapped around his ankles. you arched in anticipation, feeling as his warm cock was pressed in between your asscheeks. he thrusted once, his shaft sliding over your hole, up your crack and onto the bare skin of your back.
the sound was unmistakable, the familiar click of a lube bottle being opened. you heard it squelch as the cold liquid dripped onto your ass crack, causing you to arch inwards in response to the sensation. dick’s index finger trailed down as he rubbed the lube onto your waiting hole, eventually pushing it inwards, prompting you to moan in response.
“is this ok?” he cooed, prioritising your comfort over his own pleasure.
“mhm,” you mumble, signalling to your boyfriend that you wanted him to continue.
he thrusted his finger in deeper, swirling it around, pushing inwards until you felt a jolt of electricity surge through your body. you tensed up, your hips shaking and legs quivering as dick pulled out. he positioned his index finger and middle finger with your twitching hole, pushing inwards with a similar intensity as the last thrust. he parted his fingers, performing a scissoring motion inside of you, before pulling out.
a few more agonizing moments passed until you felt his touch again. this time, his left hand gripped tightly onto your hip, pulling you backwards. his right gripped the base of his dick, carefully positioning the head of his cock with your hole. in tandem with his pull, he pushed inwards, his head slowly inching itself inside.
there was no resistance due to how well he’d lubed you up, and you felt the pleasure immediately as he allowed you a moment to get situated. the feeling of his cock resting in you was unreal, to the point where you felt as if you could cum at any given moment.
“fuck, please, keep going–” you moan through laboured breaths. dick wasted absolutely no time in pushing you outwards whilst allowing himself to fall back just enough so that he had ample room to thrust back into you with startling intensity. he let out a harsh moan – slow, somber, all while relentlessly thrusting in and out of your hole.
he pushed himself all the way inside, holding you there, making you wait for it, the seconds that passed in that moment feeling like hours. all you wanted was for him to fuck you, and even then he was hellbent on making you earn it. call it payback for how you relentlessly begged him for attention early.
he shifted himself all the way backwards, until his legs were dangling off the end of the bed, until he was standing upright, his feet planted firmly on the floor. he pulled you back with him, waiting until your hole was aligned with his cock once more, before thrusting back into you.
you needed to cum so bad, you felt the surges rush through your entire body as dick’s cock pushed against your prostate. your hand gravitated towards your cock as dick continued thrusting in and out, out and in, bringing you all the way to the brink of an orgasm before stopping his movements, cutting your pleasure short.
though it appeared even dick himself was beginning to chase his pleasure. he cocked his left leg upwards onto the bed, his left hand gripping your hips to the point where you’d already accepted that you’d be waking up with bruises tomorrow.
“do you want me to cum?” those words were music to your ears. his hand reached under you, gripping your balls, giving them a firm squeeze as he spoke. yet in cock-drunk, orgasm-chasing state that you were in, you couldn’t muster the courage to respond.
but you felt it.
each thrust grew sloppy and uncoordinated, and you could feel the entire length of his cock growing inside of you. dick thrusted hard into you, his hips meeting your ass as he made sure the full length of his cock was within you.
dick’s cock pulsed hard inside of you, his position allowing you to feel the full length of it twitching as he unloaded thick strands of cum deep into your ass. each twitch pushed a warm sensation up through your body, and the euphoria of him cumming inside you caused your vision to go foggy.
but it wasn’t over yet. even though you could feel dick’s cock softening inside of you, it wasn’t over. he held his hand over your own, that was still stroking your dick, and began pumping with vigor. this entire time you’d been chasing your orgasm, and it was dick’s hand that was bringing you all the way to the edge.
you felt the tension grow in your ballsack. it felt so damn good that your eyes began rolling back, simply allowing dick to take control. your own cock grew rigid, the combined feeling of dick’s cock inside of you and the intensity of your orgasm causing your entire body to spasm. you came, shooting huge ropes of cum all cross the bed, goosebumps lining your body as you gasped as the feeling.
you moaned out loud, all while dick slipped a hand under your neck, pulling you backwards just far enough so that he could plant a rough kiss on your neck. he let his cock slip out of your hole, even then you remained gaped, a reminder of what had been there moments prior. as you slowly shifted to a vertical position, you felt the feeling of liquid dripping from your hole, dick’s cum falling from inside of you and onto the floor below.
“so,” dick grumbled, trying desperately to catch his breath.
summary: Dick is in dire need of something to fill the void that keeps growing. He just doesn't know what until he gets caught in the rain on a late-night crashout. Dick's POV and no use of y/n
warnings: mentions of anxiety, and depiction of a mental breakdown, self-deprecatory thoughts
notes from lee: a vent piece where i am simultaneously dick and reader... but he's the crashout robin, right? maybe just not this kind of crashout until now
Dick can’t sleep. An occurrence that is becoming more regular as the weeks go by.
It’s noticeable, apparently, since even Tim has taken to making jabs at the darkening circles under his eyes.
The lack of sleep becomes so severe that it’s affecting his ‘nightlife’; he misses the obvious things, and his reaction time is allegedly two seconds too slow, which is why he has been confined to bed rest. He grumbled dramatically at all of those concerned for him as he made his way to his apartment, but secretly, he’s glad for the excuse to do nothing.
Yet he doesn’t like doing nothing. It makes him antsy and gives him a bad gut feeling, like some kind of impending doom that’s masquerading as peace, a calm before a storm. So after three and a half minutes of staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his apartment and pretending he could sleep, he decides that a late-night walk is a good idea.
He rationalizes with himself, feeling a bit dumb for wanting to go out at this time of night, but it’s how his body is wired after years spent doing something every night. So he bundles up for the frigid air of Gotham’s January and heads out with no destination in mind.
Out in the smoggy air that somehow is refreshing compared to the stuffy and enclosed atmosphere of his apartment, he finds himself walking out to the stretch of Sheldon Park that lies under the bridge to Wayne Manor and meets at a dock. He wonders if he was subconsciously trying to take himself back to the place he used to call home. He ventures farther into the park, taking a tunnel through the bridge as the rev of a motorcycle rings overhead.
There’s a stretch of benches in a half-lit semi-circle that points out to the murky waters of the bay before a brick barrier separates it from a patch of grass that leads down to the pebbley beach where the water laps at the shoreline. He’s not tired, not really, but he sits on the bench and sighs. He looks up at the sky, like he’s contemplating asking the higher beings of the universe if this is what they really intended for him.
He can feel the way his heart rate is shooting up in response to absolutely nothing except the swirling thoughts in his mind. He wants to scream. He feels hopeless, pointless, useless, and so damn tired. A tiredness that isn’t remedied by a good night’s sleep, but the kind that permeates and sinks into his bones and soul. The kind that makes him not want to get up in the morning.
So he does.
He puts his gloved hands over his face as he still faces the cloudy night sky and just screams. Well, it’s more of a deep groan, the kind that comes out of his chest and feels good, like a release from something. And when he runs out of breath, he just inhales and does it again.
When his throat hurts, and he’s done, his breath comes out in hot puffs that he watches disappear into the frigid night’s air. And then he laughs, because he feels insane for sounding like a wailing banshee in a park past midnight.
But more than anything, he’s frustrated. Whatever kind of catharsis that screaming into the void gave him was fleeting and still not enough for the tumultuous and frankly overwhelming feelings he’s having right now. He stands up, and his feet guide him over the retention wall and down to the water. It’s freezing outside, and he knows that walking right into the bay is a surefire way to hypothermia. But the irrational part of his brain that’s taking over is telling him maybe it will absolve the way he already feels like he’s drowning in his own despair.
He stands there and contemplates whether he should, at the very least, take off his outer layers and shoes before walking in, or if maybe he should clamber up the side of the bridge and dive in. Briefly, his mind tells him that the latest measurement for the bay showed that it was inhospitable to everything except Joker fish and other paranormal creatures dumped into it and still unsafe to have prolonged contact with, despite the city’s best efforts.
But that’s secondary to the urge he has to be submerged and feel the freezing water surrounding him so he can feel something other than this feeling that has him hot under the collar in a bad way.
He walks into his ankles, the water making the typical splish as he drags his feet through it until it reaches the gooey silt that has his boots struggling. It feels like the water is pulling him in, telling him to stay. And even though the coldness causes goosebumps to rise on his skin, he stays.
Dick sighs, long and tired, before squatting down to hug his knees, getting the bottoms of his thighs and his butt wet in the process. But he doesn’t care, doesn’t consider the fact that he still has to walk back home. He’s still so completely overwhelmed, but this feels grounding, like he’s not walking the tightrope between life and death.
The tears come before he’s fully cognizant of the signs that it’s coming. Hot streaks running down his cold and wind-whipped cheeks. A sob barks its way out along with a bitter laugh, one that’s so frustrated with everything. Frustrated with the situation for being so absurd, with Bruce for being the one to take away what he gives on a whim, but mostly with himself. He’s frustrated that he can’t seem to perform at the level people expect, frustrated that he can’t take care of himself, frustrated that he can’t seem to self-regulate, or even figure out what these emotions are or where they stem from. But most of all, Dick’s frustrated because he simply doesn’t know what to do other than bottle everything up and shove it deep down.
But the bottle is cracked, and he’s not sure how much patching up it can take anymore. How much more can he pretend that he’s fine? Because, hell, everything is cracking: his facade for his family, the public persona he’s supposed to put up, his sanity. God, even his favorite mug cracked after he stuck it in the dishwasher instead of hand-washing it.
So he lets himself cry while squatting in the mucky water of the bay.
The city decides to cry with him. The overcast sky starts to pelt him with water equally freezing as what he’s sitting in, the onslaught fast and hard, harder than rain should be, it’s hail.
The pieces grow in size, going from specs to gumballs quickly. Dick finally decides to make a choice of self-preservation and stands up from the water to move to the tunnel under the bridge for shelter.
Dick brings the collar of his coat over his head, hoping to prevent any more head injuries, and trudges up the grassy hill with his wet boots that feel like he’s wearing weights on his ankles.
His eyes are still blurry with tears, and he hasn’t bothered to brush away the streaks from his cheeks quite yet, but the rain conceals it well. He blinks a few times as he approaches the barrier and benches and sees someone standing in the tunnel, probably with the same thought he had.
He inhales sharply and mentally puts on his people person persona. Before he can even truly make out the person, he calls out to them, “Nice weather we’re having, huh?” A totally disingenuous smile makes its way onto his face as he joins them.
The person blinks at him owlishly, probably recognizing who he is, and then puts their hand on his shoulder, “Hey man, finish your crashout.”
Dick goes pink. A hot flush spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down his neck. He tries to look sheepish, embarrassed, because he is, “Oh. You, uh, saw that?”
The person that he now truly looks over, his bat-insticts kicking in as he scans them for an apparent threat. When he finds none, his still illogically running brain thinks, ‘huh, pretty’. The also drenched person withdraws their hand and shrugs, “Saw what?”
Dick breathes out a half laugh and throws himself against the concrete wall and slides down so he can rest his elbows on his knees and cradle his head in his hands.
The stranger takes the wall adjacent to him and mirrors Dick’s crouched position. The tunnel isn’t very wide, so their knees knock together. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” Dick huffs out, his hands running through his hair and pulling at it. He doesn’t watch your reaction to his words, but already he’s imagining that it would scrunch up or maybe form a pout on your cute lips. He inhales sharply. Where the hell did that thought come from?
Unperturbed by his rejection, you offer something else: “Well, I don’t think this is going to let up anytime soon, so if we make a break for my car, I can give you a ride to yours?”
“I walked.”
Your eyes widen in what he thinks is concern, “Oh, buddy. You’re really in it, huh? This is like at least 3 miles from the nearest apartments, and I doubt you live in Crime Alley.”
He huffs at that, so you do know vaguely who he is. He looks over to you, but finds that you’ve stood up. You’re standing over him, with your hand extended to help him up and a bright smile on your face. He squints, the overhead light directly in his eyes, but the backlighting kind of makes it look like there’s a halo around your head. That’d make you his guardian angel, and right now, he’s inclined to believe.
He takes your hand, not that he needs it, but he’s craving the warmth that someone else can give to him right now. He desperately wants to be taken care of, to have this burden of living lifted from his shoulders that hold the sky.
You pull him to the other side of the tunnel and point to the parking lot, “That’s my car, I think I can unlock it from here so that you can just get in. But if you slip and fall when we run, I can not guarantee that I won’t laugh, so be prepared for that.”
It’s not a turf war you’re running through, just some hail, but you’re taking it very seriously. You look up at him with such a determined expression that he’s almost going to laugh at how adorable you’re being.
In what you determine to be a lull in the rain and hail, you pull him with you and start running to your car. You laugh as the two of you get soaked, and it warms his heart in a way that he doesn’t understand yet. You skid to a stop on the slick asphalt, letting out an ‘oof’ as you slam into the side of your car. Dick laughs as he rounds the front of the car to the passenger seat and opens his door at the same time as you.
Both of you pull the car doors shut as the wind picks up and starts blowing hail chunks into the car and at each other. Dick turns to you, and he can tell you feel his eyes on him because you turn after starting the car. When your eyes meet, the two of you break into breathless laughter. He doesn’t know what’s funny, not really, but your laugh is contagious.
As his laughter subsides, the only sounds left are comforting ones; the rumble of your car’s engine, the whir of the heater working overtime, and the pelting of rain and shrinking hailstones on your windshield.
He hears you take a shuddering breath in, from the cold or otherwise, he doesn't know, and then sigh. “I have some dry clothes in the backseat and a huge ass beach towel.”
Dick raises his eyebrow at that, “You seem awfully prepared for someone caught in the rain.”
You shrug, “I like to lie in the grass sometimes, but the sprinklers go off at 11:30, so I get a soggy bottom if I come out later.”
He shakes his head at your confession, thinking it’s an endearing habit and one that feels very you, even though he just met you five minutes ago.
“So it looks like I packed a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, so you get one, and I’ll take the other.” You offer, but then look him over, “Actually, I think it’s best if you take the sweatpants, you’re kinda… built, so I don’t know if my sweatshirt would fit, oversized or not.”
Dick smirks at you, reveling in the indirect compliment. “Sure thing, I appreciate anything you’re willing to give.”
You bend over the center console, your hips pressing into his arm, and he as you reach back and unfold the towel and cover the entire backseat bench. You weren’t lying; it really is a huge ass towel. You grab the two items of clothes and hand him a pair of worn gray sweatpants. “All your wet stuff can go on the towel.”
He looks over at you, silently wondering why you weren’t freaking out, why you were treating this like any other night, but then again, it’s Gotham, and anyone here longer than a few months has seen shit.
With a sigh, he places the pants up on the dashboard and shrugs his waterlogged jacket off and tosses it over his shoulder into the back. Then comes his sweatshirt and the graphic tee he’d been wearing underneath.
Dick can feel the way your eyes trail over him as you undress just the same. Normally, when oogled by someone, he’ll put on a show, like a peacock, demanding attention and all eyes on him. But he can feel that your gaze isn’t hungry or heated, more curious, if anything.
Though you don’t look long, you put on the dry sweatshirt after shucking off all your wet clothes. He does the same with the sweatpants you gave him, the elastic in the waistband so overworked that they fit just fine.
When he feels it’s safe to look, he starts with your thighs. Bare and pressed together to find some kind of heat in the car that’s still trying to heat up. His gaze trails up to the oversized sweatshirt that bears a Nightwing logo embossed into the dark fabric. “So, you a big Nightwing fan?”
You shrug at the question. “He’s hot,” you answer simply, like it’s valid reasoning. And technically, he supposes it is, not like he hasn’t heard that before.
He puts on that cocky little smile and crosses his arms over his bare chest, since he got the sweatpants in this little arrangement. “Uh-huh, tell me more about that,” he teases, but he’s honestly a little desperate for you to compliment his alter ego.
You roll your eyes and smack his arm with the backside of your hand, but he sees the faint smile on your face as you do. He makes an exaggerated sound of pain and holds his arm.
Shaking your head, you scoff at him, “You’re kind of a loser.”
He gasps and clutches his chest, “How dare you!”
You sigh and shake your head with a close-eyed smile, “So where am I taking you? Home or are you still trying to have a midnight crashout?”
“I thought you said you didn’t see that!” He says incredulously.
“Yeah, but I heard it.” You click your tongue, start the windshield wipers, and pull out of the parking spot.
He huffs, feeling embarrassed again, and sinks into the passenger seat. “I guess I don’t want to go home yet.”
“Then do you want to go get hot chocolate? 7-Eleven does pretty good hot chocolate, but given our current half-dressed state, I think going through the Bat-Burger drive-thru is a good option.” You offer, but he’s certain the road you’re taking is already the path to the fast food chain.
He pats down the pockets of his borrowed pants, “I don’t have my wallet on me.”
You look at him sideways, and he feels a bit judged, honestly. “Dude, it’s like two bucks, I’ll spot you.”
You pull the car through the drive-thru of the nearest Bat-Burger, order two hot chocolates, and then pull up to the window and hand over your card. The lady certainly gives the two of you a weird look, Dick shirtless, and you driving pantless. But it’s nothing compared to the look Bat-Burger employees give him when he swings by in full Nightwing gear for a late-night post-patrol snack.
The woman working the drive-thru passes along the two cups of warmth, which you have to stretch for since you didn't pull up close enough to the window.
Dick graciously accepts the flimsy paper cup and mumbles out his thanks.
You pull into the parking lot in the front, so conveniently next to the Batmobile. He wonders why Bruce decided to agree tonight, or maybe Damian stole the Batmobile again.
You put your car into park and yawn with a big stretch. Dick thinks you look a bit like a cat. It’s cute. Yeah, he’s given in to his illogical feelings, he doesn’t care anymore, he likes the way he feels being around you. And contrary to his own belief that he doesn’t deserve happiness, he wants to be selfish and hold on to whatever this budding feeling is.
He hides his face in his drink, the steam coming out from it making him feel like it’s ok to blush in this situation since it’ll be hidden.
“I hate that their peppermint hot chocolate is seasonal,” You break the silence, and when he doesn’t say anything in return immediately, he watches you fumble around for something before procuring your phone. “I know you said you don’t want to talk about it, and that’s cool, and I’m still willing to listen if you do want to talk. But sometimes playing music really loudly in the car helps, so here.”
You extend your unlocked phone to him, already opened to your music app. He gingerly takes your phone from you, but doesn’t immediately put anything on. Instead, he balances the phone on his thigh and brings his hand up to scrub over his face.
He changes the things between his hands, placing his cup of hot chocolate between his legs instead of the cup holder, and then picks your phone back up with both hands this time. He clicks on the search bar, and the keyboard comes up, but his thumbs just hover over the screen. When was the last time he listened to music for leisure? Sure, he’s listened, like at some club he infiltrated, and he listened to Black Canary before taking Damian to a concert. But when was the last time he listened for enjoyment?
Suddenly, he remembers a band that drove Bruce crazy, a screamo rock band that he belligerently listened to before he got fired. His fingers type quickly, and he pushes onto the song that pops up first. The first notes of the song pour out of the speakers in your car, and it takes him back. He feels like he’s 17 again, the same empty feeling inside, too.
Dick looks over at you for your reaction. Your eyes are raised in what he guesses is probably surprise, shock, or maybe amusement.
The song ends, and nothing else plays, because he neglected to queue another song, so there’s a soft silence that takes over the warm car. He puts your phone in the empty cup holder and picks up his hot chocolate, which is now reaching a lukewarm temperature.
The two of you sit and sip, only interrupted by your yawn. “Better?” You ask, truly cutting through the silence now.
He nods and smiles softly, his eyes soften even as he just looks at the dash of your car. “Yeah, better.” He wishes he could stay in this bubble forever.
“Can I take you home now? It’s a little past my bedtime.” You gesture to the digital clock on your stereo that flashed the time: 1:41 AM. Damn.
He nods again, not sure of what to say, really, but he feels guilty for keeping you out now. Not everyone stays up until 3 in the morning and gets up at 7 like him. He intertwines his fingers together and squeezes to try to stop the hot tendril of shame and anxiety from flaring and flushing through him. “Sorry,” he mumbles out, his voice as small as he feels right now.
“Whoa, hey, there’s no need to apologize!” You wave your hands, and Dick can hear the panic in your voice. “Everything I did was still my own choice, so don’t feel bad for being here. Please.” Both of your hands, still cold, grab his bare shoulders to turn him towards you. He sees that your eyes are full of desperation for him to believe you as he meets them with his own.
“Ok,” Dick mumbles out half-heartedly, he doesn’t fully believe that he’s not being a burden. But the way you were pleading with him makes him feel bad; he doesn’t want to make you feel bad.
You let go of him, and he misses the cool touch on his overheated skin. “Ok,” you parrot back. You open your phone again, and this time open your map and hand it back over.
He puts his address in and pushes start on the navigation. Then he looks at you, “Can I play more music?”
“You don’t even have to ask.” You tell him as you look back to start to reverse out of the Bat-Burger parking lot. “Just, uh, maybe something a little less distracting so I can drive.”
Dick chuckles at that. You were cute to protect his feelings even if he didn’t need it. He puts on another song, more music he listened to when he was younger, and remembers to queue songs this time.
The drive is nice, most of the rain and hail subsided by now, leaving everything wet and reflective. Dick pays attention to the city outside his window, a different perspective than normal for this time of night. But mostly he pays attention to your voice as you occasionally sing along to some of the songs.
The voice from your phone guides you to his apartment. You pull your car into a parking spot, and he watches as you assess the building with a quiet ‘huh’.
“Thank you for tonight. I think I needed it.”
A smile spreads on your face, and you shake your head, “No, thank you for letting me feel useful. I think I needed it.”
“To mutually beneficial midnight outings?” He proposes and holds up his almost empty and cold hot chocolate cup, asking for a clink.
Your smile widens, and you hold up your own hot chocolate. “To early morning escapades.” And bump your empty cup to his.
He lets the moment linger, but he knows he can’t stay in your car forever. “Good night.” He says, but his hand hovers over the handle; he doesn’t open it, he can’t.
“Can I tell you a secret before you leave?” You ask softly. He thinks you’re too kind, extending the moment even after admitting you’re tired, letting him stay. He turns back around to watch you, to study your sleepy eyes. “Magnesium. It’ll help with your insomnia if Melatonin hasn’t.”
Dick inhales sharply, he wasn’t used to being studied back, by civilians at least, “How did you-“
You cut him off, “Who else is out at a park for a walk at 1 in the morning? And the circles are telling.” You point to your own skin under your eyes as a reference. Though the closer he looks, you’re in the same boat.
He shakes his head with a huff of a laugh. You’d probably get along with his brothers, making fun of him in a caring way. It gives him the resolve he needs, “Thank you. Again. For everything.”
“Yeah, yeah, get going.” You nudge him with your elbow and deflect. Huh, he does the same because he doesn’t know how to receive compliments. He finally pulls the handle to let himself out and waves the entire time as he walks to the front of his building.
You stay, of course, you do, in your car until he disappears into the lobby. That feels like the one concrete thing he’s learned about you is that you’re good at staying, at listening, and just being there, even if it’s been a single interaction.
When he gets upstairs to his apartment, he rushes to the window and pulls it wide open to lean over the sill. He watches as your car pulls away, and he smiles. A gigantic, genuine, giddy smile that feels like it’s overtaking his entire being. Like you’ve fundamentally changed something inside of him, because how else could he explain the 180° change in his mood?
Dick falls back into his bed, this time happy to be there, and smiles nonsensically up at the ceiling. But then the stark realization hits him, he didn’t get your name.
Oh yeah, and he left all his wet clothes in your car.
➤ 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔, you were just returning home after a blissful night of steamy sex with jason, however, you find your apartment unlocked and before you could question who—you find grayson in the doorway of your bedroom.
➤ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 — FLUFF. Sexual Themes.
➤ 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎 — 22.2k
𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍’𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀! here we are with the first fic of 2026! the long term project that has finally reached it’s two part conclusion—this one took me a minute but here it goes. I hope you all enjoy both parts then read my other announcement.
𝙉𝙀𝙓𝙏 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏 ➜ DEVOTION
LEAVING Jason's apartment turned into its own kind of battle.
Morning light was spilling weakly through the curtains, pale and soft against tangled sheets and the warm weight of Jason half-wrapped around you. He'd woken up first, of course—body running on some internal schedule honed by bad years and worse neighborhoods—but instead of getting up, he'd stayed. An arm cinched around your waist. Lips pressed into the back of your shoulder. A lazy, smug, "Call in sick. I'll write your excuse."
You twisted in his hold to face him, blinking sleep from your eyes. "I can't," you muttered, even though part of you absolutely wanted to. "I already took time off for... everything."
He dragged a hand down his face, the white streak in his hair sticking up in a way that made him look younger, softer. "You say 'everything' like you didn't just survive Gotham State and make my life more interesting," he grumbled. Then he hooked a hand behind your neck and kissed you—slow, persuasive, the kind that offered a dozen reasons to stay. "Stay. I'll make breakfast. Or order it. And then ruin you on every flat surface I own."
You laughed into his mouth, pushing at his chest half-heartedly. "You are dangerous to productivity, you know that?"
"Yes," he said, entirely unbothered. "That's the point."
It took more effort than you liked to pull yourself out of his bed, out of his hands, out of the gravity of his apartment. You showered, threw your clothes back on, endured at least three more attempts to lure you back—"You sure your office exists without you? Sounds fake."—and finally escaped with a kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth and the promise to text him later.
The walk home felt lighter than usual. Gotham's early air bit at your cheeks, crisp and damp from last night's rain, the streets slick with reflections of traffic lights and neon signs shutting down for the day. You grabbed a coffee from the corner cart, the vendor giving you a nod like you were becoming a regular again. Normal. Routine. Human.
You climbed the familiar stairs to your building, the weight of your satchel bouncing against your hip, keys jangling as you fished them out of your pocket. By the time you reached your floor, your brain was already flipping through the day ahead—emails, meetings, the far-off comfort of knowing you had somebody you could maybe call "seeing" now.
Then you stepped into your apartment.
Something was off.
The air felt wrong—too cold, too stirred. The hairs on your arms prickled under your jacket before you even saw it.
Your window.
You stopped dead in the doorway, keys still in hand, eyes zeroing in on the slightly open window across the room. The curtain swayed gently in a draft that shouldn't have been there, letting in a slice of Gotham's gray daylight and street noise you normally kept shut out.
You knew—down in your bones—that you had not left it open.
Your pulse kicked up. A dozen prison-honed instincts snapped awake.
You quietly shut the door behind you, fingers finding the lock and turning it with slow, controlled pressure so it wouldn't click too loud. You shrugged off your satchel, letting it fall by the door. Then you slid your jacket off your shoulders, each movement deliberate, folding it over the back of the nearest chair instead of just tossing it—your body going through familiar motions while your brain cataloged exits, angles, shadows.
"Alright," you called out, voice steady but edged, as you rolled your shoulders back and planted your feet. "Whoever broke into my place is about two seconds from getting their ass whipped."
You took a couple of steps farther in, eyes scanning corners. The kitchen? Clear. The couch? Empty. The bathroom door stood open, nothing behind it but tile and a towel still hanging where you left it. The only place left—
Your bedroom.
The door was half-closed. Not how you'd left it. A shadow flickered against the wall as someone shifted inside.
"Come out where I can see you," you warned, jaw tight. "Last chance."
The handle turned.
The door opened.
And there he was.
Grayson stepped out of your bedroom like he belonged there, like he'd been waiting in your space long before you knew to look for him. No prison jumpsuit. No restraints. Dark jeans, dark jacket, the same steady gray eyes that had once watched your every move from the upper bunk. He looked... the same and not. Sharper in some places. Softer in none.
Your breath caught mid-inhale, your brain stumbling over his name even as your body recognized him instantly.
"Grayson," you whispered, shock punching the word out of you.
The adrenaline didn't drain right away.
For a long beat, you and Grayson just stared at each other across your living room—him in the doorway of your bedroom, you standing a few feet from the entrance with your keys still clenched in your hand. The city noise seeped in faintly from the street: a distant car horn, a barking dog, Gotham humming its usual, indifferent tune.
You swallowed, forced your fingers to relax around the keyring, metal biting half-moons into your palm. "Okay," you said finally, voice steadying as you exhaled. "We're not doing this standing up."
You gestured toward the couch and moved first, half to show you weren't afraid, half because your legs needed something to do other than lock. You dropped your keys on the coffee table with a soft clatter, then sank onto the far end of the couch, leaving space. Grayson followed at his own pace, calm strides, hands in his jacket pockets like he'd rehearsed this walk.
He sat down at the other end, spine straight, feet planted. Close enough to touch you if he leaned, far enough that he wasn't assuming he could.
Up close, you could see the differences time had etched into him: a little more stubble, a hint of tired shadows under his eyes, a new scar along his neck that hadn't been there in the yard. But the bones were the same. Those storm-gray eyes were still cutting, still observant, still too good at seeing through you.
You turned toward him, tucking one leg up underneath you, hands curling loosely on your knee. "So," you started, lifting your brows. "How and why are you out?"
You held his gaze. "And before you get defensive—it's not that I'm not happy to see you. I just... walked into my apartment expecting leftovers and bad emails, not you sitting in my bedroom like a ghost."
A beat of silence passed. His jaw shifted, the muscle there ticking once like he had about five answers and was choosing which one to let you have.
"Sentence got reviewed," he said at last, voice low, even. "Good behavior. Work detail. Some people in the right places decided they'd made their point with the time I'd served."
You frowned slightly. "That's it? They woke up and decided 'oops, our bad'?"
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth. "Gotham doesn't do 'our bad.' It does 'close enough' and moves on." He shrugged one shoulder. "Lawyer I didn't ask for. Paperwork I didn't see. Doors opened. I walked."
You watched him as he spoke. His tone was casual, but there was a weariness beneath it—and something else, something coiled and unfinished. It made your chest tighten.
"How long?" you asked. "How long have you been out?"
"Couple weeks," he said. His gaze flicked briefly around your place—window, door, kitchen, back to you—like he was checking the perimeter even while sitting still. "Wanted to see how you landed."
You sat with that for a second, then nodded slowly. "Well... I landed. Still in Gotham. Still alive." A smirk edged into your own voice. "Taking self-defense now. I even throw a pretty decent punch."
His eyes softened just a fraction. "I know," he said quietly. "I saw the gym card in your bag."
You blinked. "You went through my—okay, we're circling back to that later."
He didn't apologize. He just watched you, waiting.
A different kind of worry surfaced. "Do you have a place?" you asked. "You staying with someone? Got a phone? Money? Anything to... get by?"
His shoulders rolled in a muted shrug. "Got a cot in a room above a repair shop. Cash job. No phone yet." His mouth tilted wryly. "Window access seems to work fine for now."
You stared at him, something between annoyance and affection prickling under your skin. It was so him—functional, minimal, one foot on solid ground, the other on a ledge.
"That's not enough," you said finally. "Not long-term."
He gave you a look like he'd been living on 'not enough' long before you met. "It's what I've got."
You exhaled, running a hand over your face, then dropped it and met his eyes again. "Okay. Then I'm saying this before I overthink it and talk myself out of it."
You shifted closer, not all the way into his space, but enough to make clear you meant every word.
"Do you want to stay here?" you asked. "At least for a while. Until you get your feet under you. A real bed, hot water that doesn't scream, somewhere you don't have to sleep with one eye open." Your mouth quirked. "I mean, the couch is shit but it's better than a cot."
His expression didn't change quickly—it rarely did—but you saw it, the flicker of surprise under the stoicism, the way his shoulders went still.
"You're offering me a place to stay," he said slowly, like he wanted to be sure he'd heard you right. "After everything."
"You protected me when it counted," you said, voice softening. "No matter how messy it got between us, that part's real. And I know what it's like to come out and have everything feel... thin. Like the world's too big and too small at the same time."
You shrugged, trying not to make it a big deal even though you both knew it was. "You need somewhere to land. I've got space. So yeah. Stay. At least until you've got savings, a phone, more than three outfits and a cot above a noisy engine."
His eyes searched your face for a long moment, looking for doubt, pity, strings—whatever he'd been trained to expect. He didn't seem to find any.
"You sure?" he asked quietly. Not a challenge. A check.
You nodded. "I don't offer shit I don't mean."
The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly at that—something like pride, something like relief. He inhaled, slow, then sat back a little, the tension in his frame easing by a single notch.
"Alright," he said. "I'll stay."
His gaze held yours, steady and intent.
"For now."
YOU FELL into a rhythm with him faster than you expected.
By the next morning, the apartment felt... shared. Not in an invasive way—just in the subtle, practical adjustments that came when another person moved through your space with intention. Dick—because he'd insisted you call him that now, not Grayson—had already made a quiet assessment of every weak point in your place by the time you'd finished your first cup of coffee.
"The locks are shit," he said, standing by the door with his arms folded, gaze tracing the frame, the hinges, the deadbolt you'd always assumed was fine. "Windows too. Anyone who wants in... gets in."
You lifted your mug. "Someone did get in."
That got the smallest twitch of his mouth. "Exactly."
So you both threw on jackets and headed out.
The department store was one of those big, over-lit places that smelled like cardboard and cheap plastic, its aisles lined with things nobody needed and a few things you suddenly really did. You pushed the cart mostly out of habit while Dick walked slightly ahead, scanning shelves like this was a reconnaissance mission instead of a hardware errand.
He steered straight for the home improvement section, zeroing in on locks, latches, and reinforced bars with the ease of someone who'd thought about this longer than was normal.
"This one," he said, tapping a heavy-duty deadbolt still in its plastic. "And this." He picked up a secondary latch for the window, then swapped it for a sturdier version without missing a beat. "You want the kind that slows people down, makes them rethink whether you're worth the effort."
"So you're saying I am worth the effort," you said lightly, just to see his reaction.
He glanced at you sideways, eyes skimming over your face, then the corner of his mouth tugged up. "Always have been."
You pretended to study a rack of door chains so he wouldn't see the way that landed.
By the time you left, the cart held: a new deadbolt, a reinforced door strike plate, two window locks, a basic toolkit "that doesn't suck" according to Dick, and a few other small things he tossed in with quiet practicality—weatherstripping, a better flashlight, batteries, a cheap peephole kit for the front door.
Back at the apartment, you divided and conquered without even talking about it.
"I'll handle the doors and windows," Dick said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it neatly over the back of a chair. "You handle... not passing out on an empty stomach."
"Wow," you said, hanging your own jacket. "Was that an actual request for breakfast?"
"That was me saying I work better if you're fed," he replied, already kneeling by the door with the toolkit open beside him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "I wouldn't turn down coffee."
You snorted, but your chest warmed a little.
You moved into the kitchen, the simple domesticity of it strange and comforting. The skillet went on the stove, oil heating with a soft shimmer. You pulled eggs from the fridge, bread from the counter, chopped up what you had: onions, a little cheese, the last strips of bacon you'd been saving for a day that needed it. The sizzle of bacon joined the quiet metallic clink of tools behind you—screwdrivers, the faint grind of a drill, the solid chunk of old hardware being removed.
From the living room, you heard the muffled sound of screws being loosened, the bolt plate coming off. Dick worked quietly, efficiently, no wasted motion, no unnecessary noise. You could picture him there: braced in that small square of space by your door, head bent, forearms flexing as he tested the alignment of the new lock.
The smell of breakfast warmed the apartment—bacon, toasted bread, coffee that actually smelled like an invitation instead of survival.
"You always cook like this," he called from the door, voice carrying over the low hum of the drill, "or is this a special 'don't let the ex-con die in your living room' meal?"
You chuckled, flipping the eggs. "You're not an ex-con, you're a tenant. And yeah, I cook like this. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse."
There was a pause—and then a new sound: the metallic click of the new deadbolt sliding into place. "There," he said, satisfaction threading his voice. "If anyone gets through this now, it's either a cop with a ram... or someone you really pissed off."
"So... Gotham," you replied.
He didn't argue.
A few minutes later, you heard the rattle of the window, the soft scrape of metal against metal as he removed the old latch. He shifted into the narrow sill with ease, one knee propped up, shoulders hunched as he leaned in, checking the frame for any weakness. You caught glimpses of him when you glanced over—jacket off now, t-shirt stretching across the muscles in his back, forearm veins standing out as he tightened screws.
"Coffee's ready," you called.
"In a minute," he replied. "This one's the worst. It's where I came in."
That made you pause.
You plated up the food first—eggs, bacon, toast divided between two plates. You poured his coffee black, yours with a little cream, then set everything on the small dining table. By the time you wiped your hands on a towel and leaned in the doorway to the living room, he was finishing up on the last window lock, giving it a few sharp, testing rattles.
Satisfied, he dusted his palms together and straightened. "Okay," he said. "Now it's annoying to break into your place. That's the goal."
He walked over, testing the door one more time before joining you at the table. He slid into the chair across from you, glanced at the plate, then at you with something that might have been gratitude under all the restraint.
He took a bite of bacon first, then a sip of coffee. His shoulders eased by a millimeter. "Better," he said simply, and you knew he meant more than just the food.
"For a guy who broke into my apartment, you're surprisingly concerned with no one else doing it," you noted.
He smirked faintly. "I'm invested now."
You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your mouth anyway.
For a few minutes, you both just ate in companionable silence, the clink of cutlery and hum of the fridge filling the room. Then, halfway through his eggs, Dick lifted his gaze to you and asked, "So. What've you been up to since you walked out those gates?"
You looked up from your toast, caught off-guard by how direct—and how casual—the question was. But his expression was open, genuinely curious, like he wasn't just asking for a report. He wanted to know what your life looked like now.
You sat back a little, wrapping your hands around your coffee mug. "A lot," you said. "And not much at the same time."
He kept watching you, patient.
"I got the job first," you continued. "Office gig. Stable hours. Health insurance that actually covers more than aspirin. It's not glamorous, but... it's mine. I show up, people expect me. In a good way."
He gave a small nod, approval flickering in his eyes.
"Started taking self-defense classes," you added. "Two nights a week. At first because I didn't want to feel... helpless again. Now I'm kind of addicted. My instructor says I have good instincts."
"I could've told you that," Dick said, wiping his mouth with the edge of his napkin. "You learn fast. In there. Out here."
You shrugged, but it warmed you. "Got back into cooking. I used to do it a lot before... everything. It's weird, having enough space and time to make a meal and actually sit down to eat it."
His thumb tapped once against his mug. "And people?" he asked. "You got anyone? Friends. Family. Neighbors who don't suck."
You hesitated just a fraction—the shape of Jason's name sitting warm in your chest—but decided not to unpack that yet. "Coworkers," you said. "One or two who feel... safe. Not friends-friends yet. But I'm getting there."
He nodded like that was the right answer. Not too much, not too little.
"And you," you said, tilting your head. "You've been... fixing engines and sleeping above them?"
His mouth curved again, faint and wry. "Pretty much. Shop owner doesn't ask questions, I don't give any answers he doesn't need. Turn a wrench, keep my head down, make sure the place doesn't get robbed. Same skills. Different setting."
You studied him for a second; he let you.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?" you said quietly. "Being out. Doing... normal."
He held your gaze, something unspoken passing through his eyes. "Yeah," he admitted. "But this—" he gestured subtly between you, the table, the locked door, the food—"this helps."
You nodded, a small, steady warmth settling inside you.
The two of you kept eating, working your way through breakfast, both knowing without saying it that this was the start of something new: a life where Dick fixed your locks, you fed him coffee, and the two of you slowly relearned each other in a space that was finally, blessedly, yours.
YOU LEFT Dick at your apartment that morning with a spare key dropped into his palm—a small, worn piece of metal that meant a hell of a lot more than it looked like.
Most people wouldn't do that. Not with someone who'd just gotten out. Not with someone whose name had once been whispered in prison corridors with a mix of respect and fear. But Dick wasn't "most people," and you weren't guessing with him. You'd seen who he was when things were at their worst—how he moved, how he kept his word, how he drew lines and bled to defend them. If you trusted anyone not to screw you over with a key, it was him.
"Just in case," you'd said, closing his fingers around it. "So you don't get locked out, or have to climb through my window like some rooftop cryptid again."
That earned you the smallest snort, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "You liked the cryptid," he'd replied, tucking the key into his pocket with quiet finality. The unspoken part hung between you: this wasn't just logistics. This was you saying you belong here enough to come and go.
By noon, you were back in your other life—fluorescent lights, the soft buzz of computers, the low hum of office chatter. Your desk was cluttered with sticky notes, a half-drunk coffee, and a spreadsheet that refused to cooperate. You were halfway through untangling a column when your phone buzzed across the desk, Jason's name lighting up the screen.
You answered with a quiet, "Hey," trying to keep your voice professional enough that it didn't scream I had you in my bed last night.
"Hey yourself," Jason drawled, city noise faint in the background on his end. "Just checking in on my favorite bad influence. Alive? Hydrated? Able to walk in a straight line?"
You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself. "Barely. The jury's still out."
"Good," he said, clearly satisfied with that. "So, I was thinking... I'm free tonight. You come over, I order food, we pick up where we left off, and see how many times we can make your neighbors file a noise complaint."
Heat flickered in your chest at the way he said it, easy and confident, like last night had been the opening chapter, not a one-off.
For a second, you were tempted. Then reality leaned on your shoulder—the memory of a key glinting in Dick's hand, his duffel by your couch, the fact that you now had a houseguest who was very much not hypothetical.
You sighed, turning your chair slightly so your coworkers wouldn't see your expression. "I'm gonna have to raincheck."
There was a pause on the line, the kind loaded with a raised eyebrow you could practically hear. "Raincheck?" Jason repeated. "On me? Bold move. Explain."
You chewed your bottom lip for a beat. "I've got... a guest," you said, picking your words carefully. "Staying with me for a little while. Just got out. Needs somewhere to land. I can't exactly ditch him on night one."
Jason went quiet—not the dangerous kind, just the thoughtful kind. You could imagine him leaning against a brick wall somewhere, eyes narrowing slightly, piecing things together.
"A guest," he echoed. "That the 'gym card in your bag' type guest, or the 'this is a conversation' type guest?"
You let out a breathless little laugh. "The 'this is a conversation' type. I'll tell you more when we see each other. Just... tonight, I should be home."
Another small pause. Then a slow exhale. "Alright," he said. "Raincheck accepted. I'm not thrilled about sharing your schedule, but I'm not a monster." His voice warmed at the edges. "Just don't forget who called dibs on your next free night."
"Wouldn't dream of it," you replied.
You hung up a moment later, your phone dimming as you set it back down. Between the spreadsheet on your screen, the key now living in Dick's pocket, and Jason's voice still echoing in your ear, one thing was very clear:
Your life had gotten a lot more complicated—and a lot more full—than it had been just a few months ago.
YOU COME home with your arms full and your brain fried.
The hallway outside your apartment smells like someone burned toast and tried to cover it with cheap cologne. You balance the takeout bag on one wrist while fishing for your keys, but before you even get the door fully unlocked, you hear movement on the other side—light footsteps, the soft scrape of metal against wood.
You push the door open and step in.
Dick is standing by the entrance, shoulders squared in that way he has, a small tool kit open at his feet. The front door is half-disassembled, the old brass plate removed, the fresh peephole kit laid out in pieces on a folded dish towel so it doesn't scratch the paint. There's a measuring tape hanging from his pocket, and he's holding a drill like it's just another extension of his hand.
"Smells good," he says without looking up yet. "Tell me that's not more instant noodles."
You kick the door shut with your heel and lock it, dropping your keys into the bowl by habit. "Relax," you answer, lifting the bag. "Real food. I brought dinner."
That gets his attention. He straightens, glancing over with a small nod of approval. "Where from?"
"The decent Chinese place around the corner," you say, carrying the bag into the kitchen. "Not the one that gives you existential crises with your egg rolls."
"Good," he replies, turning back to the door. "I like my food without side effects."
You start unpacking containers onto the counter—steamed rice, orange chicken, stir-fried vegetables, dumplings, that extra side of spring rolls you pretended not to want but ordered anyway. The familiar smell fills the small apartment, warm and comforting. You set out plates, grab a couple of chopsticks and forks, and leave it all within reach so he can grab a plate whenever he's finished playing surgeon with your door.
Behind you, the drill whirs to life for a second—high, focused, then silent again. The sound of screws going in, the muted thunk of metal being seated correctly. Dick's movements are neat, efficient, like he's done this a hundred times in a hundred different doorways.
Your phone buzzes on the counter.
You wipe your hands on a paper towel and pick it up.
Jason: You survive the capitalist hellscape today? Or do I need to come stage a rescue with coffee and illegal muffins?
You bite back a grin and type back quickly.
You: Barely. You'd be rescuing a corpse. I brought home Chinese and a headache.
The reply is instant.
Jason: Chinese can be re-heated. Your headache, I can kiss better tomorrow night.
You huff a small, helpless laugh, the kind that crinkles the corners of your eyes even when you're trying to act normal. You lean your hip against the counter, thumbs moving.
You: Tomorrow's looking more possible. Houseguest situation is... stabilizing.
Jason: Good. I'll send flowers to the couch he's using.
You're still smiling when you feel it—that prickling awareness that you're being watched. You look up.
Dick is at the door, one hand braced against the wood as he finishes tightening the new peephole into place. He's not staring, exactly—but he's definitely seen the curve of your mouth and the way you're holding your phone like it's suddenly more interesting than sautéed vegetables.
"You look happy," he says, tone casual as he gives the peephole a testing twist. "That a good text or did your boss finally quit?"
You lock your phone and set it back down, trying not to look like you just got caught passing notes in class. "Just... talking to someone," you say, moving to grab plates. "How's the door?"
"Secure," he says, stepping back and studying his handiwork, then turning to face you fully. "Now you can see who's knocking before you decide if you like them."
You carry one plate toward him, holding it out. "You're assuming I like anyone."
He takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly. "You like whoever's on the other end of that phone," he says mildly. "You've been smiling since you picked it up."
You roll your eyes, returning to the kitchen for your own food. "You're observant. Maddening, but observant."
He doesn't sit right away. He sets his plate on the table, then leans a shoulder against the wall near the door, arms folding across his chest as his gaze settles on you—not cold, not aggressive, just... intent.
"So," he says, nodding at the phone on the counter, "you going to tell me who he is?"
You pause halfway through serving your rice. "Who says it's a he?"
His brows lift a millimeter. "The way you're smiling," he replies simply. "And the fact that you didn't deny it. Who is he?"
You hesitate for a beat, then decide there's no point dancing around it. "His name's Jason," you say, placing your plate on the table. "We've been... seeing each other. It's new."
You don't add and he calls himself Red inside my head, or I met him in laundry under fluorescent lights. You don't need to. The name alone is enough of a truth.
For a half second, you think you see something flicker in Dick's eyes—something sharp and knowing—but it's gone so fast you can't be sure. His face settles back into that controlled calm, the kind he perfected in prison.
"Jason," he repeats, tasting the name like he's checking it against a file he already has. "He treating you right?"
You pull out your chair and sit. "Yeah," you say honestly. "He is."
Dick pushes off the wall and joins you at the table, finally sinking into the chair across from you. He picks up his chopsticks and opens the rice container, hands moving with practiced ease.
"Good," he says, not quite looking at you but close. "You deserve that."
Your phone buzzes again—Jason sending another message, probably something that would make you roll your eyes and smile at the same time—but you leave it where it is this round.
Dick glances at it once, then back to his food. He doesn't ask any more questions. Not yet. Instead, he digs into his dinner, shoulders loosening as he takes the first bite.
You eat, too, the three currents of your life all humming at once around the small table: the solid weight of Dick across from you; the glow of Jason waiting in your phone; and you, right in the middle, balancing them both with a fork, chopsticks, and a brand-new peephole watching over your door.
SLEEP SETTLED over you quickly that night—deep, heavy, the kind of exhaustion that comes after a long day of work and an even longer stretch of feeling too much. You'd crashed hard, sprawled across your bed in an old t-shirt and shorts, the room dim except for the streetlight glow bleeding in around the curtains.
Dick didn't sleep.
He'd taken the couch without argument, stretching out with one arm under his head, the other resting over his chest. The apartment was quiet—fridge humming, pipes ticking in the walls, the distant pulse of Gotham outside. But inside his head, it was anything but calm.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, the shadows shifting in soft patterns across the cracked plaster as headlights passed by outside. His thoughts kept circling the same name.
Jason.
Or rather—
Red.
He could still see him clear as day in that first moment: the laundry room, the lean against the wall, the smug eyes that always lingered a beat too long. Then later, the smirk in the corridor, the questions he'd thrown like grenades, the way he'd almost smiled when he realized just how much you belonged to someone already.
There'd been an unspoken rule back then—one every smart man inside learned fast.
You didn't touch what belonged to someone like Grayson.
Red had broken that rule the second he started poking at your connection. The second he started sniffing at the edges of what you and Dick had. And now, out here, he hadn't just poked.
He'd gotten his hands on you.
Dick's jaw worked, the muscles tightening as he turned onto his side, facing the dark hallway that led to your bedroom. The door was ajar, just enough for a thin strip of soft shadows to spill into the living room. He could imagine you in there—breathing slow, face slack with sleep, unaware of the storm building just a few feet away.
His hand curled loosely into a fist on his chest.
He thought of the way you'd smiled at your phone earlier. The way your shoulders relaxed at Jason's name. The way your voice softened when you called him "someone I'm seeing."
Red had always been good at getting into places he didn't belong.
Dick exhaled, a slow, controlled breath that didn't do much to cool the heat in his chest. He wasn't loud. He didn't rage. That wasn't his way. His anger never came as fire—it came as ice. As resolve. As decisions made in the quiet and acted on later with clean, deliberate precision.
One thought took shape, sharp and solid:
Whatever this thing was between you and Jason—it was going to end.
Not tonight. Not with some jealous tantrum or a conversation that could splinter you in half. No, he knew better than that. But he'd seen enough of Jason to know how he operated. And Dick? Dick had built a reputation on dismantling empires brick by brick.
One man's hold on you?
That didn't even qualify as a challenge.
He shifted again, letting his head fall back against the arm of the couch, eyes closing for a moment as he listened to the quiet of your apartment. Your apartment, where he'd fixed the locks. Your windows, where he'd reinforced what someone else had slipped through. Your table, where he'd eaten food you made. Your spare key, now sitting in his pocket like a promise.
He thought about your laugh in the kitchen as you'd told him about work. About the way you'd leaned on the counter while talking. About how natural it had felt to sit across from you again, even with months of silence and hurt sitting between you like a ghost.
He thought about the nights in your cell—about your back against the wall, his hand on your skin, the way your body had opened for him like you were made to fit him and no one else. He remembered the look in your eyes when he'd given you his first name, the way you'd said it like it meant something.
Dick.
That was him with you. Not Grayson. Not the man the headlines whispered about. Just... him.
And he wanted that back.
Not just the sex. Not just the arrangement. He wanted what had grown quietly in the spaces between all of that—the trust, the ease, the way you'd looked to him when something went wrong, knowing without doubt he would fix it or die trying.
He wanted to kiss you again—slow, without urgency, just because he could. He wanted your weight against his chest at night, your hand loose on his shirt, your breath warming his collarbone. He wanted to know what it felt like to wake up in your apartment and not have a guard's voice be the first sound he heard.
He wanted you back where, in his mind, you had never really stopped being:
With him.
His.
The thought settled in him like a stone at the bottom of a deep river—heavy, immovable, ancient. It didn't feel like a new decision. It felt like remembering something he'd always known, something that had gotten buried under time and steel bars and another man's interference.
He cracked one eye open, staring into the dark toward your bedroom door, and made himself a promise.
Jason might have gotten there first on this side of the walls.
But Dick was going to be the one still standing at the end.
He'd be the one you turned to when things fell apart. The one who fixed what was broken. The one who stayed.
He'd be the one kissing you again—on your couch, in your kitchen, against your door—until every trace of Red faded into background noise. He'd be the one loving you with a steadiness Jason couldn't match. He'd be the one proving, over and over, that no matter how far you'd both gone, every road between you still led to the same place.
Back to each other.
Back to where, in his eyes, you'd always belonged.
Sleep eventually dragged him under, light and restless, with that vow burned clear behind his eyes:
He'd let Jason have his moment.
Then he'd take his place back.
CLOTHES hang in uneven lines—shirts from before prison, newer pieces you've bought since, things that feel like they belong to different versions of you. Tonight is supposed to be simple: dinner with Jason, a real date this time instead of just "come over and see what happens." Still, your brain insists on turning every shirt into a question.
You tug one hanger free, hold the shirt up to your chest, frown, and put it back. Repeat. Jeans or slacks? Boots or sneakers? Jacket or no jacket? The clock on your phone keeps nudging you forward, but your reflection in the mirror just looks... undecided.
Behind you, the soft creak of the floorboards gives him away.
"You planning to move in there," Dick says from the doorway, "or are you waiting for the clothes to pick themselves?"
You meet his eyes in the mirror. He's leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom, arms loose at his sides, hair damp from a recent shower, wearing a dark t-shirt and worn jeans. He looks — annoyingly — like he woke up and just exists in good lighting.
"I have a date," you say, tossing a shirt onto the bed. "I'd like to not look terrible."
"Your standards are low if you think you look terrible," he answers, stepping into the room. "What's the situation?"
"Dinner with Jason," you say, going back to the closet. "Nice place but not... tux nice. I don't want to look like I tried too hard."
"Okay." He comes closer, scanning the contents of your closet with that same assessing look he used on your door locks. "You want to look like yourself, just... sharpened."
You snort. "Is that a professional opinion?"
"That's an I-know-you opinion," he replies, reaching past you to flick through hangers. His arm brushes your shoulder as he does, warm and solid, the faint clean scent of his soap curling around you for a second.
He stops on a deep-colored button-down you haven't worn in a while. "This one," he says, sliding it free. "Looks good with your skin. And it fits right."
He hands it to you, fingers grazing yours, and moves to your dresser. "Dark jeans," he adds over his shoulder. "The good ones, not the 'I cleaned the kitchen in these' ones."
You obey, mostly because it's easier to let him take over than to keep arguing with yourself. You change into the jeans, then shrug into the shirt, leaving the top two buttons undone. When you turn back to the mirror, you have to admit—he picked well. You look... like you put in effort, but not like you're trying to impress a jury.
Dick steps up behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, gray and steady.
"Come here," he says quietly, and you turn to face him.
He reaches for your collar, fingers deft as he straightens the fabric, smoothing it over your shoulders. His touch is light but sure, knuckles brushing the side of your neck as he adjusts the lay of the shirt. Goosebumps rise along your skin at the contact, small and immediate.
"Hold still," he murmurs.
You do.
He tugs one sleeve just so, then the other, making tiny corrections only he seems to notice. When he's done, his hands rest for a moment on your upper arms, thumbs barely moving—just a faint, absent-minded stroke over the fabric that makes you very aware of how close he is.
You look up.
He's already looking at you.
For a few seconds, neither of you speak. The air between you feels suddenly too full, like the room shrank by half. You can see every detail in his face from this distance—the faint scar near his eyebrow, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his mouth softens when he's focused on you and not the world around you.
His gaze dips briefly to your lips, then flicks back to your eyes. You feel it like a touch.
"How do I look?" you ask, because you need to say something that isn't what's trying to climb up your throat.
He studies you for another heartbeat, then answers simply, "Good." His voice is low, a little rough. "He's going to notice when you walk in."
The compliment lands heavier than it should. "Yeah?" you manage.
"Yeah," he says, fingers giving the slightest squeeze to your arms before he lets go. He steps back, the space between you cooling by degrees. "Grab your jacket. Don't let Gotham freeze you before dessert."
You nod, moving to the chair where you left it, shrugging it on. You can still feel the echo of his touch along your neck, your arms, the weight of his gaze hanging in the air as you check yourself in the mirror one last time.
You then drifted to the bathroom, humming under your breath and completely oblivious to the world outside the door.
You didn't hear the knock.
Dick did.
The knock came in three solid beats against the wood—confident, not tentative. It wasn't your landlord; he always pounded like the building owed him money. It wasn't a neighbor; they usually yelled your name before trying the door.
Dick's eyes narrowed slightly.
He walked out of your bedroom, and moved to the door with that quiet, economical grace he had—no wasted steps, no noise. He checked the new peephole he'd installed himself. The face on the other side made his jaw tighten just a fraction.
Jason.
In a dark jacket, hair perfectly tousled, that white streak catching the hallway light. He was facing the door like he owned the air around it, shoulders relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side. He looked like someone who expected the person on the other side to be very happy to see him.
Dick undid the locks with unhurried precision and opened the door.
The shift on Jason's face was immediate.
He'd been wearing a small, anticipatory smirk—the kind he probably reserved for when he knew there was a good night waiting on the other side. But the second he saw who was standing in your doorway instead of you, that expression fractured.
Shock flashed clean across his features.
His eyes opened wider, the blue cutting sharper. The easy line of his mouth went rigid, then curled, but not in amusement. His gaze swept Dick in a quick, assessing pass—taking in the well-fitted t-shirt, the relaxed stance, the way he stood with his shoulder half-blocking the interior of your apartment like he belonged there.
"Grayson," Jason said at last, voice flat with disbelief. "Well. That's new."
"Out here," Dick replied calmly, one hand braced on the edge of the door, gray eyes cool and unreadable. "It's Dick."
Jason huffed a short laugh, though there wasn't much humor in it. He leaned back a fraction, palms lifting for a beat as if to acknowledge the correction. "Dick," he repeated, trying the name on like it tasted odd in his mouth. "You're... out."
"Clearly," Dick said. No smile, no edge in his tone—just fact.
Jason's glance flickered past him into the apartment—automatic, shameless. He clocked the small changes instantly: Dick's jacket on the back of a chair. The new toolkit on the floor by the wall. The takeout containers from the night before in the trash. The general sense that someone else was living here now, not just visiting.
The realization clicked into place in his expression.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, more to himself than to Dick. His eyes sharpened. "You're the houseguest."
Dick said nothing for a moment. He didn't deny it.
Jason's jaw flexed once. He rolled his shoulders like he was physically resetting himself, then refocused on the man in front of him.
"Well," he said, recovering some of that familiar smugness, though there was a wary edge to it now. "Guess we should talk, then. Since you're... answering his door."
Dick gave a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, then stepped back just enough to let Jason cross the threshold—but not enough to fully concede the space. Jason entered the apartment, eyes flicking over everything again, cataloguing, measuring. The door shut behind him with a solid, final click.
You were still in the bathroom, completely unaware—water running briefly as you rinsed your hands, the low scrape of the mirror cabinet as you grabbed something. To you, the apartment was the same.
To them, it was the battlefield.
They stopped a few paces apart in the living room, the coffee table between them like a neutral border.
Jason shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, weight shifting onto one leg. "So," he began, eyes never leaving Dick's. "Let's start with the obvious. Why are you in my boyfriend's apartment?"
Dick's gaze didn't flicker. "Didn't know he belonged to you," he said evenly. "Last I checked, he doesn't belong to anyone."
Jason's lip twitched. "Cute," he said. "Deflection looks good on you. But you didn't answer the question."
He took a step closer, not enough to be in Dick's space, just enough to make intent clear. "Why are you staying here? In his place? Sleeping on his couch? Using his shower?"
"Because he asked me to," Dick replied, voice calm as cement. "He knew I was out. Knew I was between places. He offered his couch, his spare key, his coffee." His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. "So I took it."
Jason studied him for a long second, eyes narrowed, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. "Right," he said slowly. "And you just happened to come looking for him the second you got your freedom?"
Dick's mouth flattened, but his tone stayed soft. "I came to make sure he was alright. I have that right."
Jason snorted. "Sure. Ex-cellmate courtesy. That what we're calling it?"
For the first time, something sharp flickered in Dick's grey eyes. Not anger—something colder. "You seem very invested for a guy who knew exactly who I was and still put his hands on him."
Jason's smirk came back full force at that. "Oh, we're asking about 'how' now?" he said, voice warming with smug satisfaction. "Thought you'd never bring it up."
He shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders back, the confidence settling into him like a familiar coat. "You want to know how I convinced him?" Jason asked, tilting his head. "Even though he knew I was Red?"
Dick didn't answer, but the question had clearly landed. His gaze held steady, demanding the rest.
Jason obliged.
"Simple," he said. "I didn't talk to him like he was a rumor. Or a territory marker. Or some kind of invisible line I couldn't cross because it might upset the ghost of Grayson." His eyes glittered, bright and cutting. "I talked to him like he was a person. Out here. Not an extension of whatever you two were in there."
He took another step forward, voice dropping just enough to feel like a challenge. "I made him laugh. I listened. I showed up. I cooked for him. I kissed him like he was something I wanted—not something I had to protect to prove a point." His smirk sharpened. "And when he let me in? I made sure he didn't regret it."
He let that hang there.
Dick's expression didn't crack, but the air tightened between them, the weight of unspoken history and a very clear fault line cutting the room in half.
From down the hall, the bathroom door clicked faintly as you turned off the light, footsteps heading back toward the bedroom. The muffled sounds of your movements floated toward them—evidence that you were still blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in your own living room.
Jason flicked his gaze briefly in that direction, then back to Dick.
"So yeah," he finished, voice soft and edged with smugness. "That's how."
Dick's jaw flexed once more, eyes storm-gray, unreadable, but every line of his body said the same quiet thing:
We'll see how long it lasts.
Thankfully, you stepped out of the bedroom walking straight into the wall of tension.
You saw Dick and Jason standing almost exactly opposite each other—one on the far side of the coffee table, the other near the arm of the couch. Neither was touching anything, but somehow it felt like the room was too full. The air had a charged weight to it, like someone had paused a fight right before the first punch.
Both sets of eyes snapped to you the second you appeared.
"Hey," you said, slowing a little as you took them in. "Uh... everyone's alive. Good start."
Jason's expression shifted first. The hardness in his eyes softened just a notch when he looked at you, the corners of his mouth lifting into something that wasn't quite a smile, not with Dick still there—but close. For half a second, you saw it: the warmth he'd walked in here with before the door opened on somebody else.
Then he flicked a quick look back at Dick—sharp, meaningful. It wasn't dramatic, but you read it perfectly: We're not done with this.
When his gaze returned to you, that silent message had been folded away, replaced by something easier. He let out a breath and straightened, shrugging tension off his shoulders like a coat.
"You ready?" Jason asked, tone light enough that someone who didn't know him might have thought nothing was wrong.
You glanced between the two of them again, that prickle at the back of your neck telling you something had been said before you walked in. "Yeah," you replied slowly. "Just let me grab my—"
Your keys were already by the door. You walked over, grabbing your keys, feeling both of them watching you from different corners of the room.
Once you had everything, you crossed back toward the couch where Dick stood. You could've just waved. You could've nodded and left it at that.
You didn't.
"See you later," you said, pausing in front of him. The words were simple, but you meant them. "Don't wait up or anything."
For an instant, the smallest warmth flickered in his eyes. "I'll be here," Dick answered, voice low and even. "Door's locked. Windows are tight. Go enjoy your night."
You gave him a faint smile. "Thanks—for all of that."
He dipped his head in acknowledgment, and the exchange felt like what it was: a quiet thread between the two of you that had nothing to do with who was waiting in the hallway.
Behind you, Jason rolled his eyes.
It wasn't loud or exaggerated—just a small, sharp upward flick of his gaze toward the ceiling as he shifted his weight, hands slipping into his jacket pockets. The gesture said of course and unbelievable and are we really doing the heartfelt goodbye in front of me? all at once.
You caught it in your peripheral vision, but chose not to comment. Instead, you turned toward the door.
"Come on," you said to Jason, pulling it open. "Our reservation isn't going to hold itself."
He gave Dick one last look—something between a challenge and a promise—then stepped out into the hallway beside you. As you pulled the door the rest of the way closed, you glanced back once more.
Dick was still standing in the middle of your living room, hands in his pockets, watching you go with that steady, unreadable gaze. You held it for a heartbeat, then the latch caught with a soft click, cutting off the view—and leaving him on one side of the door, you and Jason on the other.
THE DATE starts easy.
Gotham is in that in-between hour where the sky's dim but not fully dark, the streetlights blinking to life one by one as you and Jason walk side by side. The restaurant he picked is tucked on a corner—brick walls, big windows, amber light spilling onto the sidewalk like a promise. Inside, it smells like roasted garlic, seared meat, and fresh herbs; low music hums under the murmur of conversation.
Jason holds the door for you with a little flourish, hand warm at the small of your back as you step in. "Reservation for two," he tells the host, giving your name, not his. It's a detail that catches you off-guard in a good way; he's careful with you, even in subtle things.
You're seated at a small table near the window. Candle in the middle. Cutlery that actually has weight to it. The kind of place where the menus are heavy and the wine list gets its own binder. Jason slides into his seat opposite you, shrugging off his jacket, that white streak in his hair catching the candlelight.
For a while, everything's smooth.
You talk about work—your ridiculous coworker who hoards staplers, the minor victories, the mind-numbing spreadsheets. He counters with stories from the repair shop: a bike that practically disintegrated when he pulled it in, a customer convinced their engine was haunted until Jason found the actual problem.
He's funny. He always has been. The prison version of him hid it under layers of smirk and bravado; out here, it comes out easier. You laugh more than you mean to. The server drops off drinks, takes your order, and by the time the appetizers arrive—crispy calamari and grilled bread with some spread you can't pronounce but tastes like heaven—you're genuinely relaxed.
Jason watches you with a soft, half-amused focus—like he's cataloguing all the ways your face changes when you're not braced for impact. You catch him staring once and he just lifts his glass in a tiny toast like yeah, I'm looking—what about it?
It should be perfect.
But there's a faint tension humming under his easy demeanor; you can feel it in the way his eyes occasionally slide away from you and go distant, in the way he drums his fingers once against his glass before catching himself. It sits there, invisible but solid, like a third presence at the table.
Eventually, it surfaces.
It happens between the main course and dessert, when you're sipping the last of your drink and Jason is turning the stem of his glass between his fingers.
"So," he says finally, casually enough you know it's not casual at all. "How's the houseguest?"
You pause, fork hovering over your plate. "He's... settling in," you say slowly. "Fixed the locks. Installed the peephole. Ate all my leftover dumplings this afternoon, which I'm still mad about."
He huffs a small laugh, but it doesn't reach his eyes this time. "Sounds very domestic."
You set your fork down, leaning your arms on the table. "If you've got something to say, just say it."
Jason studies you for a moment, then sighs, admitting, "I'm trying to be cool about this. I am." He wipes a thumb along the condensation on his glass. "You offering somebody a couch? That tracks. That's you. You're good like that."
"But," you prompt, because there's definitely a but.
He meets your gaze. "But he's not just 'somebody,' is he?"
You hold his stare. "No," you say honestly. "He's not."
Jason leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. "You know how wild it is," he says slowly, "to show up at your place and find him answering the door? Out. Clean. Standing in your living room like he's always been there?"
You remember the moment—the flash of shock in his eyes, the way his voice had flattened around Grayson's name. You hadn't missed it.
"I was going to tell you," you say. "We just didn't have time before you came over."
He gives you a look that's not quite accusing, but it's not neutral either. "When? Before or after you let me kiss you at the door?"
That stings. You inhale, steadying yourself. "Jason. Look at me."
He does. Always does, when you say it like that.
"I'm not playing games," you tell him. "I invited Dick to stay because he needed somewhere safe. That's it. I'm not sneaking around behind your back. I'm not going to say one thing to you and do another with him. If I want something with someone, I'll say it."
He studies your face, searching for cracks. Whatever he finds seems to ease something in him, because his shoulders loosen a notch.
"I do trust you," he says quietly. "Believe it or not."
"Then what's the problem?" you ask.
He doesn't answer right away. He looks down at the table, thumb circling the base of his glass. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, but edged.
"It's him I don't trust," Jason says. "Not out here. Not in your space."
You frown. "You barely know him out here."
"I know enough," he counters. His gaze lifts back to yours, eyes cooler now, something calculating in them. "You think guys like him just... turn it off? The way he ran things inside? The way people moved around him?" He shakes his head once. "No. Men like that don't change. They just change where they do it."
You feel defensive on instinct. "He's been nothing but—"
"Helpful," Jason cuts in. "Protective. Calm. Sure." He leans in slightly. "You know how many stories I heard about him before I ever saw his face? How many rules got written in his shadow? You think I went after you just to get under his skin?"
You open your mouth, then close it. "Didn't you?" you ask, because there's a part of you that's always wondered.
His jaw flexes. "At first?" he admits. "Maybe. I saw the way he looked at you. Saw the way other people looked at you because of him. It... interested me." His lips twist in a small, humorless smile. "Then I got to know you. Then it stopped being about him."
A beat of silence passes. The restaurant hums around you—clinking glasses, soft conversations, a waiter sweeping by with a tray.
"So now it's what?" you ask quietly. "Territory? You marking your corner?"
Jason's eyes flash. "No," he says. "I'm not him."
You feel that one.
He exhales, this time more tired than annoyed. "Look," he continues. "All I'm saying is—I know the type. I've shared yards with the type. You let them in—really in—and they don't leave much room for anyone else. And with him?" He gives a small, sharp shake of his head. "He doesn't forget what he thinks is his."
Your chest tightens at that, memories flickering: Dick's hand on your neck in that cell, the way he'd told you his first name, the way he'd watched you leave with Jason earlier, steady and silent.
You push the thought away, focusing on the man in front of you instead.
"I can't control how he feels," you say. "Or what he thinks he's owed. But I can control what I do. Who I choose. I'm not going to let anyone—him, you, whoever—decide my life for me."
That lands. Jason's mouth softens, pride slipping in around the edges. "Good," he murmurs. "That's one of the reasons I like you."
You chuckle quietly, tension easing a little. "Just one?"
He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, gaze cutting straight through you. "You've... reconfigured me a bit," he says, echoing his own jailhouse joke with a softer twist. "Trust me when I say I don't take that lightly."
It makes you smile, warmth sliding through the worry.
"Then trust me now," you tell him. "I'm not going to blindside you. If anything changes, if I change my mind about anything—I'll tell you."
He holds your stare for a long moment, then sighs, nodding once. "Okay," he says. "I'll take your word."
You relax.
But then he adds, quieter, almost to himself, "It's him I won't take my eyes off."
There's something in his tone that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. It's not just jealousy. It's familiarity. History.
You tilt your head. "Is there something I should know? About you and Dick? Beyond prison banter?"
Jason's mouth curves into a smug, secretive little smile, the fox back in his eyes. "Let's just say," he murmurs, picking up his glass, "I've seen how far he's willing to go when he wants something."
He clinks his glass lightly against yours, that smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"And you," Jason adds, "are worth going very far for."
You don't know it yet, but he's right about one thing:
Whatever's building between you and Jason, and whatever's reawakening inside Dick—
They're on a collision course.
And soon enough, you'll find out exactly why Jason never trusted him.
LATER ON, JASON had that look in his eye the entire walk back—the one that said you could pretend you were going home if you wanted, but you both knew exactly how the night was going to end.
Dinner had gone well after your conversation surrounding Dick. Too well. You were still warm from the wine and the way his fingers kept finding excuses to brush your wrist across the table. Outside, Gotham's air was cool and damp, streetlights smearing gold across wet pavement. Somewhere between the restaurant and the subway, he slid his hand into yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Come back to mine," he'd murmured, leaning close enough that his breath brushed your ear. "I behaved at dinner. I deserve a reward."
You snorted, but your hand didn't leave his. "You behaved?"
"I didn't drag you into a dark alley and ruin your shirt," he said. "That's restraint."
You rolled your eyes, but the answer was already yes.
By the time you climbed the stairs to his building and stepped into his apartment, the air between you was humming. The place was dim except for the low lamp by the couch and the thin line of city glow coming in through the windows. His cat flicked an ear from its perch and then vacated the furniture like it knew what was coming and wanted no part in it.
Jason barely let the door close before he was on you—fingers in your jacket, mouth finding yours with the kind of familiarity that skipped the tentative stages completely. The kiss was immediate and hungry, tasting like the last of the wine and the slow burn of everything you didn't touch at dinner.
"Round two," he murmured against your lips, backing you toward the couch, the wall, or his bedroom—you weren't sure which at first. "I've been thinking about it all night."
You laughed into his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt, and let him steer.
From there, the night blurred into a series of heated, messy, perfect moments:
• Clothes trailing behind you in a crooked path toward the bed.
• Jason's hands on your body like he'd spent time memorizing it and was just double-checking his notes.
• Your back hitting the mattress, or the wall, or the cushions, his grin flashing against your skin before it disappeared into kisses.
• Laughter between the heat—him cracking a low, filthy joke that made you swat at his chest before swallowing the sound he pulled from you right after.
• His voice, rough and hoarse near your ear, saying your name like it was a promise and a possession all at once.
You lost track of time. The clock on his nightstand might as well have belonged to another universe. All you knew was the rhythm of his body against yours, the rush and ebb of pleasure, the slow, lazy aftershocks that bled into fresh sparks whenever he shifted just right and decided maybe you weren't done after all.
By the time you finally collapsed for real—sweat cooling, limbs heavy, his arm thrown over your waist—it was sometime after 2 a.m. The room smelled like skin and laundry soap and the faint ghost of the takeout you never reheated. Outside, Gotham had quieted to its strange version of sleep.
You lay there for a while, tucked into the curve of his body, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back. His fingers traced slow, absent-minded patterns on your stomach, then stilled as he drifted.
You, though, didn't.
The clock's red digits finally registered: 2:47 a.m.
You sighed quietly, staring at the ceiling. As much as you wanted to stay, reality tapped you on the shoulder—work in the morning, your own apartment, the fact that you had a very intense ex–cellmate currently sleeping on your couch.
Careful not to wake Jason, you slid out from under his arm. He stirred once, mumbling something half-coherent, hand reaching for you in his sleep before falling back to the mattress when you gently tucked the blanket around him.
You dressed in the half-dark, pulling on your shirt, your jeans, hunting quietly for your socks like it was a stealth mission. You paused for a second by the side of the bed, watching him—hair mussed, lips parted, one arm flung out, the white streak in his hair stark against the pillow.
You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips.
"Go back to sleep," you whispered, even though he couldn't hear you. "I'll text you."
Then you slipped out into the living room, grabbed your jacket and your phone, and eased the door shut behind you with a soft click.
The hallway was cold and quiet. You padded down the stairs as quietly as someone sneaking out after 3 a.m. with sex-tousled hair and sore muscles could manage, stepping back out into Gotham's thin night air.
Home wasn't far. The streets were nearly empty, the city humming low instead of roaring. As you walked, the warmth of Jason's hands and mouth lingered on your skin... but so did the awareness of who was waiting on your couch when you unlocked your own front door.
Jason had gotten his round two.
You had to go home to the man who planned to make sure there was still a round three—for him.
By the time you reach your building, the city feels like it's running on fumes—just the occasional car drifting past, a siren somewhere far away, the quiet hiss of steam rising from a grate. Your body is pleasantly wrecked, your muscles loose and heavy in that way that only comes after hours of being thoroughly, intensely occupied.
Your brain, however, is very awake.
The stairwell is its usual echoing, chipped-paint self. You climb quietly, keys already in your hand, rehearsing the mental image of what you expect to walk into: dark apartment, stillness, Dick stretched out on the couch, dead asleep under the thin spare blanket, the TV off, the room silent.
You unlock the door, turn the knob slowly, and ease it open.
Soft light spills across the floor.
The TV is on—volume low, screen flickering with a washed-out late-night movie. The coffee table's a little cluttered: your empty water glass from earlier, his folded toolkit, a bowl with the ghost of popcorn. The air smells like your detergent and the faint tang of the takeout you'd thrown away before your date.
And there he is.
Dick is on the couch, not asleep at all. He's leaned back in one of those half-slouch positions that somehow still looks controlled—ankles crossed, one arm along the back of the couch, remote in the other hand. The light from the TV washes his face in pale blues and greys, picking out the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint stubble on his cheeks, the line of concentration between his brows.
His eyes flick from the screen to the door the instant you open it. That's the first thing you register: he heard you before you even turned the lock.
For a beat, neither of you says anything.
Then his shoulders ease the tiniest bit. "Hey," he says quietly. "You're back."
You step inside, shutting and locking the door behind you, toeing your shoes off by the mat. "Yeah," you answer, your voice automatically dropping to match his volume. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." He nods toward the TV. "Couldn't sleep."
You stroll into the living room, your jacket unzipped but still on. The movie on-screen looks older—grainy picture, dated hairstyles, some kind of crime thriller if the gun someone's waving around means anything.
"What're we watching?" you ask, easing down onto the far cushion of the couch, leaving a respectful bit of space between you.
"Some bad '90s action thing," he says. "Channel-surfed my way into it an hour ago. Plot's terrible. Stunts are good."
You huff a small laugh. "Sounds about right."
For a while, you just sit there.
The movie plays. A car explodes for no good reason. The hero says something that probably sounded cool when it was written. You let your body relax into the cushions, the familiar shape of your own couch settling under you like a sigh.
It takes a minute for your brain to catch up with the fact that you want to be here, in this quiet, as much as you wanted to be where you just were.
You steal a glance at him.
He's focusing on the screen, but not really. You can tell. His posture is too alert, his jaw a little too tight, his thumb tapping once against the remote in his hand.
"So," you say eventually, turning a bit toward him. "What've you been doing while I've been out? Besides bullying my door into becoming Fort Knox."
His mouth curves faintly at that. "Not much to bully. Your hardware surrendered fast."
You nudge his knee lightly with yours, an unspoken be serious.
He exhales through his nose. "Read a little," he says. "Walked the roof. Watched the neighbors argue in the alley." His eyes flick toward you, then back. "Thought about things."
You hum. "Dangerous."
"Sometimes," he agrees.
You pull your knees up slightly, turning to face him more fully, tucking one leg beneath the other. The looseness of the late hour, the safety of your own living room, the warm drag of exhaustion—all of it makes it easier to ask what's been sitting in your chest for a while.
"What did you think about?" you ask.
He hesitates—just a breath, maybe two. Then he clicks the TV volume down another notch, setting the remote on the table, and shifts so he's mirroring you a little—body angled toward you instead of the screen.
"You," he says simply.
It lands heavier than it should. You swallow. "That's... broad."
"I had time," he replies. "Broad works."
The corner of your mouth lifts, but you feel your heartbeat pick up. "Okay. Narrow it down for me. What about me?"
He looks at you for a long moment. Not staring, not burning—just... seeing. The kind of look that makes you feel like every version of yourself is sitting in front of him at once: the fresh intake, the scared new inmate, the one who took his offer, the one who left, the one who found their way back out here.
"How you were when you came in," he says quietly. "How you were when you left. What I did right. What I screwed up." His thumb traces an absent, slow line along the seam of his jeans. "What it costs to walk back into your life and ask for anything."
You sit with that, the weight of honesty behind it. The room feels smaller and softer all at once.
"I thought about you too," you admit. "After I got out. A lot."
He doesn't move, but something in his posture tightens then relaxes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you say. "I looked you up. Found the articles. Found out the version of you I thought I knew was... just a sliver."
His gaze drops for a second, lashes shadowing his cheeks. "That's why I didn't tell you in there," he says. "Didn't want you looking at me like everyone else did. Like a story they'd heard instead of a person sharing a bunk."
You lean back against the couch, processing that. "You didn't trust me," you say, not accusing—just stating.
He flinches almost imperceptibly. "I trusted you with my body," he says. "With my back. With my sleep." His voice stays low, steady, but you can hear the tension under it. "I didn't trust the story not to swallow everything else. That's on me."
You breathe out slowly. The city hums on the other side of the walls; some late-night commercial flickers on the muted TV.
"What about since you've been out?" you ask softly. "What's it like for you? I told you what I've been doing. What about your nights or mornings at the repair shop? Your head?"
He hesitates, then gives you more than you expect.
He tells you about:
• The room above the repair shop—thin mattress, the smell of oil in the walls, the way the pipes clank at 4 a.m.
• Learning the city again from street level: which blocks are safe, which alleys aren't worth walking through, where the coffee's cheap but drinkable.
• The odd quiet of clocking out and not having someone call his name, not having a guard yell count, not having anyone's fate directly in his hands.
• The nights he lies awake staring at the ceiling and feeling like the walls are still too close and too far away at the same time.
You listen, really listen, and before you know it, you're filling in the spaces.
You talk about:
• The first time you stood in a crowded grocery store and felt your throat close around too many choices.
• The self-defense class where you almost walked out because the smell of sweat and mats took you right back to the yard.
• The tiny victories: remembering your favorite snacks, finding a coffee shop that spells your name right, the first day work felt normal.
Time blurs.
The movie ends and another one starts without either of you really noticing. The TV becomes nothing but a moving painting in the corner of your eye. Eventually, your jacket ends up draped over the arm of the couch, and you've shifted closer without consciously deciding to—close enough that your knees brush now and then when one of you moves.
At some point, you're both turned almost fully toward each other, your shoulder resting against the back of the couch, his elbow perched on the cushion between you. You ask about his scars; he asks about your nightmares. You trade small, ridiculous stories—the inmate who snored like a chainsaw; the coworker who microwaved fish and almost started an office revolt.
You laugh more than you thought you would at this hour. He does too, in his quieter way—shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling at the edges, the sound low and rare and real.
At some point, you stop tracking time.
The sky outside the window lightens by degrees—from inky black to deep blue to that hazy pre-dawn grey. Your words start to slow, sentences trailing off more often as fatigue finally begins to catch up and drag at your eyelids.
You don't even remember the exact moment your body gives in.
One second, you're listening to him describe the way the shop owner mutters to himself in three languages when he's annoyed. The next, your head feels too heavy for your neck, and you let it tip—just a little—to the side.
It lands on his shoulder.
He goes still for a heartbeat, breath catching softly. When you don't move, don't immediately pull away, he exhales. You shift once, instinctively seeking a more comfortable spot, cheek settling against the solid warmth of his upper arm, your hand falling lax between you.
The TV keeps flickering in the dim room. Outside, the first pale streaks of sunrise start to edge into the sky, turning the edges of your curtains a faint, soft light.
At some point later—minutes, maybe an hour—Dick dozes off too.
A door slams in a neighboring apartment or a siren wails too close, and he blinks awake, muscles tensing automatically before his brain catches up and reminds him where he is. His eyes sweep the room in one quick pass—door, window, TV—then drop to the weight pressed against his side.
You're out. Completely.
Your mouth is relaxed, your lashes resting against your cheeks, your features soft in a way he almost never saw in prison. Your head is still on his shoulder, your body angled toward him, one of your hands barely touching his thigh where it fell when you drifted off.
For a long, quiet moment, he just looks at you.
There's no one here to see the way his expression changes—how something almost painfully gentle pushes past the usual control, softening the hard lines of his face. His gaze traces the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the small crease between your brows that's finally, finally gone in sleep.
Carefully, like he's defusing something delicate, he shifts just enough to reach for the throw blanket on the back of the couch. He drapes it over you, letting it settle across your shoulders and chest, his fingers nudging it into place without waking you.
You murmur something unintelligible, burrowing just a tiny bit closer, the motion barely there but enough to make his throat work around a swallow.
He leans his head back against the cushion, eyes lingering on you for another breath, then two.
"Sleep," he whispers, so softly it's almost not sound at all.
Outside, the sun is finally starting to break properly over the rooftops, turning the sky a brighter grey. Inside, in the quiet of your living room, you sleep on his shoulder, and he sits very still beneath you—tired, wired, and, for the first time in a long while, exactly where he wants to be.
OVER THE following weeks, your apartment stops feeling like a temporary landing pad and starts feeling like a place with a routine again—one that includes Dick in it so naturally you almost forget there was a time you didn't have him around.
It starts small.
Movie night becomes an unspoken agreement. Some evenings you come home to the low glow of the TV already on, Dick sprawled on the couch like he's trying to look casual but still sitting in a way that lets him see the door. Other nights you're the one who texts him from the elevator—Popcorn or no?—and you'll hear him moving around before you even unlock the door.
You learn his preferences without meaning to. He likes thrillers with tight plots, crime movies with smart antagonists, anything that feels like strategy. He pretends he doesn't care about rom-coms, but you catch him watching anyway—quiet, focused, like he's studying a language he doesn't speak fluently. He has a dry commentary track, too. Not loud. Just one-liners under his breath that make you choke on your drink.
You start cooking a little extra without thinking. He starts washing dishes without being asked. The apartment becomes a shared space in the softest ways: a second mug always in rotation, an extra pair of boots by the door, the throw blanket now permanently folded on the couch because he insists it "looks better" that way.
And somewhere in that domestic drift, you help him build an actual life.
It's a Tuesday afternoon when you decide to make good on what you offered. You're at work, on your lunch break, half-scrolling job postings and half-staring at your phone like you can force the right opportunity to appear. You think about Dick on your couch, quietly restless, pretending he's fine with "cash jobs" and "temporary" when you can tell he's built for more than surviving day to day.
You've got a friend who owes you a favor—someone you met through work, someone adjacent to the Wayne ecosystem who knows how hiring there works. You send the message before you can second-guess it.
You still got an in at WayneTech? I have someone solid who needs a real shot.
It takes two days to turn into an interview. Two more for a call back. Another week for paperwork.
WayneTech is strict. Background checks, drug tests, probationary periods—the whole corporate maze that makes you appreciate how hard it is for anyone with a record to get a real foothold. You're expecting it to fall through at least twice.
But Dick is... Dick.
He shows up to the interview in the cleanest button-down you can find, hair neat, posture calm, eyes steady. He doesn't overshare. He doesn't beg. He answers what they ask, keeps it direct, and somehow makes "I've had complicated years" sound like a manageable footnote instead of a warning sign.
When he gets the job, he doesn't celebrate like most people would. There's no fist pump. No victory lap. He just stands in your kitchen with the phone still in his hand, staring at the wall like he's processing the fact that something finally stayed good.
Then he looks at you, and you see it in his eyes: gratitude so deep it makes him uncomfortable.
"WayneTech," you say, leaning on the counter with a small smile. "Look at you. Corporate."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "It's a job."
"It's a real job," you correct gently. "Benefits. Paychecks. A future."
He nods once, slowly. "Because you helped."
You shrug, even though your chest warms. "You would've landed somewhere. I just... sped it up."
He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. "Still," he says. "You didn't have to."
That becomes a theme.
The more stable his life gets—early mornings, pressed shirts, a lunch he packs himself like he doesn't trust vending machines—the more you realize how used to him you've become. Used to his presence. Used to the way he quietly pays attention. Used to the way he remembers things you don't even realize you've said out loud.
And you start treating him like a friend in a way that surprises you.
You make jokes with him. You sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch and argue about which actor ruined which franchise. You send him memes during the day just to see if you can coax out one of his rare, genuinely amused replies. You tell him about your work drama, and he listens like he's filing it away under things that matter because they matter to you.
For the first time, you start believing that maybe the two of you can exist in a normal lane.
Friend. Housemate. History you don't have to bleed over.
Except.
There are moments—little ones—that make it clear the past isn't dead. It's just quiet.
It starts innocent.
A hand on your lower back when he moves behind you in the kitchen, guiding you around a hot pan. A brush of fingers when you pass him a mug. The way he adjusts your collar before you leave for work like he's done it a hundred times and forgets for a second that it's intimate.
One night on the couch, the movie ends and you don't immediately move. The credits roll. The TV glow paints his face in soft blues. You're half-asleep, head tipped slightly toward him.
He reaches for the remote and his knuckles graze your knee.
You both freeze.
It's nothing. Barely contact. But your body reacts anyway—memory sparking where there shouldn't be a spark anymore. You feel your throat go tight with it, the awareness sharpening between you like the air changed pressure.
Dick's hand doesn't pull away immediately.
His gaze slides to you, slow and unreadable, and for a second you see the version of him that existed in a cell barely big enough to breathe in. The man who used to ask permission with his eyes. The man whose touch meant safety and heat and something dangerously close to belonging.
Then he blinks, and his face smooths back into control. He clears his throat, reaches for the remote like that was all it ever was, and the spell breaks.
Except it doesn't, really.
Because after that, you start noticing the other things too.
The way his eyes follow you sometimes when you're laughing at your phone. The way his jaw tightens when Jason's name comes up, even if he doesn't say anything. The way he's always there—always steady—like he's waiting for the moment you lean too far and fall back into what you two used to be.
And you catch yourself doing it too.
Catching his reflection in the window when you think he's not watching. Feeling a strange heat in your chest when he walks in wearing office clothes, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened like he belongs in your life in a way you never planned for. Thinking, we're good like this, and then immediately thinking, but are we?
It stays subtle. Quiet. Easy to pretend it's nothing.
Until one evening you're both in the kitchen again, crowded in the same small space. You reach past him for a spice, and he turns at the exact wrong moment. Your bodies brush—chest to shoulder, hip to hip—and the contact is so familiar it makes your stomach flip.
Dick's hand catches your waist automatically to steady you.
His grip is firm, warm, possessive without meaning to be.
You look up, and his eyes are already on you.
Not friendly. Not casual.
Something older. Something that remembers.
Your breath stalls. His thumb shifts, a small movement against your side that isn't necessary for balance. The room goes too quiet—no TV, no soundtrack, just the hum of the fridge and your heartbeat doing something stupid.
You step back first, because you have to.
Dick doesn't chase you. He doesn't speak. But his gaze follows you as you move, and you can feel the weight of it long after you turn away.
That's the moment it clicks.
This isn't just "old habits" or "comfortable closeness." It isn't just two people adjusting to sharing space.
It's the line between friend and former lover—between then and now—starting to blur on its own.
And you're realizing you might not be able to keep calling it innocent, not when your body still reacts, not when his eyes still hold that claim he never fully let go of, not when "movie night" can turn into a silence that feels like a dare neither of you is saying out loud.
You wanted him in your life as a friend.
You got him.
But you're starting to understand the truth underneath it:
With Dick, "friend" was never the whole story.
Then one particular night, you don't come home that night in a good mood.
You come home with your shoulders tight, your jaw aching from holding back words you didn't want to say, and your phone buzzing in your pocket like it's trying to shame you on behalf of everyone you disappointed.
Work ran late—again. Not even the dramatic kind of late, just the grinding, fluorescent kind: one more file, one more email, one more "can you just—" from a manager who never says thank you. And as if that wasn't enough, you'd spent the last hour of your shift arguing with Jason in clipped whispers outside the building, the cold Gotham air biting your cheeks while you tried to keep your voice steady.
Because Jason had planned a date night.
Not a vague "come over" situation. A real one. Reservation. A place he'd picked because he remembered you liked the food. A stupidly sweet detail—he'd even said, I'm trying to do this right with you.
And you missed it.
Not because you didn't care. Not because you didn't want to go. But because you'd lost track of time in your own apartment—laughing at something Dick said, letting the hours slip the way they always did when the night was quiet and familiar and you didn't have to perform being okay for anyone.
Jason wasn't yelling when he called. He wasn't dramatic. That wasn't his style.
He sounded hurt.
And somehow that was worse.
"So I'm just supposed to be cool," he'd said, voice low through the phone, "with you choosing him again."
You'd felt your stomach drop at again.
"It's not like that," you'd insisted, rubbing your forehead like you could physically push the stress out. "He lives with me right now. We were watching a movie. It got late. I—"
"You forgot," Jason cut in, controlled but sharp. "You forgot the night I planned for you. But you never forget him."
"That's not true."
There'd been a pause on the line—just long enough for you to hear his breathing and the city noise behind him.
"I'm trying here," he said finally. "I'm not asking you to choose overnight. But I'm not going to be the guy watching you drift back into him while you tell me to be patient."
Your chest had tightened. You hated that he was right about the drift.
You'd tried to soothe it. Promised a raincheck. Promised tomorrow. Promised I want you, I do. But the damage had already landed. The call ended tense—no kissy jokes, no smug teasing. Just a quiet, strained, "Get home safe," that sounded like a wall going up.
Now you're climbing your stairs with that echo still in your ear.
You unlock the door and step inside, the apartment dim except for the living room lamp. It's quiet in a way that feels too aware. Like the space is waiting to see what version of you walks in.
Dick is there, of course.
On the couch, TV paused, one arm draped over the back like he owns the furniture by accident. He looks up the second you come through the door—eyes sharp, taking you in the way he always does. Not just your face. Your posture. Your breathing. The tension in the way you kick off your shoes a little harder than necessary.
"Long night," he says. Not a question.
You toss your keys into the bowl by the door and exhale. "Yeah."
He doesn't push immediately. He watches. That's his first move, always: observe before he acts.
"Work?" he asks.
You shrug out of your jacket and hang it up with a little too much force. "Work. And..." You hesitate, then admit it because it's written all over you anyway. "Jason."
Dick's expression doesn't change dramatically, but you catch it—this tiny, almost invisible stillness. Like a muscle locking in place.
"What happened?" he asks, voice quiet.
You walk past the living room toward the hallway, needing space, needing water, needing anything that isn't his eyes on you. "He planned a date," you say, and the guilt bites as soon as the words leave your mouth. "I missed it."
Dick follows you with his gaze, but he doesn't follow you physically. That's important. He's learned—over these weeks—that pushing too hard makes you pull away.
Instead, he waits until you're halfway down the hall before he says, calm as a blade laid on a table, "Because you were here."
You stop for a second, hand on the bathroom doorframe.
It's not an accusation. Not exactly. It's stated like fact. Like he's filing evidence.
You don't answer. You just go into the bathroom and shut the door.
The shower is hot enough to sting your skin back into your body. Steam fills the small space, fogging the mirror, swallowing the edges of the world. You stand under the water longer than you need to, letting it drum against your shoulders while you replay Jason's voice and your own defensive answers.
A date night. A reservation. You missing it because you were laughing on your couch with a man who used to be your whole survival plan.
When you finally turn the water off, you're calmer—but not better.
You dry off slowly, pull on comfortable clothes, and stare at your reflection in the mirror like you're trying to figure out who you are when two men keep tugging at different versions of you.
When you step back out into the apartment, the living room light is softer. The movie is still paused. A blanket is folded on the couch in the neat way Dick insists on. He's in the kitchen now, not cooking—just pouring you a glass of water like he's been waiting for the exact second you'd come out.
He hands it to you without a word.
Your fingers brush his when you take it.
It's brief. Innocent. But your nerves are shot, and your body notices everything.
"Thanks," you murmur, taking a sip.
Dick leans back against the counter, arms crossed loosely. "You want to talk about it?"
You glance at him over the rim of the glass. "There's not much to talk about. I messed up."
He studies you, gaze steady, voice quiet. "You didn't mess up. You chose what felt safe."
The words land soft and heavy.
You swallow. "Jason doesn't see it like that."
"Jason isn't the one who watched you survive in a place built to break people," Dick replies, tone calm but edged with something old. "He doesn't understand what I mean to you."
Your chest tightens. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make it sound like... like Jason doesn't matter."
Dick doesn't flinch. He doesn't raise his voice. That's the thing about him—he doesn't need volume to be intense.
"I'm not saying he doesn't matter," he says. "I'm saying he's asking you to compartmentalize something that still lives in your bones."
You hate how true it feels.
You turn away, walking back into the living room. You sink onto the couch, grabbing the remote, unpausing the movie because you need noise. You need something simple.
Dick sits down on the other end a moment later, leaving the usual space—but he's closer than he was earlier in the week. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching.
The movie plays. Some chase scene you don't care about. Dialogue you don't absorb.
Your mind is still on Jason—on the disappointment you heard, on the way he said again.
Dick watches the screen for all of thirty seconds before he speaks, low and measured, like he's placing pieces on a board.
"He mad at you," he says.
You don't look at him. "He has a right to be."
"Yeah," Dick agrees. "He does."
You finally glance over, expecting sarcasm or edge.
You don't get it.
Dick is watching the TV, face calm, voice almost gentle. "He's not wrong to want you. He's not wrong to want your time."
That makes your stomach twist, because it sounds reasonable... and also calculated, like he's building to something.
You narrow your eyes. "Where is this going?"
Dick shifts slightly, turning toward you just a fraction. "It's going where it already is," he says. "You're tired. You're overwhelmed. And he's pulling at you from the outside while I'm here—actually here—holding the day-to-day together with you."
He lets that settle.
Then, softly: "He's going to make you pick eventually."
Your throat tightens. "Jason said he wasn't asking me to choose."
Dick's gaze slides to you, slow and steady. "Not out loud."
There it is.
The strategy.
He isn't throwing punches. He's planting doubt. He's reframing Jason as a threat—not to your freedom, but to your peace. He's doing it in a way that sounds like concern, like protection.
And part of you—tired, guilty, raw—almost wants to believe him.
You sit there, staring at the flicker of the movie, and suddenly you're aware of how close Dick is. Of how the couch dips slightly under his weight. Of how his presence feels like gravity—quiet, constant, impossible to ignore.
He reaches for the blanket, not touching you—just pulling it up and draping it over your legs the way he's done a dozen times now. Domestic. Familiar.
But when his knuckles graze your knee, it doesn't feel purely friendly.
You both feel it.
Dick's hand pauses for half a second too long before he pulls away. His eyes flick to your face, searching—not for permission to take, but for a sign of where you are. How far he can push.
And you realize, with a sudden clarity that makes your stomach drop:
This isn't just him being supportive.
He is using it.
Using the crack your argument with Jason created. Using your exhaustion. Using the part of you that still associates him with safety and intensity and belonging.
The movie keeps playing, but it might as well be silent.
Because the real scene is happening right here—on your couch—between a man who knows how to dismantle entire organizations, and you, sitting tired and vulnerable enough to finally understand:
The line between "friend" and "former lover" hasn't just blurred.
Someone is actively trying to erase it.
THE WEEK after the fight with Jason feels... weirdly quiet.
Not peaceful—just quiet in the way an unanswered room is quiet. The kind where you keep checking your phone even when you already know what you're going to see.
Jason still texts you, but it's bare minimum. Dry. Polite. Like he's doing it out of principle instead of desire.
Jason: Busy today.
Jason: Hope work was okay.
Jason: Night.
No teasing. No "come here." No playful threats about stealing you for the weekend. No warmth tucked between the lines. Every message reads like a closed door with your name on it.
You try not to spiral. You tell yourself you deserve the distance—you missed a date he planned. You let the triangle get too loud. You let comfort with Dick blur into something that looked like choosing, even if you didn't mean it that way.
So you do what you always do when your emotions start getting messy: you throw yourself into routine.
Work becomes your anchor. You show up early, stay a little later, take on tasks just so your brain has something to chew on that isn't Jason's silence. You answer emails like they're life-or-death. You sit in meetings with a calm face and a tight chest. You keep your head down, grind through the day, and tell yourself you're fine.
Then you go to self-defense class.
That's become your second anchor—your body's way of reminding your mind it can't fall apart because you still have to stay alert. The gym smells like rubber mats and sweat and disinfectant. There's always the same harsh fluorescent lighting, the same wall mirror that reflects you back in fragments, the same instructor who barks commands like he's trying to rewrite everyone's posture through volume alone.
Usually, it's just you.
Until Dick decides it isn't.
You notice him the moment you walk in—because Dick doesn't blend in even when he's trying to. He's in plain athletic clothes, dark shirt, dark sweatpants, hands wrapped like he's done this before. He stands near the back wall, watching the room with that calm, predator-still focus. Not nervous. Not cocky. Just... ready.
You stop short. "What are you doing here?"
He glances over at you like the answer should be obvious. "Joining."
You blink. "You don't need self-defense."
"That's not why I'm here," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes your stomach do a small flip—like he's saying I'm here because you're here, but he won't say it like that.
The instructor clocks him almost immediately. You can see it in the way his eyes narrow as he sizes Dick up—new guy, broad shoulders, quiet face, the kind of stillness that reads like experience.
"First time?" the instructor asks, skeptical.
Dick answers smoothly. "No."
The instructor pauses, like he's deciding whether that's honest or a challenge. "Then partner up."
You expect Dick to drift to the far side of the room, pair with a random guy, let you have your normal routine. That would be the polite thing. The "friend" thing.
Instead, he walks right to you.
"Partner," he says, simple.
You stare at him for a beat, then exhale through your nose like you're trying to keep yourself from reacting too much. "Fine," you mutter.
And that's how it starts.
At first, it's basic drills—stance, footwork, guard up. You're used to struggling a bit, your muscles learning and re-learning tension, your brain adjusting to controlled contact. But with Dick, everything is sharper. Cleaner. He corrects you without taking over—two fingers tapping your elbow into a better angle, a quiet "chin down" that makes you obey before you even think about it.
The instructor demonstrates a simple escape technique. You practice it with Dick, expecting him to go easy.
He does—technically.
But even restrained, you can feel how capable he is. The strength under the calm. The way he moves like he's already predicted your next step. It's controlled, considerate, but it's also a reminder: Dick isn't learning to fight.
Dick is remembering.
And the whole time, you're painfully aware of the closeness—hands on wrists, forearms brushing, breath catching when he steps in just a little too near to demonstrate leverage. You tell yourself it's nothing. It's training. It's normal. But your body still recognizes him in ways your mind wants to deny.
By the time class ends, you're sweating, flushed, both frustrated and weirdly grounded. You peel your gloves off, rubbing your wrists, and head toward the water fountain.
Dick follows at an easy pace.
Outside the gym, the evening air hits you cool and clean. Gotham is settling into night: headlights streaking by, distant chatter, a siren far enough away to be background noise instead of threat.
You expect him to say something practical. Something like, "Good class," or "Your guard is improving," or "You need new wraps."
Instead, he stops beside you and says, casually, like he's asking about the weather:
"Let me take you to dinner."
You blink, thrown. "What?"
"Dinner," he repeats, steady. "You ate ramen last night. And cereal the night before that." His gaze flicks to your face, softening just a fraction. "You've been running yourself into the ground all week."
You swallow. "I've been busy."
"I know," he says. "That's why I'm asking."
There's a pause—small, but loaded. Because it's not really about food. Not entirely.
It's about Jason's dry texts.
It's about you retreating into routine.
It's about Dick showing up beside you in every space you use to cope—your apartment, your class, your quiet.
It's him offering something that sounds harmless. Normal. Almost friend-like.
But the way he says it—firm, calm, like he already expects you to go—makes your chest tighten.
"Dick..." you start, unsure whether you're about to argue or accept.
He watches you, patient as ever. "Just dinner," he says, voice low. "No pressure. No agenda."
His eyes hold yours for a beat longer than necessary, and you're not stupid—you can feel the shape of what's underneath his words. The way he's been moving closer while Jason moves farther. The way he keeps choosing moments when you're tired, vulnerable, and aching for warmth.
You look away first, exhaling slowly.
"Fine," you say, voice quieter than you intended. "Dinner."
Dick nods once, like that's all he needed. Then—almost too casually—he reaches for your gym bag and takes it from your shoulder, carrying it like it's natural for him to hold your weight.
"Come on," he says, already walking. "I know a place."
And as you fall into step beside him, phone silent in your pocket, you can't shake the uneasy truth pressing at the back of your mind:
This isn't just a friend asking you to eat.
This is Dick, closing distance—one meal at a time.
You let Dick take the lead the way you always seem to with him—without even deciding to.
Outside the gym, Gotham's air is cool and sharp, carrying the faint smell of rain and exhaust. Your muscles still feel warm from class, your adrenaline still humming under your skin, but the steady calm of Dick beside you starts smoothing it down into something quieter. He holds your gym bag like it weighs nothing, walking half a step ahead, not rushing—just moving with purpose.
You follow.
Not because you're lost. Not because you can't pick your own restaurant. But because letting him guide the night feels... easy. Easier than thinking about Jason's dry messages. Easier than replaying your argument. Easier than sitting in your apartment wondering who you're disappointing most: him or yourself.
Dick leads you a few blocks over, away from the neon-and-noise parts of the street and into a warmer pocket of the city where the sidewalks are cleaner and the storefronts glow with softer light. The restaurant he chooses isn't overly fancy, but it's not cheap either—brick exterior, golden lamps in the windows, the kind of place that smells good from the sidewalk.
The host greets Dick with a nod like he's been here before. Maybe he has. Maybe it's just the way Dick carries himself—calm, controlled, like he belongs anywhere he steps.
"Two," Dick says.
The host looks you over briefly, then smiles. "Right this way."
You slip into a booth near the back. The lighting is low and flattering, the kind that makes everything feel less sharp around the edges. There's quiet music—something old-school and smooth—floating beneath the murmur of conversation. The table has a small candle in the middle, its flame steady, not flickering like it's nervous.
Dick sets your bag down beside him, then slides into the booth across from you. He doesn't sprawl. He doesn't slouch. He sits like he's alert even while he's relaxing, shoulders squared, gaze sweeping the room once—exit, corners, staff, nearest tables—before settling back on you.
You catch the scan. You always do.
"You're doing it again," you say, trying to sound casual.
"Doing what?" he asks, though the faint curve at his mouth says he knows.
"Taking inventory," you reply.
He shrugs like it's nothing. "Habit."
You lift your menu, trying to focus on words instead of the quiet weight of him across from you. But even while you're reading, you can feel his attention like heat—soft, steady, constant.
A server comes by with water and a polite smile. "Can I start you off with something to drink?"
You glance up, about to answer, but Dick speaks first. "Whatever he wants," he says simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
You shoot him a look over the rim of your menu. "I can order my own drink."
"I know," he replies, calm. "I'm just saying I'm not dictating. Choose."
The server looks between you, amused, and you order something simple—wine, maybe, or a cocktail you can sip slowly. Dick orders something equally understated. No show. No flash. Just quiet confidence.
When the server leaves, you set the menu down slightly and say, "This doesn't have to be a big thing, you know."
Dick tilts his head. "Dinner?"
"The... gesture," you clarify.
He watches you for a moment, then answers honestly, "I'm not trying to make it a big thing. I'm trying to make sure you eat and breathe and stop carrying the whole week in your shoulders."
Your throat tightens a little at the accuracy. You glance down at your hands on the table, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the menu.
"You've been quiet," he adds.
"I'm tired," you admit.
"I know."
The server returns with bread and your drinks. You take a sip, the cold glass grounding you. Dick waits until you've swallowed.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, voice low enough to feel private.
You almost laugh, because the truth is everything. Jason. The date night. The guilt. The weird comfort of Dick's presence. The way the line keeps blurring no matter how much you try to redraw it.
But you don't say all of that.
Instead you say, "I feel like I'm always choosing wrong lately."
Dick's eyes don't leave your face. "You're choosing what keeps you standing," he says. "That's not wrong."
The words land softer than your defenses expect. You breathe out slowly, shoulders easing a fraction.
You order your food when the server comes back. Something warm. Something filling. Dick orders too—clean, simple choices, like he's feeding a body that needs fuel, not indulging a whim.
Then, when the server asks, "Together or separate?"
You open your mouth—because you always pay your own way when you can, because it's reflex, because you don't like owing people anything—
Dick cuts in smoothly. "Together. I've got it."
You blink. "Dick—"
He doesn't even look at the server when he says it, just keeps his gaze on you like he's making the point directly to your chest. "I'm paying."
"I can pay for myself," you insist, because you can, because you should, because—
He leans back slightly, calm and unmovable. "I didn't offer because you can't," he says. "I offered because I want to."
Something about that—about him not treating it like charity, not making it a lecture—steals the argument right out of your mouth.
You stare at him for a beat, then scoff lightly. "You're stubborn."
His mouth twitches. "So are you."
You should push. You should insist. You should keep the lines clean.
But the truth is, a part of you wants to be taken care of for one night. A part of you is tired of being the one holding everything together. And Dick—quiet, relentless Dick—has always known exactly where your tired parts live.
So you let it happen.
You let him pay. You let him set the pace. You let him sit there across from you and pull you out of your own head with small things: an observation about the couple two tables over, a dry comment about the music, a barely-there smirk when you try not to laugh and fail anyway.
Your phone stays facedown on the table. You don't reach for it. You don't check for Jason's name.
Dick notices. Of course he does.
But he doesn't say anything. He just keeps talking—steady, easy, unexpectedly funny in a way that makes your chest loosen up little by little. He asks about your self-defense instructor and actually listens to the answer. He remembers details you mentioned days ago, like your mind matters to him, not just your body or your past.
And without realizing when it happens, you start leaning forward when you talk. You start smiling again—small at first, then real. The kind of smile you wore when you were texting Jason, before the fight, before everything got complicated.
Dick watches it happen like he's watching the sunrise.
Not greedy. Not loud. Just... satisfied.
And somewhere between the appetizers and the main course, you realize you've let yourself get distracted exactly the way Dick intended.
Not with big moves.
With warmth.
With attention.
With the simple, dangerous comfort of him making it easy to forget anyone else exists.
YOU AND DICK walk back to the apartment with the kind of quiet that isn’t awkward—it’s just full.
The city air has cooled since dinner. Gotham is doing its usual nighttime thing: headlights smearing across wet pavement, distant laughter spilling out of a bar, a siren whining somewhere far enough away not to be your problem. You’re shoulder-to-shoulder on the sidewalk, not touching, but close enough that you keep catching the warmth of him whenever your paths drift too near.
Dick carries himself like he always does—calm, alert, unhurried. Every few steps his eyes flick across the street, over your shoulder, toward an alley mouth, then back to you. Like he’s simultaneously on a date and on patrol, even though he’d never call it that.
You, on the other hand, are trying to enjoy the dinner you just had without letting the guilt creep in.
Because you did enjoy it.
You laughed. You ate. You let your shoulders drop for the first time in days. You let yourself be taken care of in small ways that felt good and dangerous at the same time. You even forgot to check your phone for long stretches—which is the problem.
Jason’s silence has been living in your pocket like a stone all week. You keep telling yourself you’ll fix it when you have the energy, when you’re not exhausted, when you’re not irritated, when you’re not tangled up in Dick’s presence the way you’ve been lately.
And as you climb the stairs to your building, key in hand, your mind starts forming the plan again:
I’ll go to Jason’s tonight. I’ll sit down, no attitude. I’ll apologize. I’ll tell him I miss him. I’ll remind him I’m choosing him right now, in the present, because I want to—not because I’m being pulled.
That’s what you tell yourself.
You unlock your door, step inside, and the apartment greets you with familiar quiet: the low hum of the fridge, the faint scent of whatever detergent Dick insists on using because it “actually works,” the dim hallway light you left on.
Dick sets your bag down by the entry table like it belongs there, like he belongs here, too.
You hang up your jacket, toe off your shoes, and your phone buzzes in your pocket as if it can feel the thought you were just having. For a second you think it might be Jason.
It isn’t. It’s some pointless work notification.
You exhale slowly, annoyed at yourself for the flicker of hope.
Dick watches you from the living room doorway, eyes following the way you move through the space like he’s learned your habits. He doesn’t ask about your phone. He doesn’t ask about Jason.
Not yet.
Instead he says, casually, “You good?”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. Then you correct yourself, honest. “I’m… better than I was earlier.”
He nods once, like he files that away.
You start toward the kitchen—water, maybe, something to ground yourself—when his voice catches you again, low and seemingly offhand.
“I got an email today.”
You glance back. “From who?”
“WayneTech,” he says, and the way his mouth curves—just barely—tells you it’s not bad news. “They’re doing that gala next week. The one everybody pretends they’re not excited about.”
You lean against the counter, arms folding. “The charity gala? The one with the donor speeches and the overpriced champagne?”
“That one,” he confirms.
You nod slowly. “Okay. Congrats? I’m guessing you have to go.”
“I don’t have to,” he says. “But it’s… expected. They’re pushing the whole ‘company culture’ thing.” He pauses, and in that pause you feel something shift. Like he’s choosing his next words carefully.
Your skin prickles before he even speaks again.
Then Dick steps a little farther into the room. Not too close, but enough that his presence fills the space between you like a quiet pressure.
“I want you to come with me,” he says.
You blink. “Come with you?”
He holds your gaze. “As my date.”
The words hit your chest harder than they should.
For a second, everything goes very still. The apartment, the city outside, the little hum of the fridge—it all fades behind the sudden loudness of what he just asked.
Your brain tries to process it logically first:
A gala. Fancy clothes. A room full of polished people and cameras and WayneTech executives. Dick, freshly out, building a new life, standing under chandeliers with a drink in his hand like he belongs there.
And you—on his arm.
Your stomach flips, partly because you can picture it too clearly, and partly because you can picture what Jason would say if he found out.
You swallow. “Dick… why?”
He doesn’t flinch at the question. He answers like it’s simple.
“Because I don’t want to walk in there alone,” he says. “And because I’d rather have you with me than anyone else.”
Your mouth opens, then closes. Your heart gives an irritated little thump.
“That’s not an answer,” you say.
“It is,” he replies calmly. “You just don’t like what it implies.”
You stare at him.
He’s not smiling, not pushing with brute force. But there’s something in his eyes—steady, intent—that feels like a hand closing around a door handle. Not slamming it. Just… testing whether it’ll open.
“This is… a lot,” you say, voice quieter now.
Dick nods once. “I know.”
“And you’re asking me right now because… what?” you ask, the edge creeping in despite yourself. “Because you bought me dinner and you think you can just—”
“No,” he cuts in, sharp enough to stop you, but controlled. He takes a breath, and the sharpness smooths back down. “I’m asking now because the invite came now.”
You hold his gaze, searching for the trick. The strategy. Because you know him. You know he plays the long game.
Then he adds, almost softer, “And because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want things.”
That lands. That lands in the exact spot you’ve been trying not to look at for weeks.
You glance down at your phone on the counter like it can save you, like Jason’s name might pop up and give you an excuse.
It doesn’t.
You look back at Dick. He’s waiting, patient as ever, like he can stand still forever if it means you’ll eventually step closer on your own.
You feel the fork in the road right there in your living room:
• If you say yes, you’re letting him claim a public space in your life. Not prison-private. Not couch-quiet. Public.
• If you say no, you’re drawing a line—and you don’t know if he’ll respect it or simply find another angle.
And underneath both options is the truth you’ve been avoiding:
You were planning to go to Jason’s tonight to fix things.
But Dick just asked you to be his date to the WayneTech gala, and suddenly the thought of walking into Jason’s apartment feels heavier—because now there’s something to confess, something to explain, something that could be interpreted as you choosing Dick again.
You inhale slowly.
Your voice comes out careful. “I need to think.”
Dick’s eyes don’t move from your face. “Okay,” he says.
But then, because he’s Dick, because he can never resist placing one more piece on the board, he adds quietly:
“Just… don’t say no because you’re scared of what Jason will think.”
Your throat tightens.
Because he’s right about one thing: Jason’s reaction is exactly what you’re already picturing.
And Dick knows it.
He watches your face as you absorb that, like he can see the conflict flickering behind your eyes. He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t step closer. He just waits—calm, steady, certain.
And in the silence that follows, you realize this wasn’t just a casual invitation.
This was Dick moving the triangle into the spotlight.
YOU TRY to do the responsible thing, standing there in the heart of your kitchen with its familiar scuffs on the linoleum floor and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, your phone clutched tightly in your hand like a lifeline, the cool glass screen pressing against your palm as you stare at the blank message thread. The apartment stretches out quiet behind you, the only sounds the distant murmur of city traffic filtering through the slightly cracked window and the occasional creak of the old building settling, but inside your chest, the lingering echo of Dick's question—his casual yet loaded invitation to be his date to the WayneTech gala—sits heavy like a stone, pressing down with unspoken implications that make your ribs feel tight. You tell yourself firmly, almost like a mantra repeating in your head, that you're not going to let another day slip by with Jason's growing distance hanging between you like a fog you can't quite dispel, not going to keep tiptoeing around the edges of this rift until it widens into something permanent and irreparable, a chasm that swallows up the easy connection you've built with him.
So you text him, your thumbs hovering for a moment over the keyboard before you commit, aiming for something simple, direct, and mature—nothing dramatic, just an olive branch extended in the digital void.
You: Hey. Can we talk tonight? I miss you.
You hit send and immediately lock your gaze on the screen, watching the little "Delivered" notification appear beneath your message, the brightness of the display starting to sting your eyes in the dim evening light filtering through the curtains, almost as if it's mocking your vulnerability with its unblinking glow. A minute ticks by agonizingly slow, each second marked by the wall clock's soft tick-tock that suddenly seems louder than usual; then two minutes, your foot tapping restlessly against the floor; five, and still no typing bubble, no read receipt that would at least confirm he's seen it and chosen silence. Nothing but that empty space staring back at you, amplifying the knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach.
You try again, forcing yourself to keep it calm and composed even as that knot tightens further, your fingers trembling slightly as you type, the autocorrect popping up suggestions you dismiss with irritation.
You: I know I messed up. I'm sorry. I want to fix it.
Still nothing—no vibration, no chime, just the oppressive quiet of the apartment wrapping around you like a blanket that's too heavy. You set the phone down on the cool granite countertop with a soft clack, staring at it as if willing it to light up, then pick it up again almost immediately, the device warm from your grip, before setting it down once more in a futile cycle that mirrors the looping thoughts in your head. Your brain kicks into overdrive, that insidious habit of filling the silence with worst-case scenarios: he's done with you entirely, fed up with the complications; he's over the hurt and moving on without a backward glance; you pushed too far by letting Dick back into your life, even platonically, and now you've made everything too messy to salvage. The doubts swirl like dark clouds, making your throat feel dry and your pulse quicken.
You start pacing—from the kitchen to the living room with its worn couch still bearing the faint imprint from last night's movie, the throw blanket folded neatly on the arm, then back to the kitchen again—your thumb hovering over his name in your contacts like you're about to prod at a fresh bruise just to confirm it still aches, the contact photo of him grinning mischievously at the camera tugging at something tender in your chest.
Dick's in the other room, the spare bedroom he's claimed as his temporary space, quiet and respectful, giving you the privacy you need without hovering, but you can feel his presence permeating the apartment like a subtle undercurrent—a reminder etched into every corner, from the extra coffee mug drying on the rack to the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air—of exactly why Jason might be pulling away, why this distance feels so pointed and personal.
You exhale sharply through your nose, your jaw clenching tight enough that you feel the muscles tense along your neck.
Okay, you think, the word echoing resolutely in your mind. Fine. If straightforward apologies aren't cutting through, you'll adapt.
You try a different approach, not because you want to play games—god, you hate that, the artificial performance of it all, the way it makes you feel manipulative and exposed—but because you know Jason, know the rhythms of his moods and what pierces through his walls. You know what grabs his attention when he's retreating into that armored shell of his, and right now, with frustration bubbling under your skin, you need him to stop hiding behind curt, one-word responses or outright silence and actually engage, to talk to you like the adults you both are.
So you type something softer at first—something that threads the needle between vulnerability and invitation, not quite begging but far from cold, your fingers moving with deliberate care.
You: I keep thinking about you.
You hit send and lean back against the counter, the edge digging into your lower back as you watch the screen intently, the message whooshing away into the ether.
A beat passes, your breath held unconsciously.
Two beats, your fingers drumming lightly on the phone's case.
Then, finally—the typing bubble appears, those three little dots pulsing like a heartbeat on the screen, a sign of life that sends the tiniest rush of relief flooding through you, quickly chased by a sharp spike of irritation that it took veering into this territory to elicit any response at all.
Jason: Yeah?
One word. A hook dangling there, testing the waters, probing for more without committing.
You swallow hard, shifting your weight as you lean your hip more firmly against the counter for support, letting your head tip back for a second to stare at the ceiling's faint water stain from last year's leak, gathering patience like you're drawing it from the air itself before diving back in.
You decide to stop dancing around the edges, to infuse your next message with a little heat—enough to provoke a real reaction, to draw him out, but not so much that it feels like desperate pleading, your thumbs flying across the keys with newfound resolve.
You: If you were here, I'd prove I'm sorry.
The typing bubble pops up immediately this time, no hesitation, no drawn-out pause—it's like you've flipped a switch, and the speed of it makes your lips quirk in a mix of triumph and exasperation.
Jason: Ah. So NOW you wanna talk.
There he is, emerging from the shadows—the real Jason, with that undercurrent of smugness threading through the text like he's smirking at his phone, but beneath it, you can sense something else, something taut and restrained, like he's been holding back a torrent of emotions all week and the dam is starting to crack under the pressure.
You bite your lower lip gently, the faint taste of your chapstick grounding you as your thumbs hover, then move again.
You: I've wanted to talk. You've been icing me out all week.
Jason: I've been giving you space.
You: No. You've been punishing me.
That message sits there on the screen after you send it, bold and unflinching, a raw honesty that makes your heartbeat pick up tempo, thumping steadily in your ears as you wait, half-expecting him to deflect or deny it outright.
He doesn't.
Jason: You hurt me.
Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it, the direct admission hitting like a quiet punch, stripping away the layers to the core of the issue.
You soften immediately, the defensive heat fading into something more genuine, more tender, your fingers typing with care now.
You: I know. And I'm sorry. I hate that I missed your date night. I hate that it made you feel like you weren't a priority.
There's a pause that stretches long enough to make you think you've lost him again, the silence amplifying every little sound around you—the drip of the faucet you keep meaning to fix, the faint buzz of a neighbor's TV through the wall—as you stare at the phone, your thumb tapping the edge rhythmically in nervous anticipation.
Then:
Jason: You were with him.
The words land like a precise pressure point, probing at the heart of the jealousy, the insecurity that's been festering.
You type carefully now, measured and truthful, because you refuse to lie or sugarcoat, not with him.
You: Yes. But Jason... I'm not choosing him over you. I'm trying to manage something messy without lying to anyone, including myself.
The typing bubble appears, flickers out, reappears—a digital reflection of his internal struggle, perhaps—and you hold your breath, eyes fixed on the screen.
Jason: I don't like him in your space.
You exhale slowly, your eyes closing for a brief moment as you absorb the raw edge in his words, the possessiveness that's both flattering and complicated.
You: I know. And I get why. But I need you to trust me, not because I'm perfect, but because I'm being honest with you.
You wait, the air in the kitchen feeling thicker, your free hand gripping the counter's edge for stability.
And then you add the part you've been holding back, the olive branch extended fully—the repair, the tangible effort, the reassurance he's been craving amid this week's emotional starvation.
You: Let me make it up to you. A real date night. This weekend. I'll show up on time. I'll let you pick the place. I'll put my phone away. I'll be there—fully.
A beat later, his reply comes, the words carrying a hint of thawing.
Jason: And after?
You roll your eyes skyward even as your mouth twitches into a reluctant smile, because of course that's where his mind leaps—to the aftermath, the intimacy, the physical and emotional closeness that speaks to him louder than words sometimes, a language of reassurance he trusts implicitly.
You give him just enough to reel him in closer, threading the response with promise without letting the conversation devolve into pure flirtation.
You: After, you get me. No distractions. No half-in, half-out. Just us.
That one seals it, the hook sinking deep.
His reply flashes back fast, decisive.
Jason: Good. Because I'm not trying to be the guy who waits politely while you fall back into your past.
You stare at the screen, your throat tightening with a mix of empathy and resolve, then type the unvarnished truth.
You: You won't be. You're my present. And I want to keep it that way.
There's a pause—shorter now, but still loaded with unspoken layers, the weight of what's been said hanging in the digital space between you.
Then:
Jason: Alright. We'll make up the date. Saturday. Don't flake.
Relief crashes over you so intensely it almost makes you lightheaded, a wave that loosens the tension in your shoulders and eases the knot in your stomach.
You let out a long, shuddering breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, your body sagging slightly against the counter as you tap back immediately, sealing the agreement.
You: Saturday. I'll be there. And Jason?
Jason: What?
You hesitate for a split second, your fingers pausing over the keys, then send it anyway—because you want him to hear it clearly, without filters.
You: I miss you. Like... actually miss you.
His response pings back one second later, impulsive and unguarded, like he couldn't contain it any longer.
Jason: Miss you too. I just didn't want to say it first.
You shake your head with a small, helpless smile spreading across your face, the phone feeling warm and reassuring in your hand now, a bridge rebuilt.
You've gotten him to talk, to open up that guarded door.
You've salvaged a date night, putting it back on the calendar like a promise.
But even as the glow of reconciliation settles in, you can't ignore the deeper complication humming beneath the surface, a low vibration that tempers the victory—
Because you can patch up one missed date night with apologies and plans.
But Dick is still in your apartment, his presence a constant undercurrent in every room.
And that WayneTech gala invitation still nestles between your ribs like a ticking clock, counting down to choices you haven't fully faced yet.
can i just say how fucking glad i am that u wrote the reader actually catching onto dick's antics? i feel like it's way too common for the reader to be completely oblivious/not know what they're involved in. it's also a good thing he didn't just concede into cheating; even if it was written well, it lowkey would've felt half-assed.
the way they're all so nuanced pains me all the more. like, they all want something but can't have it the way they want, and how they're going abt the situation makes sense. everyone's initial intentions with each other were messy, and that's exactly why they're in a messy situation!! ah, this food is just so fucking good lois.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. late-night laundry turns unexpectedly intense when your neighbor glen shows up.
𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [8.4k].
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 top!glen 〳 apartment neighbor!glen 〳 bottom!reader 〳 size kink 〳 spitting 〳 cumplay 〳 rimming (r!receiving) 〳 body worshiping 〳 exhibitionism 〳 handjob 〳 hair-pulling 〳 rough sex 〳 glen has his foot on reader's head
The laundry room is always too bright at night.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bleaching the space into something temporary, borrowed. The dryers hum along one wall, steady and low, heat trapped in the air along with the faint scent of detergent and warm cotton. It’s quiet in the way places get when they aren’t meant to be occupied for long.
You come down late on purpose. Basket hooked against your hip, keys still warm in your palm. Fewer people. Less conversation. Just you and the machines.
You’re halfway through pouring detergent when the door opens behind you.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Just unhurried.
“Hey.”
Your hand stills.
You turn, and for a second, your brain doesn’t quite catch up.
It’s Glen. Your next-door neighbor. The one you only ever see in fragments: shoulders at the mailboxes, his forearm when you both reach for the same parcel, the quiet nods exchanged in the hallway. You know his face, his voice. You do not know his body.
You do now.
He’s in his slippers, feet flat against the linoleum like he doesn’t care how cold it is. His hair is still damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. A towel is slung low on his hips, tied lazily, the knot sitting just off-center like it was done without much thought.
Your eyes snag anyway.
His shoulders are broad enough to fill the doorway, muscle carved clean beneath skin still flushed from heat. His chest is bare; solid, defined, faintly dusted with hair that darkens where water beads and trails down. It’s not something sculpted for show; it looks used. Lived in. Like he carries his strength without thinking about it.
You forget to breathe.
For a beat, neither of you says anything.
“Oh—” You clear your throat, the sound rougher than you expect. “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t think anyone else was down here.”
“It’s fine,” he says easily, already stepping farther inside. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the room. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
He smiles like this is normal. Like he isn’t standing there half-naked under fluorescent lights at midnight.
You force your eyes back to the washer, pretend very hard that you’re invested in detergent measurements. Your pulse is loud in your ears.
“Late-night laundry?” you ask, mostly to fill the space.
“Yeah.” You hear fabric shift as he sets his basket down. “Figured it was safer than fighting everyone earlier.”
“Same,” you say. “Only time it’s ever empty.”
“Guess not tonight.”
You glance over despite yourself.
He’s closer now, leaning back against one of the washers, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The movement makes everything worse. His biceps flex subtly where they rest, muscle defined without strain. When he shifts his weight, his calves tighten; thick, strong, built like he uses them.
The towel rides even lower when he leans. Just enough to expose the sharp V cutting down toward his hips. You catch a glimpse of it before you can stop yourself, heat curling low in your stomach.
You look away immediately.
“Sorry,” you say, though you’re not sure what for.
“For what?” he asks.
You shrug, pretending to focus on the washer. “Didn’t realize you were… coming from the shower.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Bad timing.”
It doesn’t sound like he means it.
You straighten, risk another look—and this time, you register it: the way the towel doesn’t hang flat. The subtle, undeniable weight pressing forward beneath the fabric when he shifts. It’s not exaggerated. It’s just… there. Heavy enough that your eyes want to track it before your brain tells them not to.
His gaze catches you mid-thought.
Not accusatory. Not smug.
Just observant.
“So,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to your basket, then back to your face. “You’re in 3B, right?”
You blink. “Yeah. You’re… 3C.”
“Mailboxes give it away.”
“Hard not to notice when we keep grabbing them at the same time.”
“Yeah,” he says. There’s a pause. Then, quieter, “I’ve noticed.”
The machines hum between you. A dryer thumps unevenly down the row. The room feels warmer than it did a minute ago, air thick enough that you’re suddenly aware of your own body: how you’re standing, where your hands are, the way your shirt clings a little at the back.
Your washer clicks, lid locking into place.
The sound feels loud.
Glen pushes off the washer, taking one slow step closer. Not crowding you. Just closing the distance enough that you feel it. His heat. His presence. The solid reality of him in a space that suddenly feels too small.
“You always do laundry this late?” he asks.
“Usually.” Your breath stutters.
Glen’s eyes flick down. Brief and almost careless, then lift back to your face. It’s quick enough that you could pretend you imagined it, if not for the way his mouth curves, faintly amused, like he’s just confirmed something.
“Relax,” he says quietly. “I’m not gonna bite.”
The pause that follows stretches, heavy and deliberate.
“Not tonight, anyway.”
He eases back then, slow, unhurried, reclaiming the space inch by inch like he knows exactly what leaving it behind does to you. He adjusts the towel at his hips, the motion casual, practiced, like it was never in danger of slipping. Like he hasn’t just had you pinned there by proximity alone.
“Guess I’ll let you finish,” he adds, glancing at the washer. “Wouldn’t want to distract you.”
It’s almost polite.
He grabs his basket and turns toward the door, broad shoulders rolling as he moves. At the threshold, he pauses. Not long enough to make a show of it, just long enough to matter.
“See you around,” he says.
The door clicks shut behind him.
The machines keep humming. The lights keep buzzing.
And you’re left standing there, heart racing, body still buzzing, knowing one thing with uncomfortable certainty—
That wasn’t accidental.
And it wasn’t over.
Steam drifts lazily from the dryer vents, curling in the fluorescent light that makes the room feel smaller, heavier. The machines hum steadily, a soft vibration through the linoleum beneath your feet. You set your basket down and start measuring detergent, trying to focus on something ordinary.
The door opens, and Glen steps in, towel low at his hips once again. He leans casually against a dryer, one arm resting on the edge, muscles flexing subtly as he shifts weight. Broad shoulders, defined biceps, faint veins along his forearms, abs sharply cut under damp skin, calves taut with every micro-movement. The V-cut of his hips beneath the towel is impossible to ignore, taunting you like it’s an arrow directing it towards…
You break out of the spellbound that is the sight of Glen’s body from a cough.
Glen clears his throat and tilts his head slightly, eyes catching yours, a small, knowing smirk playing across his lips.
“You catch the new Thai place opening down the street?” he asks, nodding toward the window. “Supposedly the chef came from that place downtown everyone raves about.”
“Yeah, I walked past it yesterday,” you say. “Smelled something amazing. I might have to check it out next week.”
He smirks, glancing at you as he shifts his weight, towel brushing lightly against his thigh. Biceps flex faintly, veins standing out along his forearms. “You’ll let me know if it’s worth it, right?”
You grin. “Only if you promise not to steal all the good dishes before I get there.”
“Deal,” he says smoothly, leaning slightly on the dryer beside you. The movement flexes his chest and shoulders subtly, catching the fluorescent light just so. You notice the faint line of his abs, the curve of his calves, and the low edge of the towel teasing your vision. Heat pools in your stomach.
“You notice the construction on Maple?” you ask, deciding to keep the conversation casual. “They’re finally putting in that crosswalk, but it looks like they’re just digging holes for fun.”
He chuckles, eyes flicking toward the street before returning to you. “It’s a little ridiculous. I don’t know who they expect to cross there safely anytime soon.” He shifts, leaning his shoulder against the dryer again, towel brushing lightly, biceps flexing. “I guess we’ll have to keep an eye on it ourselves.”
You smirk, feeling bold. “Two vigilant neighbors. We could start a watch group.”
Glen laughs softly, the sound low and warm. He tilts his head, letting his gaze linger just a moment longer than necessary. The curl of damp hair at his nape, the taut muscles along his arms, the faintly glistening veins in his forearms, the edge of the towel all tug at your attention. He shifts again, adjusting stance, calves flexing slightly, and you realize every movement is deliberate, even if it looks casual.
“I think I’d like that,” he says, voice smooth and playful. “A watch group. I might have to make sure my favorite neighbor is paying attention.”
Your pulse skips. You grin, leaning a little closer to the washer. “Well, I am paying attention,” you say, letting the words hang in the warm, humid air.
Glen smirks faintly, stepping lightly toward the door, broad shoulders rolling with the motion, towel hanging low, muscles relaxed but impossible to ignore. He pauses at the threshold, glancing back once, that same small, knowing smirk in place. “Catch you later,” he says.
The door clicks shut behind him. The machines hum louder now, steam rising in lazy spirals. You stand there, basket in hand, chest tight, acutely aware of every subtle flex, every curve, and the tension between you both that is only growing.
You pause just inside the laundry room, catching Glen mid-stretch against a dryer. Towel hangs low at his hips, one arm draped casually over the machine, fingers brushing its edge. The motion sets the muscles along his shoulder and bicep into subtle, fluid ripples. Veins run faintly along his forearms, catching the light. His chest glistens faintly with dampness, abs taut and defined, obliques curving sharply down toward the towel. Even the swell of his waist beneath it is impossible to ignore.
Your pajamas cling slightly from your shower, fabric soft against your warm skin, and you notice the contrast between your covered form and his bare, sculpted body. You shift your weight, adjusting your grip on the basket, feeling the hum of your own pulse as his gaze flickers your way. The brief touch of his eyes makes your chest tighten, stomach knot, a heat you can’t ignore.
“You’re early tonight,” you say lightly, teasing as you set the basket down. “Thought I’d have the place to myself.”
Glen tilts his head, smirk curling his lips, eyes glinting with mischief. He shifts his weight, towel brushing ever so slightly against the dryer. “I like the company,” he murmurs. “Makes the night… more interesting.”
Your lips twitch into a grin. “Interesting how?”
He steps a fraction closer, broad shoulders relaxed but deliberate, calves flexing just enough to catch your eye. “Depends on what you notice first,” he says, tone casual yet deliberate, letting the words hang between you. The warmth radiating from him is tangible, magnetic.
You glance down at his arms, over the sweep of his shoulders, the ridges of his abs and the faint line of chest hair, and feel your breath catch. “Oh really?” you murmur, tilting your head, daring him with your gaze.
Glen’s eyes follow, slow and deliberate, lingering just long enough to make the space between you charged. He leans lightly against the dryer, towel edge brushing subtly against the machine, biceps flexing with the smallest adjustment of weight. “Yes,” he says softly. “There’s a lot to notice.”
Heat curls low, pulse quickening. You shift your stance, subtly leaning toward the machine, letting your forearms brush lightly against the edge, feeling the tautness of your own muscles. You catch his eyes flicking over your form, just long enough for awareness to ripple between you without a word.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you tease, voice low, playful.
Glen laughs softly, the sound warm in the humid air. “Maybe,” he says, smirk lingering. “Or maybe I just like watching you.”
You can’t help the shiver that runs through you, the way his presence draws your attention to every subtle movement he makes—the roll of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, the taut sweep of his obliques, the teasing swell beneath the towel. He steps back just slightly, broad shoulders rolling, leaving the space between you heated and electric.
“You have a nice night,” he murmurs, voice low, playful, eyes sparkling with genuine interest. He glances back at you once, letting the smirk linger, before finally moving toward the door.
The click of the latch echoes softly in the charged silence. You stand there, basket in hand, heart hammering, fully aware of every shift, every subtle movement, every glance, and the slow, undeniable pull threading between you. The room feels impossibly small, the tension between you heavier than the humid air, and you know this is only the beginning.
The laundry room is thick with warm air, machines humming steadily, but it feels quieter than usual. You set your basket down and glance up. Glen is leaning against a dryer, towel low at his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. He doesn’t greet you with his usual wide grin. Instead, there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his eyes are sharper, lingering on you longer than usual.
“Hey,” he says softly, Texan drawl low and smooth, just enough charm in it to make your chest tighten.
“Hey,” you reply, letting your gaze roam over him, taking in the subtle lines of his chest, the curve of his abs, the taut sweep of his obliques, the swell beneath the towel. The way his muscles flex as he shifts weight, forearms corded and veins faintly tracing, makes it impossible to look away. His thick fingers have been drumming an expeditious rhythm over the rim of the dryer.
Glen adjusts slightly, leaning more casually against the dryer, shoulder brushing yours ever so lightly. The touch is casual, but the heat it sends through you is immediate. He glances down at your hands on the basket, then back to your face, letting the brief silence stretch.
You try for a teasing tone. “Late night laundry again?”
He shrugs, smirk softening into something almost mischievous, but his body is alert, every movement deliberate. “You know me. Quiet hours, less chaos. Plus…” He lets the sentence hang, eyes flicking briefly down your chest before snapping back up with a half-smile. “…company’s better than I expected.”
Your pulse quickens at the casual delivery, the subtext humming in the air. He shifts again, towel brushing lightly against the dryer, calf flexing as he straightens just enough to occupy the space between you. You feel the warmth radiating off him, subtle but undeniable, the magnetic pull you’ve noticed before amplified tonight.
“Better than you expected?” you ask, voice low, letting the words hang like a challenge.
He tilts his head, smirk deepening faintly, curls of damp hair falling into his eyes. “Mmh,” he murmurs, voice smooth, playful, teasing but restrained. “Couldn’t have guessed.” He leans slightly closer under the pretense of reaching for detergent, shoulder grazing yours, thigh brushing the side of your leg. The touches are small, deliberate, and they make your stomach coil.
You adjust slightly, letting the brush of his arm linger. His eyes flick over you with that faint gleam you’ve come to recognize, lingering on your chest and hips, then back to your face. There’s no comment, no overt teasing. Just a quiet heat in his gaze that makes it impossible not to respond.
He shifts again, forearm brushing lightly against yours as he moves a basket aside, biceps flexing subtly, shoulder rolling. You notice the smooth sweep of his obliques, the corded ridges of his abs, the slight roll of his calves. Each movement feels intentional, even under the guise of normal motion, and your body tightens with awareness.
You glance at him, voice teasing softly. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Not your usual self.”
He smiles faintly, a flash of charm returning, eyes locking with yours, his voice softening each word. “Maybe I’m just… appreciating the moment,” he murmurs, voice low, carrying both mischief and a subtle intensity. He steps a fraction closer, towel brushing your hip for the briefest instant, letting the heat linger.
You shift too, drawn in, heart racing, every subtle movement between you magnifying the tension. Shoulder brushes, thigh grazes, fingertips trailing briefly over the dryer edge, all become part of a slow, magnetic push and pull.
Glen tilts his head again, letting his gaze linger on your chest and then back to your eyes, lips parting slightly. “You know,” he murmurs, voice husky, teasing but deliberate, “…I don’t think I can wait forever.” The words are casual, but the heat behind them is palpable.
You inhale sharply, pulse quickening, feeling the warmth of him close, the deliberate brush of his body, the faint, intoxicating scent of his skin, the weight of every glance and micro-movement pressing in. The air feels heavy, charged, and the pull between you is undeniable.
He steps back slightly, towel edge shifting, muscles rolling under damp skin, but the tension remains taut, vibrating in the space between you. Eyes meet, unspoken need threading through every small brush, every glance, every subtle, teasing motion. The room, the machines, the warm air; they all fade into the background.
There is only you, him, and the slow-burning, feral desire that has built between you over weeks.
He shifts subtly, towel riding just a fraction higher as he adjusts, and for the first time tonight, you notice the undeniable swell beneath it. A thick, heavy line pressing against the fabric, straining slightly as if it’s been waiting for this moment as much as you have. Your pulse spikes instantly, heat pooling low, stomach tightening in anticipation. The small, deliberate touches before; shoulder grazes, thigh brushes, the casual linger of his hand near yours, suddenly take on a sharper edge, each one charged with intent.
His eyes flick down at the movement, just for a heartbeat, before meeting yours again. There’s a glint there, something teasing yet feral, a quiet acknowledgment of what’s growing between you. The faint curve of his lips, the flex of his biceps as he shifts weight, the subtle roll of his obliques, even the taut sweep of his calves; every line, every muscle seems accentuated, magnetic.
You swallow, awareness sharpening. The warmth of him close, the scent of his damp skin, the soft brush of his towel against your hip when he shifts just slightly, it’s all designed to pull you in, to make it impossible to look away.
He steps closer again, chest brushing against yours, just barely, and you feel the swell of him pressing against the thin fabric of your pajamas. His fingers graze the edge of your hip, almost absentmindedly, but the effect is electric. His eyes hold yours, dark and intent, letting you trace the line of his jaw, the curl of his damp hair, the faint tremble of his forearms as he moves.
A soft, low sound escapes his throat, almost a hum, as if he’s trying to steady himself. The smirk tugs at the corner of his lips again, but it’s tempered now with something raw, urgent. Every subtle shift, every muscle flex, every tilt of his head is a silent invitation, a wordless declaration of need.
You lean a little closer, drawn in by the gravity of him, pulse hammering, chest tight. Your hand brushes lightly over the edge of the basket, fingers trailing near his hand as if by accident. He doesn’t pull away; his thumb grazes yours in a fleeting contact, lingering just long enough to set nerves alight.
The heat between you coils tighter, unspoken, unavoidable. His towel shifts again, the swell beneath it pressing more insistently, undeniable now, a promise of the raw, feral desire that’s been simmering beneath the surface of these encounters. Every glance you trade, every brush of skin, every fraction of space between you seems to pulse with the inevitability of what’s coming.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, voice low, smooth, drawl curling around each word. “Can’t lie,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinkin’ about this… about you… for weeks.” The words are slow, deliberate, vibrating through the tension like a spark in dry grass.
Your breath catches. The machines hum around you, the warm, humid air heavy and intimate, but they’re background now. All that exists is him, you, the weight of his presence, the growing, undeniable press beneath the towel, and the slow-burning need threading through every glance, every brush, every subtle movement that has led to this moment.
He shifts just enough that the swell presses against your hip, a deliberate, teasing contact, and you can feel it through your pajamas. His eyes track yours, dark and intent, lips parting slightly as if he’s testing himself, measuring restraint against impulse. And in that suspended moment, every small touch, every fleeting brush, every quiet glance converges into something feral, raw, and urgent. Something that will no longer be contained.
Your own fingers twitch near him, unaware, but ready. Heat coils low, pulse hammering, stomach tight. The slow, careful teasing of previous encounters collapses into a tension too thick to ignore. And just like that, the line between restraint and release snaps.
Your chest hammers as he shifts closer, shoulder pressing into yours, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your pajamas. The machines hum steadily, but it all fades into the background. Glen’s towel edge nudges against your hip again, and you feel it. The thick, heavy swell pressing insistently, unmistakable.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes dark, lips parting just enough to reveal the flash of his teeth, and his warm breath brushes over yours. You catch the faint scent of soap and him, musky and intoxicating. Your own breathing quickens without thinking, shallow and hot, drawn into the space between you.
Slowly, he presses you back against the edge of the dryer, his chest close enough that you can feel every ridge of muscle through the towel. One hand rests lightly on the machine beside your head, the other near your hip, fingers brushing your pajamas in a subtle, deliberate sweep. You can feel the weight of his body, the heat pressing against yours, the strong line of his biceps and forearms.
Your gaze flicks down, just for a second, and your stomach twists. Glen’s other hand is moving over his own body beneath the towel, sliding over the thick length straining against the fabric. He swallows, and you catch him licking his lips, eyes flicking back up to yours. The swell beneath the towel is impossible to ignore, already hard and insistent, and it pulls at something deep inside you.
The silence stretches, broken only by your ragged breathing and the hum of the machines. He leans closer, chest nearly touching yours now, lips hovering a hair’s breadth from yours. His warm breath brushes across your mouth, teasing, hot, and the tiny movements; the tilt of his jaw, the dip of his shoulder, the deliberate brush of thigh against yours; send shivers down your spine.
“God…” he murmurs softly, voice thick, husky, almost lost under the weight of his own need. His tongue darts out quickly, licking his lips again, and you feel the small shift of his towel edge against your hip, the heat, the hardness of his cock pressing.
You can’t resist the pull. Your fingers rise slightly, brushing along the edge of his forearm, feeling the cords of muscle beneath, the tension rolling through him. Every subtle movement of his body: shoulders rolling, abs flexing, towel teasing; pulls at you, makes it impossible to think, impossible to stop the craving building between you.
Glen leans even closer, pressing you fully against the dryer now, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, chest warm and hard against yours. The air between your lips is thick, heavy, each inhale a soft caress, each exhale sending warmth onto his. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and magnetic, and the slightest tilt of his head seems to say more than words ever could.
The subtle, slow strokes of his hand beneath the towel, the press of his thigh, the warm breaths ghosting across your lips, all coil together into a tension so tight it almost hurts. Your heart races, stomach twisting low, pulse thundering. You’re acutely aware of every ridge of muscle, every vein along his forearms, every teasing ripple along his abs, and the swell beneath the towel pressing insistently against you.
The space between your lips shrinks, hovering, trembling, and the air feels electric, every heartbeat, every breath, every brush of skin amplifying the need building between you. The suspense stretches, taut and unbearable, until it feels like one small movement, one flicker of lips, could ignite the entire room.
Glen hesitates for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to yours, apprehensive and deciding, and then finally leans in. Your lips brush lightly at first, a tentative, feathered contact, and the air seems to catch between you. The warmth of his mouth, the soft press of his lips, the subtle pressure of his body against yours; it feels like a release of everything that’s been simmering, every stolen glance, every brushed shoulder, every teasing graze.
You respond instinctively, tilting your head, letting your lips melt against his, and the world shrinks to nothing but the press of him, the heat radiating through every inch of his damp, sculpted body. His hand slides along your hip, trailing lower for a moment, the heat and weight of him pressing into you in ways that leave you trembling.
The kiss deepens, slow at first, almost reverent. Your mouths move together, lips exploring, tasting, soft moans escaping against each other. His thumb brushes along the curve of your waist, teasing lightly, sending shivers down your spine. You feel the pleading, deliberate bulge pressing insistently beneath his towel, and a pulse of need shoots straight through you.
Then it shifts. Glen tilts his head, pushing forward with a quiet, commanding force that pulls you fully into him. His mouth opens slightly, teeth grazing your lower lip before his tongue slides over yours in a slow, deliberate, wet exploration. Your own hands rise, brushing over his chest, tangling in his damp hair, and then hesitantly moving lower, fingers finding the thick swell of him straining against the towel.
“Drivin’ me insane,” he growls between kisses, voice low, hoarse, Texan drawl thick with desire. His hand drifts lower, brushing over your hip and teasing the curve of your ass, pressing you impossibly tight against him.
You moan softly against his mouth, fingers sliding beneath the towel to wrap around the thick swell pressing insistently in your palm. He shivers at the contact, hips pressing forward slightly, letting you stroke him through the fabric. A low, guttural sound vibrates through his chest and into yours, making your stomach coil.
“You feel too good,” he murmurs roughly, teasing and feral all at once, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for so long.”
Your breath hitches as his other hand grips the dryer beside your head, holding you in place. His body presses flush against yours, every ridge of muscle taut, every line of him sculpted and straining with desire. The smell of him, the warmth, the heat of his skin and sweat, the faint rustle of the towel.
All of it coils tight inside you.
“Then don’t stop me,” you whisper against his lips, letting your tongue push against his briefly before pulling back to breathe. Your hand continues its movements along his thick cock, stroking slowly, testing, teasing, feeling the weight of him pulse beneath your palm.
He groans, hips pressing harder, towel shifting, cock pressing insistently against your palm. “Oh, you’re killing me,” he rasps, teeth grazing your lower lip, tongue dueling yours in a messy, wet rhythm. “I’ve been imagining this… imagining you… everything about you.”
Your moans mingle, breaths hitching, hearts hammering, as his hands roam over your body: shoulder, hip, ass, waist—claiming, testing, grounding you in him.
Every movement is deliberate, but raw, feral, impossible to ignore. His lips move over yours, tongue tracing yours with a heated dominance, pressing, dragging, claiming, while his cock stiffens further in your hand, heavy and hard.
“You’re too… perfect,” he mutters between gasps, voice thick and ragged. “God, I need… I need you.”
You tilt your head, letting your tongue slide against his, hand moving faster, teasing harder, and the groan that rumbles through him makes your chest tighten even more. The slow, deliberate teasing of weeks collapses into urgent, primal energy. Mouths, hands, heat, and need colliding.
He leans back slightly just to pull you flush against him, pressing you impossibly close, and whispers, lips grazing yours: “I swear… you’re mine tonight.”
You can feel the weight of him against you, chest pressed impossibly close, every ridge of muscle taut, corded, alive beneath your palms. His lips brush yours again, softer this time, almost teasing, and you shiver at the warmth and heat radiating from his body. Every small movement, the tilt of his head, the brush of his shoulder, the way his hips press lightly into yours, sends sparks of want coiling through your stomach.
Glen’s hands move slowly at first, trailing down your sides, brushing over your hips, fingers teasing the curve of your ass, and you instinctively arch into him as you have your pajama top and bottom undone by him. His breath fans over your ear, hot and ragged, teasing your neck as he murmurs low, almost in a growl: “Been waitin’ for this… been wantin’ every inch of you.”
Your fingers twitch, wanting, needing to touch him, to feel him fully. You shift your hands to his waist, brushing the damp hair at the nape of his neck, letting your touch wander over the warmth of his skin, down the line of his abs, the subtle swell of his cock pressing through the towel. His body shudders under your fingertips, hips flexing slightly, veins standing out along the length of him, and the sharp, delicious swell makes you ache to take him fully into your hands.
He lets out a low hum, a sound vibrating against your chest, before leaning down just enough to press a sloppy, wet kiss to your mouth. Your lips melt together, tongue brushing in a slow, teasing dance, the heat between you thick and electric. The faint scrape of teeth, the slick press of tongues, the way he shifts closer, pressing harder, teasing and demanding, makes your body coil tight with want.
Your hand drifts instinctively to the edge of his towel, hesitating only for a heartbeat before tugging it down completely, letting your eyes drink in him fully: chest glistening with sweat, abs taut, arms flexing slightly with the effort of just holding himself near you, cock hard and heavy, already throbbing with need. His breath catches when he sees the look in your eyes, and a low groan escapes him, deep and hungry, as he presses forward, hips nudging insistently against you.
You smirk against his lips, tilting your head to tease, brushing your palm over his cock, slick with pre-cum, and whispering teasingly, “Was this all part of the plan? Had this lube ready for me all along?”
Glen groans, a ragged, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest, tilting his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded and molten. “Damn straight I did,” he hisses, voice low and thick with need. “Been thinkin’ about this, dreamin’ ‘bout it every night.”
You slide your hand down over his thick cock, slick with pre-cum, and adding a thin layer of lube as your fingers wrap around him. The first slow stroke makes him shiver, lean forward into you, and let out a guttural groan. His lips crash against yours again, wet, sloppy, tongue wrestling yours as he presses his body flush against yours. You coat your palm with spit, dragging it over the head and down the length of him, and he hisses, deep in his throat, curling his fingers into your hair as your hand slides faster, heavier.
“Feel too good,” he rasps between kisses, hips nudging forward just enough to remind you of his hardness. His balls slap lightly against your palm with each pulse, thick and heavy, and every time you wrap your fingers fully around him, the slick sound makes a wet echo in the small room. You tease him, flicking the tip, letting your hand slide back down, and he groans, tilting his head to press a sloppy kiss to your jaw. “Too… good.”
You move more aggressively now, thumb stroking the sensitive underside, fingers tightening just slightly as you drag upward. He growls into your mouth, muffled, rolling his hips with yours, letting you feel every swell, every vein pulsing under your grip. “Damn… keep that up,” he murmurs, “Don’t stop till I tell you.”
He steps back slightly, just enough to grip your hips and tilt you against the edge of the machine, cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. Your fingers drag over his veins, slick and pulsing, thumb brushing the glistening tip. Every hiss and groan, every small tug of your palm along his length, draws a low, feral rumble from deep in his chest. He presses his mouth to yours again, tongue sliding over yours in a wet, sloppy claim.
Your strokes grow heavier, wetter, the sound of slick fingers dragging up and down his cock mixing with his ragged breathing, his teeth grazing your lips, his tongue sliding over yours in messy, desperate kisses. Heat coils between you, muscles tensed, and the tension snaps tighter with every pulse of him beneath your palm.
A low groan vibrates from his chest as his hands wander over your back and sides, tilting your head, tugging gently at your hair, drawing a shiver from your spine. “You feel too good,” he utters, voice thick with want. “The way you move… it drives me insane.”
Your hand tightens around him, thumb brushing the sensitive tip, while he presses forward into your palm, letting his pelvis roll just enough to urge you onward. He tilts his head back, pressing sloppy kisses along your jaw, dragging his tongue over yours, teeth grazing softly, heat and slick friction building between you.
Glen shifts slightly, pressing you against the edge of the machine, letting you feel his full length in your grip. “Can’t wait any longer…” he mutters, voice rough and low, lips trailing over your neck, tasting the mix of sweat and lube. You squeeze him, sliding your palm faster, wet sounds echoing in the room as his breathing deepens, groans rolling from his chest with each pulse.
Leaning closer, you press sloppy kisses along his jaw, dragging your tongue over him, teeth grazing lightly, and he groans, pressing back against you. His hands thread into your hair, holding you as your strokes grow firmer, slick sounds mixing with ragged moans and the vibration of his chest against yours.
Heat coils between you, feral and unrelenting. His hands drift lower, brushing over your thighs, teasing the line of skin slick from your shower. His humming groan vibrates through your body, and he shifts, pressing you more firmly against the machine, drawing you forward with subtle but insistent motions.
With a low, throaty growl, Glen drops to his knees, spreading your thighs and tilting your hips so his tongue brushes over your entrance. A shiver races through you, toes curling, spine arching, as he teases you with soft, wet flicks, spreading slick warmth across your skin. Fingers trail upward, sliding inside slowly, testing and preparing you. The deep hum of his voice mixes with the slick sounds and your sharp breaths, anchoring you in the intensity building between you.
Glen drops to his knees, pressing your thighs apart slightly, and tilts your hips so you can feel his tongue brush over your entrance. You shiver, toes curling, spine arching, as he teases you with soft, wet flicks, spreading slick warmth over you. Fingers trail upward to tease the sensitive rim, slipping inside slowly, testing, pressing, preparing you. Every groan from him vibrates through your pelvis.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to the curve of your ass. His tongue drags over the slick center, finger sliding inside, stretching and teasing. You moan, pressing your chest into the machine, letting him explore, and he groans again, thumb brushing your clenching hole.
You bite your lip, sliding your hand over your cock as he laps and presses, “Damn, you’ve been imagining this, haven’t you?” He hums low, rough, pressing his tongue harder, fingers curling inside you, coating you slick. “Every night. Every moment,” he rasps, tugging your hair lightly, commanding, possessive.
Glen presses his forehead against your back for leverage, fingers pumping inside you as his tongue and mouth explore, licking, sucking, tasting every inch. Your breathing accelerates, moans escaping in a messy rhythm with his low, guttural sounds. The lube and saliva mix, slick and wet, dripping, coating you both as he continues teasing and fingering you.
“You ready for me?” Glen murmurs, pulling back slightly, eyes gleaming, cock glistening, balls pressing against your ass with each pulse. You arch, answering with a soft moan, and he growls low, dragging a hand over your back, then the nape of your neck, pressing you flush against him.
His fingers curl around your wrists briefly, pressing lightly as he positions you, bent over the washing machine, legs trembling slightly under the anticipation. He leans close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and feral. “Gonna take you so hard… gonna make you mine right here.”
Glen’s hands stay firm on your wrists for a moment longer before turning you in place, pressing you against the edge of the machine and bending you over. You can feel the warmth of his body behind you, the heat radiating off his damp skin, muscles flexing as he leans closer. It contrasts sharply to the cold steel platform. His breath brushes your neck, warm and heavy, carrying the faint tang of sweat and lube from earlier, and your chest rises and falls in quickened anticipation.
He shifts slightly, hands sliding down your arms to your elbows, fingers curling lightly, testing, teasing, brushing the backs of your thighs. The tension coils tighter with each small touch, every inch of him pressed so close behind you that you can feel the outline of his cock against the curve of your ass, pulsing in eager anticipation.
Glen’s lips trail along the side of your neck, teeth grazing lightly, tongue flicking across the warm skin. “Damn… you smell so good,” he groans. “Makes it hard to wait…” His voice drops lower, thickening slightly with desire, and you feel his cock shifting against your body, hardening further with each breath.
Your hips press back slightly, brushing against him, testing, teasing, and he groans, hand moving to the curve of your hip, pressing you flush against him. “Little teaser,” he mutters, thumb brushing over your slickened entrance. You bite your lip, moaning softly, “I’m not teasing… I’m ready for you.”
He shifts closer, pressing his chest into your back, fingers grazing your ass, thumbs spreading lightly, warming your skin, making your stomach tighten in nervous anticipation. “Gonna feel so good inside you,” he murmurs, voice rough, low. His hips brush against yours, cock teasing, pulsing insistently as he aligns himself, letting you feel the weight and heat of him.
Glen presses lightly into your back with his hands, tilting his pelvis, letting you feel the tip of him nudging at your entrance. The anticipation makes your legs tremble, hips arching slightly as you catch a slick glimpse of what’s waiting. You inhale sharply, gripping the machine harder, voice trembling, “Glen… please… now…”
He hums against your neck, cock pressing insistently, fingers kneading your hips firmly, flexing muscles guiding you closer, until with a slow, deliberate push, he slides the tip of his cock against your slick entrance. The first push slides in with a wet, squelching sound that makes your stomach clench and your toes curl, the stretch pulling tight around him. You gasp sharply, gripping the edge of the machine as your body arches instinctively, spine bending under the new sensation.
Glen leans over your back, nipping lightly at your shoulder, murmuring low, “Fuck, you’re so tight… so perfect for me.” His hands grip your hips firmly, pressing you down just enough to keep your chest against the machine, cock sinking deeper inch by inch. The wet squelch echoes in the small room as he shifts slightly, testing, making sure you’re stretched fully around him.
Your breathing quickens, sharp and uneven, hips rolling back reflexively to meet him as his hands knead your hips, flexing muscles guiding each movement. “Feels so good,” you breathe, words coming in broken moans, “Glen… Shit, it’s so big… I can feel all of you.”
He growls low in response, cock pulsing deep, balls slapping wetly against your ass with every measured push. “Mine,” he hisses, voice thick with need. “Mine to fill, mine to fuck till you scream.” He presses a hand to the small of your back, dragging you flush against him as he begins slow, deliberate strokes, letting the slick sound of skin sliding against skin fill the air.
Each thrust stretches you wider, muscles clenching around him, ass bouncing slightly with the wet slaps of his cock. You moan, fingers gripping the machine, hips pressing back, stroking yourself in time with him. “Glen… please… harder,” you gasp, arching further, body trembling with desire.
His voice is rough and demanding. “Oh, I’m just getting started,” he mutters, tugging your hair lightly, letting his hand roam down to press against the curve of your ass, teasing and slapping with calculated force. “Gonna make you mine so deep… you won’t even remember your own name.”
With a sharp groan, he shifts, planting one foot beside your head on the floor, pressing lightly, keeping your face angled as he drives in harder. The squelch of your slick and his lube fills the room, each slap and thrust thundering through your core. He grips your hips and your hair with his toes, tugging you flush against his thigh, holding you in place while his thick, juicy cock slides deep, stretching and filling you completely to the brim.
You whimper, voice high, body trembling, and manage, “Glen… I can’t… it’s too much… fuck…” He hums low in satisfaction, pressing his hand into the small of your back to keep you steady, each drive deeper and sharper, balls smacking wetly against your ass.
He keeps one foot pressed against your face, weight shifting as he flexes, cock sliding with wet, sticky sounds, dragging your lips over the floor slightly, pulling you closer, and groaning, “That’s it… take it all… mine.” Your tongue flicks against the arch of his foot involuntarily, tasting sweat and the faint metallic tang of exertion, and he growls, cock twitching deeper inside you.
Your nails dig into the edge of the machine as his hips snap harder, skin slapping, veins pulsing along his thick cock. “Glen… I… I’m gonna cum soon,” you gasp, voice ragged, body jerking with each thrust.
“Not yet,” he hisses, pressing the back of your head with his foot, tilting it down slightly, and then shifting to tug your hair to control you. “Gonna make you beg, make you feel every inch of me.” His hand presses into your ass, fingers digging in as he slaps, rolls his hips hard, driving in a deep, rhythmic cadence that sends shivers down your spine.
You cry out, mouth opening around the foot when it returns back to stamping you against the machine, toes curling, body shivering with overstimulation as his cock drives in wet, slick strokes, stretching you thoroughly, ass bouncing under his firm grip. “Yes… oh, God… Glen… harder… please…”
He leans forward once he releases his foot off your face, teeth grazing your shoulder, hips snapping relentlessly. “You like it rough, huh? Like a good little whore for me?” His voice is low, guttural, and the sound of skin slapping and slick squelches echo in the small room, blending with your moans.
“Yeah… oh, fuck, yes…” you moan, clinging around him, hips grinding back slightly to meet his thrusts, slick heat coating your bodies, fingers digging into the machine and the curve of his ass.
He shifts slightly, pressing one hand into the small of your back, the other twisting gently around your wrist, yanking one behind your back, keeping you completely under his control. You’re beginning to lose grip on the laundry machine, fingertips stained with budding sweat. “Mine,” he hisses, cock pounding relentlessly, balls slapping, veins throbbing. “All mine.”
You gasp, moaning against the contained hum of the laundry machine, trembling, hips rocking instinctively back, slipping your hand down to stroke your own cock, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Glen… I’m… gonna—”
He groans, snapping hips hard, cock plunging deep, and mutters, “Let go. Cum for me, slut. Mine to ruin.” The machine rocks under the force, slick sounds mixing with groans, skin slapping, and the wet slide of cock inside ass.
Your back arches, toes curling, body trembling, voice cracking with pleasure as you hit the edge, hips jerking, fingers curling around the machine and your own cock, cum spilling, hot and sticky all over the public utility machine.
Glen keeps driving, slow and deliberate now, letting you ride out your release before he shifts, thrusting deep and hard again, cock pulsing, balls slapping wetly, voice low and ragged. “So fucking good… mine… all mine…”
You whimper, body exhausted but still quivering, ass clenching tightly around him, slick dripping down both of you. His thrusts become rougher, more feral, pulling you flush against him, cock plunging with force, hands controlling your hair, back, wrists.
“Fuck.”
Glen groans low, cock pulsing violently as he bottoms out deep inside you, hips shuddering, his release spilling thick and hot, filling you completely. Your body quivers, pressed hard against the machine, ass clenching reflexively around him as the first ropes of his cum press deep into you. He groans, voice ragged, teeth grazing your shoulder as his cock twitches, pumping more deep inside, coating your inner walls with every violent pulse.
The heat of him inside you is relentless, cock throbbing, veins standing out sharply as he continues to breed you, the wet, sticky mess filling you so thoroughly it leaks down your thighs in thick, glistening strands. You moan, body shaking uncontrollably, legs trembling as his cum runs down your slickened skin, dripping in rivulets, leaving a shiny trail along your thighs and calves.
Glen leans closer, pressing his chest against your back and slumping himself over fully, nose brushing your neck, hands gripping your hips tightly, cock still twitching and pulsing inside you. He pants in your ear, beads of sweat, either from yours or his rolling down your body as the two of you catch your breath, “Mine… all of it… all inside you.” His voice was rough with exhaustion and raw pleasure. You gasp, back arching, toes curling, fingers digging into the machine as the thick, sticky heat continues to coat you from the inside out, pooling and dripping down in warm, wet streams.
Finally, he slows, cock heavy and softening only slightly but still filling you, hips rocking slowly to spread every last drop of cum inside. You tremble, utterly spent, legs slick and coated, ass dripping with warmth, chest pressed into the machine, completely overwhelmed by the mess and fullness. He hums against your neck, hot breath mingling with yours, every inch of his feral release leaving its mark on your body, leaving you drenched, coated, and utterly his.
Glen keeps you bent over the edge of the washing machine, cock still nestled deep inside, one hand pressing your hip to steady you, the other braced on the machine. Your legs wobble under you, thighs slick with his cum dripping in thick strings down to the floor. He shifts slightly, letting the last pulses of his release fill you completely, coating you from the inside out.
You gasp, gripping the machine edge, ass quivering as he rocks gently, still pressing into you to spread the warmth. “God… you’re full,” he mutters, teeth brushing the curve of your shoulder in a brief, sharp nip, just enough to make you shiver. Thick, sticky cum runs down your thighs, and you can feel it glistening along the backs of your legs, pooling slightly where you’re bent over.
You press back slightly, still trembling, cum and sweat slick across your thighs. “You really didn’t hold back, did you?” you manage to gasp, voice ragged but playful.
Glen smirks against the curve of your shoulder, one hand still on your hip, thumb brushing lightly over the slick sheen. “Damn right… didn’t figure I’d let you get away clean,” he murmurs, voice low but teasing.
You moan softly, breath uneven, slick skin pressing against his, feeling the last remnants of him ooze out in thick, warm strings. His hands knead lightly over your hips and ass, pressing you down, spreading the mess over your skin, marking you completely.
You let out a shaky laugh, shivering, “Guess I should’ve known you’d come prepared for this.”
He grins, pressing a quick, rough kiss to the back of your neck. “Prepared? Hell, I always know what I want… and I never let it go,” he says, eyes glinting as he shifts slightly, keeping you bent over the machine, the mess still dripping between you.
You nudge him lightly with your hip, teasing, “You’re lucky I like a little chaos in my life.”
“Chaos suits you,” he replies, tone playful, almost approving, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But don’t think this is the last time…”
You catch his gaze, heat still thrumming through your body, and let out a soft laugh. “Yeah? I think I might just hold you to that.”
He hums in agreement, fingers still lingering on your hip, chest pressing against your back, and the small, charged pause between you leaves the promise of more.
Feral, messy, and thrillingly unspoken.
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
summary: [no capes AU] Dick Grayson, the most well-liked and academically gifted frat guy on your campus gets paired up with you for a history project. Dick had never even realised you’d existed before this project, but there’s nothing like a presentation and essay worth 10% of your grade to bring two strangers together.
word count: 12k
warnings: alcohol/weed mentions, sexual innuendo/talk, swearing, fluff
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Dick Grayson was probably the most well-known name at your school. Every student and faculty member knew who he was; simultaneously the most envied, adored, and despised man on campus simply because there didn’t seem to be a single thing he wasn’t capable of. Life of the party for his frat? Check. One of the top students in his year? Check. Old money family supporting him financially and emotionally? Check. Looks that were handcrafted by Eros? Check, check, check. The fucker had it all.
You’ve had several classes with Dick over the years, but you’ve never officially met. All these classes tended to be pretty big since they were GE classes and Dick always walked into the room already knowing somebody, so there was never a real reason for the two of you to speak in class. Then, with his active life outside of class, and your own interests and hobbies, the two of you didn’t have many chances to cross paths outside the classroom setting. Of course, you knew who he was, you’d have to be living under a rock not to, but you also knew Dick had no idea who you were. And maybe a part of you was a little hurt by that, but it was stupid to admit that; it was useless dwelling on the fact that the most attractive guy you’ve ever seen has been in class with you for years now and definitely has no clue who you are.
And maybe that was why you were secretly thrilled when your history professor announced that he was assigning partners for the upcoming project for your midterm. Your professor announced your pairing with Dick and you watched him subtly look around, clearly trying to locate you without actually knowing what you looked like or where you sat. You opted to make things easier for the both of you, and moved yourself and your stuff to the chair that had been vacated a few minutes ago when his friend moved to sit with his new project partner.
You slid into the seat next to Dick with ease, even though you felt your nerves spiking. You felt his eyes on you, sizing you up as you rearranged all your stuff on the desk. Finally, you turned to him, and dammit, he was even more gorgeous up close. You internally told your heart to take a chill pill, and proceeded to introduce yourself. It took Dick a second to process your sudden appearance beside him, but he quickly recovered, introducing himself likewise and eagerly sticking out a hand for you to shake. You raised a brow and huffed a quiet but amused chuckle as you shook his hand. The two of you didn’t get time to say anything else, as the professor had finished calling out the partner assignments and had resumed the lecture, but Dick’s attention was currently far from the notes he should be taking.
How the hell had he never seen you before? Seriously? You had to be the most jaw-droppingly pretty person he’d ever met; and apparently you’ve been in his class this whole time and he’d never noticed? That felt impossible. Dick knew he was an observant man, he had eyes on and for everything at all times. So how the hell had you slipped past his radar? You looked barely familiar, like a name on the tip of his tongue. The remainder of class, Dick spent subtly staring at you from the corner of his eye, while you diligently wrote out notes. As soon as class ended, Dick regrabbed your attention before you could scurry out and back to your room.
“Hey, can I get your number so we can arrange a day to meet up to work on the project?” he asked, all smooth and casual, despite the fact he was weirdly nervous to be asking you that question. And he really shouldn’t be nervous, right? He wasn’t putting the moves on you, he was trying to be a good student and good partner to you for your shared assignment. So why did asking for your number suddenly bring up that nauseating fear of rejection that’s hid beneath his skin since he was a kid?
You blinked like you hadn’t expected him to speak to you, let alone ask for your number, “Oh, uh, sure– yeah, that’s a good idea.” You handed him your phone so he could type in his info. You watched his fingers nimbly glide over your screen with superspeed and you took the chance in his moment of distraction to ogle a little. I mean, how could you not? The casual short sleeve button down he was wearing did not hide the sculpted biceps and pecs he’d gained from an obvious dedication to the gym.
Dick handed back your phone with a grin, “Thanks, I’ll text you later and we can see when the next best day to work is.” You nodded and said goodbye before rushing off. If your heart was going to act up like this every time you were near him, you didn’t know if you could survive this project.
About half way to your place, you opened the new text chain you had with Dick to see what he’d written to himself so he could save your number. What you read had your jaw dropping and a scoff falling from your lips.
You: heyyy, i’m sooo excited to work together on this project, i’ve been looking for a reason to talk to u cause ur just soooo handsome and smart and funny and attractive!! can’t wait to get an a+++ on this assignment xoxoxoxoxo
And the cherry on top was the contact name he’d put in himself, which read: craving dick 💙
You quickly typed a new response.
You: u really typed that whole thing out and still pressed send
The reply was almost immediate.
craving dick 💙: wdym??
i mean, don’t get me wrong, i’m VERY flattered, but my phone is saying U sent ME that message
how would i send myself a text??
You laughed in bewilderment as you shoved through your door and into your apartment, fingers typing a fast response.
You: haha very funny
but yk ur putting words in my mouth 🙄
craving dick 💙: no clue what ur talking abt
but since we’re already chatting, when do u wanna meet up to work on the project?
You sat down on your couch, having already shrugged your bag and shoes off.
You: r u free thursday?
craving dick 💙: what time?
You: i can do anytime between 4-9
craving dick 💙: let’s do 6-9, i’ve got class until 5
wanna meet at the library?
You: sure
i’ll already be there, studying for a stats quiz, probably by the windows near the phys/anat section on the 2nd floor
craving dick 💙: cool
see ya thurs
You put your phone down, smiled a little silly to yourself and turned on the tv to try and distract yourself from the giddiness of having just made plans with the Dick Grayson.
Thursday rolls around both too quick and too slow for you. You got to the library around 2 pm to study for your statistics quiz, and had since reached a sort of flowstate. You were so sucked into your studying that you didn’t notice Dick had even approached until the chair next to you slid out and then back in but this time occupied by the frame of a man who was one of the stars of the gymnastics team.
“Oh hey, sorry, I didn’t see you come in,” you told him when you’d finally realized Dick was sitting next to you.
“Don’t worry about it, you seemed very focused on your math problem,” he said with a smirk that made your chest feel funny. He swiftly got out his laptop and notebook, “So, what topic do ya wanna do?”
“Uhhh, I don’t really care, to be honest, I’m pretty good with anything from 1850 to today?” you offered and Dick nodded.
“Sounds great, let’s do an event from the first half of the 20th century, we should be able to find more sources for the different lenses we have to cover,” Dick concluded thoughtfully. You agreed with his idea and you two settled on a specific event to cover for your project.
“I can handle the political and economic causes, if you want to do the social ones, then we could both handle effects since they’re kinda all over the place,” you told him as you began opening tabs on your laptop that were pertinent to the topic you were covering. Dick blinked, as if taken aback, but that commercial-worthy smirk still stuck on his face.
“Got your hands a bit full with that caseload,” he noted in a leading tone. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, raising a brow in a way of telling him to say what he really meant, Dick must’ve gotten the clue, since he continued after shifting in his chair to face you more full on, “This is supposed to be a partner project, y’know, teamwork. If one person’s doing most of the work, that’s not really a partnership.”
You continued to gaze at him somewhat critically. No matter what you may or may not feel for the man, and no matter what his grades were like, he had a reputation that was pretty in-line with frat guy stereotypes, and you couldn’t risk your grade in this class– no matter how handsome he was.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s really not a problem, I’m good at this stuff,” you said dismissively as you went back to organizing a new document on your computer for all your notes and links for the project.
“I’m not saying I doubt your abilities to handle the workload, I’m just saying you don’t have to handle that much by yourself, we are paired up for a reason.”
“I mean, if you really want to do extra work that bad, then who am I to stop you?” you conceded, not wanting your first meeting with Dick to go sour just because you were worried he wouldn’t do the project right.
“Great, we’ll split everything evenly then,” he settled in a chipper voice that felt like it didn’t quite meet full sincerity. The two of you then got to work, and you found a flow surprisingly quickly. It felt weirdly natural to work with Dick, everything was so seamless. It was almost odd, watching Dick work so diligently on researching for your project, the whole action was completely juxtaposed with the frat boy image that he so easily exuded; like watching a crocodile knit. The two of you worked till 10:00, until you finally caught sight of the time.
“Shit, it’s already 10,” you said abruptly, making Dick jump slightly at the unexpected intrusion of your voice on the focused silence that the two of you had been sitting in for the past few hours.
“So it is,” he muttered more to himself than in response to you.
“I’ve gotta head out, when are you free next?” you asked quickly as you began shoving your stuff into your bag. Dick watched you without moving.
“‘M free Monday evening, Wednesday morning, and Thursday evening next week,” he provided slowly.
“Okay, let’s do Wednesday morning?”
“8 to 11?”
“Works for me,” you told him as you stood from your chair and slung your bag over your shoulder, Dick still observing without moving an inch from his spot. It was silent for another second as you checked to make sure you’d packed up all your things; you didn’t think Dick had anything more to say until he broke the silence again.
“What’re you doing tomorrow night?” he asked suddenly, causing you to freeze and slowly pull your eyes from your bag to his face, trying to find any sort of clue to what he might possibly be thinking with a question like that.
“...Um, nothing, I think,” you answered cautiously, looking at him with obvious curiosity and hesitance.
“My frat’s hosting a party, you should come,” he said casually, crossing his buff arms over his chest and leaning back into his chair with so much cliche suave, your heart began ricocheting all through your body like it was a pinball machine.
“I’m sorry?” you bumbled out in a true display of shock-brought-on-stupidity.
Dick’s lips twitched up a little at how obviously you’d been caught off guard, “I’m inviting you to the party my frat is throwing tomorrow. It’d give us a chance to get to know each other outside of class a bit,” he expanded coyly as if he was some evil genius for inviting you to a frat party, like anyone who doesn’t know the address isn’t invited.
This time, your look shifted to something more hesitant and suspicious. Dick seemed like a genuinely nice guy, and that’s what you’d heard from all the talk about him, but it’s hard to shake stereotypes, especially when they’re all you have to go off when judging someone’s character.
“I don’t know…” you drifted off unsurely.
“I’m not gonna pressure you into going, I’ll just text you the address and start time, so if you decide you want to drop by, you’ll know where and when to go,” Dick assured you and you could only nod in acceptance of this sort of middle ground.
“See you Wednesday,” you said absently as you turned to take your leave.
“Hopefully tomorrow,” he called after you teasingly. You shook your head, both at his weirdness and the dumb smile overtaking your face.
You stood in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, checking yourself for the one millionth time. You ultimately decided that maybe dropping by Dick’s frat party wasn’t such a terrible idea. It couldn’t hurt to check it out, right? That thought process is how you found yourself doing a once-over five times in a row before leaving your apartment. Finally, you decided you looked hot enough and you weren’t going to feel any less anxious the longer you stood here, so it was time to head out. You took a deep breath in and downed a glass of water before marching out your door before your nerves could stop you.
The walk from your apartment to Dick’s frat house took about fifteen minutes, but it was a pleasant night so it wasn’t a problem; it helped you sober up before you even got anything in your system. You knew which house it was before you could even see the numbers on the side, the booming bass and color changing lights in the windows told you exactly which house on the block was throwing a quintessential frat party.
If you thought the music was loud from the street, you weren’t prepared for what it was like inside. The music was practically thumping through your veins and vibrating in your soul at this volume. The strobing LEDs were the only illumination throughout the bottom floor. Smoke that smelled unmistakably of weed settled like a cloud emanating from the kitchen, everything else smelled like cheap alcohol, sweat, and overly applied perfume. The place was so crowded that you couldn’t walk anywhere without having to shove your way through a mass of people. Any talking that might’ve been done was carried out at almost inhuman volumes that still couldn’t overpower the pounding bass coming from the haphazardly thrown together dj booth. You tried hard to find Dick in the crowd, but it was nearly impossible to make out who people were unless you were standing directly in front of them. After about two minutes of preliminary searching, you decided to get yourself a drink before continuing your hunt for the king of all frat guys. On your way to the makeshift bar, you bumped into a few friends and kids from your classes, which was a relief to know you at least knew someone who wasn’t Dick at this party. At the bar you grabbed a drink and then made your way toward the dancefloor, deciding it might be smart to casually circle it for a bit and see if you could find Dick either coming or going from the hoard of party-loving college kids.
You were about halfway done with your drink when you felt a strong tap on your shoulder. You jumped in surprise and quickly turned toward your offender, only to be met with the dangerous face of the very man you’d been looking for since you set foot in the house.
“You came!” Dick all but screamed to try and be heard over the music. Still, the delight was unmistakable in his voice.
“I did,” you said at an equal volume with a smirk, still a little disbelieving, yourself.
“I didn’t think you were gonna show up,” Dick shouted again.
“Me neither,” you told him honestly with a slight chuckle.
His brows furrowed, “What?” he called with confusion.
You instantly understood he hadn’t heard what you said, so you repeated a little louder, “I said, ‘me neither’.”
Dick made an ‘ohh’ expression and nodded understandingly. “When’d you get here?” he asked, but you didn’t make out what he said since the whole room had suddenly burst out scream-singing along to a childhood classic that’d just come on the speakers.
“What?” you cried, leaning closer to him in an effort to hear him better.
Dick huffed and leaned in closer, grabbing hold of both your arms to keep you steady and your ear near him so he could repeat himself and be heard this time, “I asked, when did you get here?” He spoke slower this time, now that you two had favorable proximity. And while this position was great for hearing each other speak, it was not great for your heart or your head, as his cologne invaded your nostrils and the delicious scent made you dizzy.
“Not long ago– few minutes maybe,” you told him and Dick nodded once more, seemingly pleased that you hadn’t been here long before he found you.
“I was hoping you’d–” he began, but you interrupted him.
“Sorry, what?” you were shouting, “I can’t hear you.” You even made the universal sign of “can’t hear you” to help deliver your message.
Dick sighed with exasperation and wordlessly began pulling you away from the dancefloor. His grip on your arms was strong but not hurtful, just firm and secure. His large hands were warm and calloused against your skin as he expertly guided you through the crowd of drunken people toward someplace you assumed you’d be able to hear each other better. He ended up pulling you to a hallway by the kitchen, next to the hallway with the bathroom. It was less crowded and opposite of the room with the dj booth, so it was relatively quieter and noticeably cooler.
“Sorry about that,” he finally said when he’d stopped the two of you in the hall and let go of your arms, stepping back to give you more space you were honestly a little sad to accept.
You just gave him a small laugh and a shrug, “Seemed pretty standard party environment to me.”
“Yeah, not being able to hear people say stupid things while drunk makes a perfect environment for getting laid,” Dick joked sarcastically, and you immediately forced down any thoughts that put Dick Grayson and sex together.
“You seemed surprised that I’m here,” you noted slyly.
Dick’s lips quirked, “Well, in my defense, when I invited you, you acted like I’d just offered you a ticket to an autopsy.”
“Hopefully that’s not where this night goes,” you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.
“And where do you hope this night goes?” Dick pressed with that mesmerizing smirk.
“As long as it’s not the hospital or police station, I don’t really care,” you retorted, trying to sound as casual and nonchalant as you could.
“So why did you decide to come?” Dick shifted focus. This guy definitely had a detective’s nature.
You shrugged, “Didn’t think I could just not show up to the first thing you invited me to, wouldn’t be very productive in creating open communication between partners.”
“See, this is good, now I know you have an understanding of decent manners,” Dick quipped.
You rolled your eyes again, “Hopefully at least one of us does.”
“You are so full of hope tonight, it’s incredibly refreshing.”
“So, is this,” you waved around to reference the party, “why you don’t seem to be free on Fridays?” you questioned teasingly.
“Ever heard of the Pomodoro method?” Dick asked with an air of seriousness, but the dazzling in his eyes told you he took himself for a bit of a joke.
“Ah, I see. So you study the whole week and then your form of a break is to get wasted at a party,” you filled in the gaps yourself with a critical but playful lilt in your voice.
“Wow, you read me so well, it’s like we were made to understand each other.” Dick instantly internally criticized himself for the drop of genuine admiration that seeped in through the cracks of his sarcasm.
You may or may not have noticed, but you didn’t want to imply that you were looking for an excuse to read too much into things, so you expertly switched gears. “Do you live in this house? Or do you conveniently have your own, separate place far away from pledges and neighbors who hate your guts?”
“Why?” Dick leaned in closer and let his voice drop a tantalizing octave, “Interested in a room tour?”
You stiffened but arched an eyebrow to try and maintain the image of unaffected and critical, “No, just curious about the clean up process for one of these things.”
“Well, that’s what we have pledges for,” Dick laughed with a shrug.
“Crazy, how you boys pay to be tortured for a whole year.”
“Who’s to say we’re not masochists?”
“Aaaand, hopping to a new, unrelated topic.” Dick laughed at your refusal to even touch what he’d implied about frat boys, and decided to go along with your assertion for a change in conversation.
“Want a drink?” he asked smilingly. You shook the seltzer in your hand, now only about a quarter left as you’d been nursing it since the two of you had settled in the hallway. Dick rolled his eyes, “A better drink than that.”
“So you’re a gymnast, stellar student, frat guy, and a bartender? Color me impressed,” you quipped sarcastically, and Dick’s grin only broadened.
“Wow, didn’t know you were keeping such complimentary tabs on me, I’m truly flattered.”
Your face fell into a deadpan, “Ha, you’re definitely suited to ego-inflation, I can tell you that.”
Dick put a hand over his heart and gasped dramatically, “Honey, you wound me.”
You tried your damnedest to shove the mass of butterflies in your stomach down, “Then why don’t you wrap your wounds at the bar while you get me a new drink,” you suggested pointedly with an amused look.
“You expect me to brave the battle out there alone?” Dick asked with fake indignation.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight off the smile that pulled at your lips, “Fine, I guess if you’re so scared of the party you’re technically throwing, I will accompany you to the bar. But only because it would be rude of me to deny an obvious damsel in distress.”
“That’s the answer I was hoping for,” Dick chimed merrily as he looped his arm around yours and practically yanked you off the wall. In the kitchen, you watched as Dick mixed you a new drink, a concoction of various juices and liquors that he promised would taste way better than it looked. Honestly, you didn’t really care; you were currently getting the perfect view of the man’s bare forearms. You got to watch as the muscles and veins constricted or disappeared as he moved his arm to grab and pour various bottles. It was a truly delicious picture that forced you to fight all your instincts to take a massive bite out of his tanned skin. After he finished the drink, the two of you remained in the kitchen. It wasn’t as quiet as your hallway, but neither of you had looked particularly interested in trying to shove your way past the dancefloor with newly refilled drinks, so in the kitchen you stayed. The conversation flowed easily. The two of you talked about unimportant things, things that were inconsequential in the big picture of your lives but had enough substance to do better than any small talk would. You had definitely already been here longer than you initially planned, and now that the alcohol was starting to hit you, you were feeling just loose enough to start enjoying the normally overstimulating environment.
“So, we’ve seemed to establish a lot of little facts about me, but what about you? Wha’d’you do for fun?” Dick questioned with a smile as he leaned forward a little from the counter to emphasize his prying.
You cocked your head slightly as you studied him for anything malicious. “Nothing crazy. Just this and that,” you informed noncommittally.
Dick narrowed his eyes and he gave you a look that said ‘really? c’mon’ and leaned back into the counter as he did some studying of his own. “That’s not the descriptive answer I was looking for, and you know it.”
Jeez, this man doesn’t let anyone get away with anything. With a roll of your eyes, you began to talk about all your hobbies and interests outside of school. You talked about some of your favorite activities, shows, books, movies, etc. And all the while, Dick listened intently, so intently that you completely forgot you were at a frat party where the environment should not be suited to long conversations about yourself. It was crazy, the way this man made it so easy to forget where you were and lose yourself completely in the moment. He had this sort of magic about him. Something spellbinding that you weren’t sure if you should be afraid of or obsessed with.
Out of nowhere, a girl stumbled into you and you had to catch her before she fell to the floor. When you got her stabilized on her heeled feet, you caught sight of her face and you instantly recognized each other. The girl was a friend of yours who you met freshman year in your shared English class. Her words were incredibly slurred, but she still shouted your name with glee and wrapped her arms around you in a haphazard hug. You patted her back, but couldn’t effectively hug her back as she was pretty much deadweight lying against you.
“You feelin’ alright, Stace?” you asked with concern in your voice.
“Mmmm ‘m alright,” she responded with a grin plastered on her face that told you she was totally out of it.
“Yeah? You look pretty gone,” you countered with a slight tease to cover up your worry about your friend’s state.
“I di’nt know you came t’ these anymore. Y’sh’d’ve called me! Could’ve come t’gether,” was the only response you got out of her.
“Maybe next time. But maybe you should call it a night, yeah? That hangover tomorrow’s gonna be nasty,” you suggested as you tried to get her to support more of her own weight so you weren’t effectively an upright couch. All the while, Dick watched with amused curiosity, like he had front row seats at the taping of a soap opera.
“Nooooo,” Stacy shook her head weakly and laughed, “‘M having fuuuun.”
“You can have fun next weekend, maybe even tomorrow if you’re really feeling up for it,” you pointed out as you squeezed her arms to try and convey how serious you were about her calling it a night.
Stacy looked at you sadly this time. “But ‘m not tired!”
“Stace,” you pressed gently but firmly.
Stacy stared at you for a long moment before she sighed glumly, “Fiiiiine, guess yur right.”
You smiled at your win, “Always am,” you couldn’t help from saying. Remembering Dick, you looked back at him only to find him already watching you with an indecipherable gaze. Swallowing inconspicuously, you addressed him. “I’m gonna take her home, I don’t want her walking back to her place on her own in this state.”
Dick nodded understandingly, and you had no clue he was actually very saddened by your departure. “I get it. Do you want me to go with you? You’re not exactly sober yourself,” he offered, ever the gentleman.
You shook your head, “No, that’s okay. I’m barely tipsy at this point, and neither of our places are very far from here; we’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, thank you, though.”
Dick nodded again but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Thanks for coming though, I really appreciate it,” he said with a sincerity that honestly threw you off a little. You didn’t usually encounter frat guys who thanked people for coming to their ragers.
“It was fun,” you told him honestly, and you felt Stacey rest her head on your shoulder.
“Maybe I’ll see you at another one then,” he replied leadingly.
A ghost of a smile appeared on your face, “Maybe, only if I get a save-the-date.”
“Noted. See ya Wednesday. Get home safe and text me when you’ve made it back to your apartment so I don’t have to worry about you getting nabbed off the street.”
You laughed as you wrapped your arm around Stacey’s waist and prepped yourself to walk the two of you out of the house, “I will, promise.”
Dick walked you and Stacey to the door and watched as the two of you walked and disappeared down the street. Stacey’s apartment was conveniently on the way to yours from the direction of Dick’s frat, so it wasn’t long before you were back in the comforting walls of your own place. You were halfway through your nightly routine before you suddenly remembered you’d promised Dick to text him when you made it back. You instantly stopped what you were doing and jumped for your phone, shooting him a quick text.
You: hey, got back safe and sound
This time, the reply was undeniably instantaneous.
craving dick 💙: good good, was worried i’d have to send the battalion after u and ur friend
You: no, no need for the battalion this time
maybe next time, i’ll keep u posted
craving dick 💙: glad to hear
You: alr, i’m gonna go to bed
i’ll see u wednesday
8 o’clock
don’t be late
craving dick 💙: wouldn’t dream of it
night sweetheart
You: night
You had to slap your phone face down on your nightstand before letting out a stupid little giggle at the message. You fell asleep with a stupid little smile on your face, dreaming stupid little dreams of a stupidly handsome little man whispering ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’ in your ear.
True to his word, Dick Grayson was not late to your Wednesday meet-up. When you walked into the campus coffee shop you’d agreed to meet at, the man was already sitting at one of the few booths in the cafe in all his 5’10 glory. Even this early, he still had a dazzling smile on his face. He stood up from his seat as you approached and stayed standing even after you’d slid into the bench opposite his.
“Want anything?” he asked all peppy after you had exchanged hellos.
“Uh sure, I was gonna grab something after I’d put my stuff down,” you told him as you got out your laptop and notebook.
“No no, I’ve got it. I’m asking for your order.”
You looked at him like he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“No, but I want to.”
You arched a brow, “Is this you trying to flaunt your wealth? So rich he can afford two orders from the grossly overpriced campus coffee shop?” you teased.
Dick gave you a look that said ‘seriously?’ and rolled his eyes, “I mean, if you don’t want a free drink and snack, then I don’t have to pay for you. I was just trying to be gentlemanly.”
“No no, if you’d like to show off those manners you were raised so well with, then who am I to stop you?”
“So wha’d’ya want then?” You gave Dick your order, and he took off. You stole glances at him occasionally as he ordered and waited for your stuff. Even on a random midweek morning, he had the gall to look like he ought to be doing a photoshoot for Dolce and Gabbana, not working on a history project in a coffee shop. Today, he was wearing his gymnastics team jacket over a plain dark blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans, a fit that should not be eye-catching, but apparently, when you look as good as Dick, any boring old outfit can look Vogue-worthy. He sauntered back over to your booth, looking far too proud of himself as he set your drink and snack down in front of you. As he slid into the booth, he sighed and stretched in a way that gave you a sliver of his waistline to feed on. God, why did he have to have such a slutty waist on top of everything else?
“This is the part where you thank me, y’know, maybe even call me your hero,” Dick informed you teasingly.
You gave him a look and took a slow sip of your drink before opting to respond, “Thank you. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call you a hero, but it’s a goal to shoot for. You may just get there one day, who knows?” your voice dripped with friendly sarcasm. Dick’s lips twitched into a grin before he readjusted himself into a posture that was better suited for actually engaging in school work. The two of you got pretty much down to business after that, wasting no time in trying to get through as much of the assignment as possible in the couple of hours you had blocked out in your schedules.
It was a peaceful way to spend the morning. For the most part, the two of you worked in silence, too focused on the project for idle chitchatter. But every once in a while, one of you would have a question on some source or quote or something, and would softly interrupt the silence. Your voices would flutter through the air and cushion the little bubble you’d created in your booth with an almost intimate atmosphere. You had no way of knowing how Dick felt, but you knew it was utter relief to be paired up with someone who wasn’t condescending or rude when you wanted to brainstorm an idea you had, or you wanted some clarification to put your mind at ease while it wrestled with something. He never answered like he was trying to brush you off or end the conversation as soon as possible. He’d sit there and hum just under his breath as he mulled over whatever it was you said, before giving you a thoughtful answer. He was also always looking for your input. Dick seemed to genuinely value your thoughts and ideas. Not just because you were partners and he technically had to– no, he seemed to take pleasure in hearing what you had to say about this and that. The pair of you were so intent on your work that your drinks had well gone cold before you’d even finished them, and you had to actively remind yourself to take bites of the treat you’d ordered that sat in its paper bag.
The two of you had made a pretty good dent in your research work when 11:00 rolled around. When you caught the time, you had to tell Dick you had to start heading out for your chemistry class. He nodded, maybe even solemnly– but your mind might’ve been playing tricks on you. Still, you thanked him again for the food and scheduled to meet up again on Thursday at the same time you’d met the previous week. Dick watched you go with the ghost of a smile on his face, and something unreadable in his eyes.
Three weeks passed of meeting up twice a week to work on the history assignment, and naturally you and Dick had gotten closer. You now texted everyday, mostly about non-project related topics. You were now well versed in all the drama in his frat and the gymnastics team. You’d seen pictures of all of his siblings, albeit awful ones, and even his pets at home (you’d made extreme fun of him when he revealed he had a cow at home– because what rich kid doesn’t just have a cow in their backyard??). You knew each other’s schedules by heart, and often found yourselves conveniently in the same spots to grab lunch or dinner together a few times a week. You’d met Dick’s best friends and got along superbly well with them; much to Dick’s unspoken relief and joy. You also at some point ended up moving seats in your history class, now you sat on Dick’s right. And to the obvious displeasure of the guy sitting on Dick’s left, you now occupied the blue-eyed man’s full attention during class when the time was right for a well placed joke. It was hard to believe you’d technically only met each other a few weeks ago, but some people just click that well. It’s hard to imagine your life before Dick came in, that’s how naturally he fit your rhythm. All this to say, your blossoming relationship with Dick Grayson was doing nothing to help the minor crush you may or may not have on him.
Unbeknownst to you, Dick was struggling just as much, if not more. While you had had the luxury of growing your crush slowly over a long period of time, Dick’s crush had come on at a hundred miles per hour with the strength of a 30 foot tidal wave. One minute Dick had no clue who you were, the next, he was being completely flattened under the weight of his infatuation. It’s like you were purposefully trying to see how quickly you could get him to fall in love. Now, Dick wasn’t going to go that far and actually call this emotion he was feeling ‘love’, after all, you’d only been talking for a few weeks. But if he continued down this track at the pace he was, Dick didn’t doubt he’d be having to swallow those big three words in the not-so-distant future.
And the worst part was, Dick was not used to feeling like this. Sure, he’d had like two serious, long-term relationships in the past. But between them and since, he’d definitely indulged in the stereotypical frat-boy lifestyle. He wasn’t a player, necessarily, and manwhore might be too harsh a term, but he also didn’t get the reputation he has from pure rumor. Dick knew what falling in love felt like, he’d done it before, but this somehow felt different. He couldn’t put it into words, but there was something about sitting quietly with you in the library that made him think of forever. God, he was such a weirdo. You were just friends. You’ve known each other barely a month and he’s sitting here thinking about words like ‘love’ and ‘forever’. He needed to knock some sense into himself before he said or did something dumb.
Sometimes, Dick thought about backing off. He toyed with the idea of texting you less frequently, meeting you for lunch less, and pulling back more once the project was finally over. But then, Dick would damn near feel nauseous after even considering these preposterous ideas, let alone enacting them. No, that’d be all but impossible. The seal had been broken on this friendship and now Dick couldn’t go back to a time when you weren’t a key feature of his day. No, dropping you was out of question. He’d just have to shove down whatever these feelings were and try to pretend his heart didn’t do flips when he caught sight of you. He’d just have to convince himself his cheeks didn’t grow hot when you gave him a look that was supposed to be scolding but was betrayed by the gleam in your eyes that told him he’d amused you.
He needed more time with you, but more time was dangerous. Lately, he’d found himself actively having to bite his tongue when the sun hit your features a little too right and a rom-com worthy confession bubbled up from his chest. It felt silly and almost immature to call what he was experiencing a crush, but that seemed to be the only word available. Sometimes, when the two of you were together working on the history project, Dick found himself wondering what it might be like if the two of you were hanging out without the assignment as an excuse. He found himself wondering what it might be like to take you on a date, whether you’d say yes or look disgusted at the mere idea and absolutely decimate his self-confidence for eternity. Would it being a date change the atmosphere? Would that make it more stuffy and awkward? Or would it be just as, if not more, comfortable than it always was between the two of you? Would you smile if he showed up to your door with a bouquet of flowers? Would you prefer a cozy meal somewhere small and local? Or, would you let him take you to some upscale place that required a dress code just to get your name on the waitlist? Would you give him a peck on the cheek after a pleasant evening, with promises for another? Would you let him peck you on the cheek for making his night? These were just some of the questions that floated around in his mind when he most definitely should be studying or focusing on whatever stupid thing Wally was saying this time.
“Dude, I’m begging you, just go on a date already,” Wally groaned/whined when he’d caught Dick spacing off mid-conversation yet again.
Dick shot him a glare, “It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is!” Wally jumped up from the couch and began acting out a theoretical conversation between you and Dick, “Hey! Would you like to go out on a date sometime? Yes! I’d love to! You’re sooo handsome Dick Grayson and I’d be so happy to go on a date with you! Well, hallelujah! I’ll pick you up at six and we’ll have a jolly good time!” The redhead obnoxiously switched caricature voices as he performed for his best friend. When he was done, he took a bow and returned to his oddly serious expression, “See, it really is that easy. You just don’t have the balls to do it.”
“I’ve got balls, you’ve seen ‘em,” Dick remarked sarcastically.
“Right right big guy. Look, I get that asking someone out is scary as hell, but Jesus fucking Christ I’m begging you to do it because you’re fucking insufferable sitting here pinning after someone and ignoring the rest of us.”
“I’m not ignoring you.”
“What was it we were talking about before I broke us off into this tangent?”
Dick rolled his eyes but still ended up proving Wally’s point. Wally flopped back down on the couch and wore a face he only made when he was scheming, and Wally West and scheming do not mix well. “What if,” he began slowly, as if he was still piecing together the idea while speaking it allowed, “What if we threw a party?”
Dick scoffed, “You’re right, as a frat house, we should definitely throw a party, we’ve never done one of those before. What a genius.” Dick’s sarcasm was palpable.
“Shut up,” Wally waved a dismissive hand in Dick’s face that instantly got swatted away. Wally continued on as if he’d never been interrupted in the first place, “You invite your little history friend, work your stupid ass prince charming magic and secure a date. Boom, everyone wins. We all get to party, you get laid, and you stop annoying the shit out of everyone.”
This time, Dick actually was considering Wally’s proposition. Not because of the party or the redhead’s promises of ‘getting laid’, but because of the golden opportunity it might actually present. After a couple of drinks, Dick would be tipsy enough to not back out last minute with a plan to ask you out. He’d also be tipsy enough to not be too hurt if you rejected him. And then, if you did reject him, he could distract himself with one of his friends and you could do your own thing without running the risk of bumping into each other for the rest of the night. In a weird way, a rager might be the perfect environment for him to ask you out. When Dick agreed that Wally’s plan was solid, Wally threw a triumphant fist into the air and began spamming the frat group chat with plans to throw a party for Friday night. Meanwhile, Dick plotted ominously on how he’d convince you to not only come to the party but to go out on a date with him.
It turned out that you didn’t need a whole lot of convincing to go to the party Dick’s frat was throwing on Friday. You decided it’d be fun, and you were going to take the opportunity to hang out with Stacey again since you haven’t had a lot of chances lately. You spent two hours picking out your outfit. There was this nagging voice in your head that demanded you look as good as possible. Not necessarily for Dick, but if he had his jaw on the floor when you walked in, that also wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. You and Stacey vibed out while you were getting ready at her apartment, so that the walk to Dick’s frat was filled with the excitement and unbridled happiness that came from the freedom of youth. Having pre-gamed a little before leaving Stacey’s apartment, by the time you two got to the frat, you were tipsy. The Cutwater and Titos you’d had with Stacey were already swimming through your veins and giving your brain that light feeling that made you want to giggle at everything.
The party was in full swing when you and Stacey walked through the door. Everything had been turned to the max: the people, the music, the lights, the dancing, the games, the alcohol. You felt the pounding bass rattle your bones, and like a puppet on strings, pull you toward the dancefloor. Stacey pulled you to the bar and you both grabbed a drink. You had told yourself you were going to try and find Dick first when you got to the party, but Stacey’s invitation to dance was too enthralling, and in the blink of an eye, you were in the middle of the dancefloor with your friend. There was nothing like a good buzz, accompanied by good music, good dancing, and good friends. It felt like your soul had sprouted wings.
You were so lost in the music and laughing with your friend that the rest of the world dropped away. You were only returned to your setting when you felt a light touch on the small of your back. You turned around sharply, ready to give whoever was touching you a piece of your mind, when you were met with the familiar face of Dick Grayson. Your eyes lit up and a bright grin overtook your face.
“Dick!” you shouted with abundant happiness over the blaring music, “I was wondering when you’d show up!” Your words were slightly slurred, but Dick’s lips twitched into a grin.
“Pretty sure that’s my line, sweetheart,” he joked as he leaned in a little so you could hear him better. God, he was just too hot.
“Y’throw a good party,” you told him seriously, but the little stumble you made brought a laugh out of him.
“I hope so, ‘s pretty much all a frat’s known for.”
“You dance, pretty boy?” The alcohol had done numbers for your bravery.
Dick sputtered a little, and it might’ve been the strobe lights playing tricks, but you could’ve sworn you saw some pink dusting his cheeks. “Well, I had to take a few lessons as a kid for galas and whatnot,” he said stupidly, his brain completely thrown by your calling him ‘pretty boy’. Jesus Christ, he was done for and it hadn’t even been five minutes with you.
You gave him a friendly but mocking look, “Don’think there’s much room for a waltz.”
Dick rubbed his neck sheepishly, “You may be right.”
“‘M always right,” you corrected with a strong poke to Dick’s chest. And hotdamn, his tits were huge. Dick smoothly grabbed onto the wrist of the hand that was poking him and slid his hand up slowly to encase your hand.
“Maybe, prolly need more empirical data to prove that though.” His voice dropped a little, and your throat went dry. You fixed that by taking a big gulp of your drink. You don’t know how it happened or who initiated it, but you suddenly found your arms draped loosely over his strong shoulders and his hands holding you at your hips. The two of you swayed to the rhythm of the music and took turns between staring into each other’s eyes in a drunken silence and talking about some random topic with slurred words and lazy smiles. Everything around the two of you fell back to pure white noise. You felt none of the bodies that accidentally bumped into you; you only felt the warmth of Dick’s hands seeping through your clothes. You didn’t smell the alcohol, or sweat, or weed that permeated the air in the house, just Dick’s divine cologne and detergent. You didn’t even register the flashing lights because all you saw were the pools of blue that made Dick’s eyes. Eyes that stared at you with an indiscernible emotion, but with such intensity that if you hadn’t been drunk, you would’ve definitely been squirming. You didn’t know how long the two of you “danced”, but it felt like an eternity (an eternity you’d happily die to).
“‘M kinda thirsty. Wanna grab a drink?” Dick asked in a voice that was just a breath away from being sultry. Your brain couldn’t find words fast enough so you just nodded. You felt a brief flash of panic that going to get a drink would mean the two of you had to separate, but then Dick slid one of his hands from your hip to the small of your back and stepped closer to you so that you were now effectively pressed against him. He led you like this through the dense crowd of drunk college kids to the bar. Every part of you that was in contact with him felt like it was on fire. Your heart was hammering out of your chest, and you had to stop yourself from staring at the man next to you so longingly.
After grabbing your new drinks, Dick was about to ask if you wanted to go outside for some fresh air when one of his friends barreled over and loudly asked if you and he wanted to play rage cage. Normally, Dick would’ve enthusiastically said yes, but tonight he kind of just wanted to spend time with you. But beside him, you perked up at the idea of the game and looked at him with this expectant excitement that made his heart do funny things in his chest.
“Do y’wanna play?’’ Dick asked as ambiguously as possible so you didn’t feel like he was leading you to any answer.
“Honestly, kinda yeah,” you told him. Dick nodded and asked his friend where they were setting up rage cage.
The folding table was half covered with red solo cups, and a large group of people surrounded it. Everyone was chattering excitedly, already drunk or tipsy, as the people who’d organized the game finished filling the bitch cup.
“You played rage cage before?” Dick asked as you two saddled up to the table, his hand still resting gently against your back.
“Mhm, a couple times at s’me other parties,” you assured him as you looked at the other players to try and spot some recognizable faces.
“You two look cozy,” the voice of Wally West suddenly speared through your conversation. Dick turned his head sharply to his other side, where his best friend had suddenly appeared with a shiteating grin. Dick subtly kicked him in the shins.
“And you don’t smell like Cheetos for once,” you snipped back sarcastically, causing the redhead to bark out a laugh. Well, you didn’t get awkward or pull away, so Dick was considering this a massive win. Wally didn’t have the chance to press any further about Dick’s progress with asking you out, since the game suddenly commenced, and all of your attention was turned to trying not to get stuck with the bitch cup.
The game was the perfect mix of chaos and fun. By the end, everyone was thoroughly wasted, including you and Dick. Both of you were slightly swaying on your feet, and the only reason either of you was staying upright was because you had your arms wrapped around each other, allowing the two of you to use the other to maintain balance.
You thought Wally might stick around to hang out with you and Dick, but shortly after the game ended, he suddenly disappeared, so you were left alone with Dick again. Not that you were complaining. You and Dick grabbed new drinks from the bar before you led Dick back to the dancefloor, and the two of you went back to dancing like you were before the game, but this time, significantly closer than last. There was barely an inch between you; you could feel Dick’s chest brush against you as he breathed.
Dick felt like he was going insane. You were so close. You had your arms wrapped around his neck, and he could smell your shampoo, and you were so warm. He was so drunk and everything about you that he already thought about day and night was just being amplified and his heart was going crazy and his mind was spinning and he felt like he was either going to word vomit or vomit vomit soon and he wasn’t sure which would be worse. Dick never wanted this moment to end. If he could take a snapshot of the feeling of holding you in his arms, he would, and he would keep it tucked away in a locket so he could have this heavenly feeling near his heart at all times.
The alcohol circling your system was starting to make you tired. It was that point in the evening where you either fell asleep or suddenly perked way way up. Without thinking, you gently set your head to rest against Dick’s chest, letting out a gentle sigh as you did and closing your eyes. Dick felt his breath catch in his throat. He went practically completely still, but still swayed slightly like it was second nature to follow the beat of the music in the background. This was glorious. Instinctively, his arms circled around your waist and ever so slightly pulled you in closer. He could die happy right now. Even if he never got to confess how he felt toward you, holding you here was fulfilling enough to satiate him forever. Of course, he wanted to confess. He wanted to confess so badly that it had literally been all he thought about since he first talked about it with Wally. Even more so, he desperately wanted to hear you return his feelings. He wanted to ask you out, wanted to take you on such an amazing date that you didn’t stop talking about it for the rest of your lives. His fanatical spiral was broken when he felt your head move to go from resting against him to perching your chin on his chest so you could look up at him with tired eyes that made him want to kiss you senseless.
“‘M kinda lightheaded,” you informed him in a voice that was muddled with alcohol-induced tiredness.
Dick nodded with a small, understanding smile. “Wanna get some fresh air outside?” he asked gently.
You considered his question for a second before nodding, liking the idea of fresh air and maybe sitting down. Dick kept one arm wrapped around your waist, and you kept yourself folded into his side as he led you to the backyard.
The second you stepped outside, the night air hit you instantly. It was cold and crisp and so so welcome after the hours you’d spent in the stuffy frat house. You took a deep breath in as Dick sat you down on the steps outside the sliding glass door that’d taken you outside. The cement was cold and hard when you sat down, but it felt sooo good to sit that you didn’t care about how uncomfortable the concrete was. Dick sat down beside you, and while he didn’t place his arms back around you, he was pressed so close against you that it didn’t feel like you were missing much in the physical contact department. A minute passed, and you let your head fall against Dick’s shoulder. A few additional seconds ticked by before his head came to gently rest atop yours. A comfortable silence blanketed the two of you. The bass of the music inside thrummed softly outside, but you could still hear the crickets chirping. It was dark, except for the sole light above you. It felt like a completely different planet from the party you’d just been navigating.
“Thanks for inviting me,” you uttered out of nowhere, breaking the silence and Dick’s daze.
“Of course, thanks for coming,” he replied, his voice stripped of all the usual masks of playfulness, charisma, and cunning. The comfortable silence resumed for a few minutes before Dick felt himself getting too antsy.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked. There was an almost nervous quiver in his voice.
“Of course,” you told him earnestly.
Dick went silent. Suddenly, now that he was here and actually about to confess his feelings, the nerves were finally hitting. His tongue felt like sandpaper and he wanted to disappear and make you forget he was ever going to tell you anything. But then you took your head off his shoulder to look at him curiously when his silence became prolonged, and the sight of your face made him forget everything, including his nerves.
Dick took in a last breath before speaking. “I like you.”
You looked at him with a confused smile, “Well, I’d hope so, since we are friends.”
Dick swallowed, “No, yeah, no I know. But– I,” he sighed before recollecting himself, “What I’m trying to say is… I like like you. As in, I may or may not have a crush on you.” Dick’s eyes frantically searched your face for any kind of reaction that would tell him whether to shut up or keep going, but you were keeping your expression amazingly schooled. Dick decided to risk it and continue, “I just– my heart stops and then starts up again at 10 times the speed whenever I see you. And I’ve been tormented with the desire to ask you out on a date for weeks but I guess I’m only brave enough to do it when I’m drunk.”
You were silent for a minute, your mind absolutely spinning. Was he being serious? Or was he fucking with you in the worst way possible? Because this was definitely a dream scenario. This was the type of situation you thought of to fall asleep at night. This was what you imagined when he’d brush against you in class or bring you your favorite order from the coffee shop without asking.
“Are you fucking with me right now?” you asked, uncertainty and a bit of fear in your voice that made Dick’s chest tighten. Dick turned to face you full on and he grabbed your hands to hold in your lap as you stared at him.
“I’d never fuck around about something like this. Sweetheart, being around you is addictive and I want to have you in my life forever, preferably as more than friends.” Dick’s eyes were more serious than you’d ever seen, and his voice left no room for doubt. But you were also drunk, and you knew that he was also drunk, and the small bit of fear that Dick Grayson would never feel about you how you felt about him was getting bigger and bigger with the substance in your system that brought out the extremes in everything. What if he was just thinking that now because he was drunk and you were close by? What if he woke up tomorrow and thought himself an idiot and took back everything he said? I mean, you’d seen and heard of Dick’s escapades before. He had a reputation for a reason, and even if that reputation wasn’t as bad as some of the other frat guys on campus, a reputation is a reputation. You didn’t want your heart to get caught up in his tomfoolery, you’d be left heartbroken. You liked him, you wanted him badly, but taking a risk on a guy like him was kind of huge for you. You weren’t sure if you could pin all your hopes on the promises of a man whose breath smelled like all the booze you’d watched him ingest throughout the night.
“You’re drunk,” you said, not sure if it was an accusation or a shielding method.
“I am. Does that matter?” Dick was getting nervous.
You bit your lip, “No, it’s just– what if you don’t know what you’re saying? What if tomorrow, you realize you made a mistake and don’t really feel the way you’re saying you feel, and that you were just drunk?” The fear was evident in your voice this time. Dick’s hands leapt from holding your hands to your arms, giving them a little squeeze.
“That’s not what this is. Being drunk just amplifies everything I feel for you, to a point that it’s almost unbearable not to talk about, which is why I’m so stupidly rambling and waxing poetic.” Dick told you firmly. Now he was kind of internally freaking out. He could handle it if you didn’t reciprocate his feelings, it’d kill him inside but he could ultimately handle it. But if there was a chance you did reciprocate but just didn’t want to admit that because you thought he was lying because he was drunk, that would be world ending.
“Look, I know how I feel about you, and I’d feel this way drunk or sober. But I get it. I’ve got a rep and I’m not trying to deny any of it. But, I also really like you, and I’ve never been the type of person to just give up easily. So,” he shifted a little and dropped his hands back to hold yours, “how about this; tomorrow, I’ll meet you for coffee and you’ll see that when I’m sober, my feelings for you don’t change. I’ll ask you out again and you can decide for yourself if you want to go out with me. Is that okay?”
You searched his face for any clues of deception, any intent to bait and switch you but you found none. “Okay.”
Dick’s eyes light up like you’d said you’d marry him and his stomach erupted in butterflies. “Great! Great. Thank you, for giving me this chance to at least assure you of how I feel, even if you don’t end up returning the affection. At the end of the day, I’m just glad to have you in my life.”
You smiled softly at him, “I’m glad to have you in my life.” Dick gazed at you in such a gentle yet intense way that it sent chills down your spine. Then, Dick slowly leaned down and pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead. It was so brief and light that you almost thought that you had imagined it, but he stayed there with his lips hovering over your forehead for a few seconds and you only felt like you could breathe again when he finally pulled away. Not because you didn’t want him kissing your forehead (honestly you’d rather he be kissing other places) but just because having him so close was suffocating in the way that only happens with people you’ve been hardcore crushing on for years. Sighing, you dropped your head against his shoulder and Dick brought his hand up to massage the back of your head. The two of you stayed like that for who knows how long, but the party behind you had been long forgotten.
You woke up the next morning with a headache and a very dry mouth. Your room was offensively bright which meant it was well past ten in the morning. You rolled out of bed and ambled to your bathroom like a zombie. When you looked in the mirror, you looked just as undead as you felt. You somehow made it through washing your face and brushing your teeth before wandering back to your bed and plopping down atop the covers. You grabbed your phone off the nightstand and were met with a text from Dick.
craving dick 💙: hey, text me when u wake up and we can meet for that coffee i promised. see u soon (i hope) :)
Your heart clenched. God, remembering what happened last night made you want to both hit yourself and giggle like a schoolgirl. You wasted no time texting him back, even if you had to retype your message a few times due to exhaustion induced typos.
You: hey, just woke up, if ur ready i can get dressed and we can meet at the usual spot
Dick responded in a couple of minutes.
craving dick 💙: ok cool, i’m ready so say be there in like 45?
You: sounds good, see u soon
You got ready as fast as you could, but you were also tired and hungover, so you ended up not putting as much effort in as usual and let yourself not care about leaving the house looking a little bummy. The walk to the coffee shop gave you a mild headache, but your biggest concern was seeing Dick. Your heart was racing outside your chest. You felt like a fool and you were terrified you might’ve ruined your chances with him last night. But you were equally nervous he was about to tell you he didn’t actually want anything with you. When you walked into the coffee shop, Dick was already there, sitting at a booth with his order in front of him and your order in front of the empty seat across from him. When the little bell over the door rang, Dick’s gaze instantly jumped up and caught you walking in. You gave him a sheepish wave and smile and walked over. As you walked over, Dick got up and grabbed the drinks.
“I was thinking we could take a little walk, it’s a nice day out and the cafe’s a little crowded,” he said quickly. You couldn’t think of any reason not to, so you agreed and took your drink when Dick offered it to you, before following him out the door again.
The two of you walked in silence for a few minutes, wandering aimlessly down one of the typically less frequented paths of campus. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was just fraught with a tension and electricity that hadn’t been there before last night. It was equal parts unnerving and exhilarating. Finally, Dick broke the silence.
“So, should probably address the elephant in the room,” he joked. Humor always was his fall back coping mechanism.
“Probably,” you agreed with equal lightness.
Dick then stopped walking and turned to face you. “I wasn't talking out my ass last night. I like you, a lot. I think about you everyday. I could be having the worst day ever, but if I see you, my mood is instantly brightened. I’ll be walking around town or campus and I’ll see things that remind me of you every two steps. I want to take you out on a date like I’ve never wanted anything before, but I also don’t want to force you into anything.” Dick didn’t think his voice had ever sounded so bare in his life, he felt naked. You looked at him like you were trying to find any clue that he was lying.
“Dick,” you began anxiously, “I… I really like you too. I’m not gonna lie, I may have had a crush on you for maybe possibly a year now. I’m sorry I doubted you or if I freaked you out at all in the last 24 hours, I really would never want to cause you any distress. I just couldn’t believe you might return my feelings, and I guess I had an easier time thinking you were lying than telling the truth,” you took a step toward him, “Dick, I’d love to go out with you. I really, really, want to go on a date with you,” you told him steadfastly. The look in your eyes, your posture, your breathing pattern, Dick had no doubt you were telling the truth and it was the most magnificent feeling he’d ever felt.
You wanted to go on a date with him. You reciprocated his feelings. He had a chance. This might just be the greatest day of his whole life.
“You have no idea how fucking relieved and stoked I am right now,” he told you with a blinding grin on his face.
The smile that broke out on your face was just as wide. “And you have no idea how long I’ve been wishing this would happen.”
“Mmm, no, you have no idea how desperately I’ve wanted this to happen,” Dick countered in a dopey, teasing voice. You suddenly realized how close the two of you were, just a breath apart. Your eyes danced between his eyes and his lips, while his gaze seemed firmly fixed on your lips.
“So, have any thoughts on where you wanna take me, pretty boy?” you probed slyly.
Dick laughed and leaned down slightly, “Obviously I’m taking you to dinner, but maybe before that, we could do something like see a movie, or go to the mall, or the park. Whatever it is you want to do, I just want to maximize my time with you,” Dick whispered, his voice like velvet.
“I can’t find anything wrong with that,” you told him, inching closer ever so slightly.
“Well, that’s good to hear.” There was silence for a brief moment, electricity flaring between you. Dick licked his lips before opening his mouth to speak again. “Can I kiss you?”
“Please,” was your sole, breathy response. Dick moved instantly. His lips were plush against yours, the kiss was soft and gentle, like he was testing the waters. When you kissed him back, he let himself go a little further, and the kiss became fervent. It was intoxicating. It was addictive. It was heaven on earth. You didn’t care about your need for oxygen, if it meant breaking this kiss you’d just have to go without. Eventually though, you did have to break the kiss, but that didn’t mean you had to go far. You could still feel the brush of Dick’s lips as you both took gulps of air. You could see the stupid smile on his face and it made your heart do somersaults.
“Think I could kiss you again?” Dick asked coyly, his voice barely above a whisper and you felt every syllable.
You let out a small laugh, “I don’t think you really have to ask.”
So obviously, he kissed you again. And again. And again.
⋄∘∗⋅⋆≁≁⋆⋅∗∘⋄
had so many ideas circling my crazed brain abt frat boy!dick grayson so i’m both kind of happy and annoyed with how this turned out
honorary rage cage mention
comment if u guys are interested in seeing headcanons for frat!dick grayson in the future
꒰ 🕶️ ꒱ includes 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 text post + headcanons at the bottom,, sfw ,, established relationship ,, scott being the driest texter known to man
۪ ᘞ ˙
Texts in full sentences. Always. No abbreviations, no emojis, no lowercase. It’s like reading a professionally worded email from your local accountant who moonlights as a field commander. He will punctuate correctly. Even in emergencies.
His tone is impossible to read. “Ok.” And you’ll spend half an hour spiraling, thinking he’s mad. He’s not. He’s just done typing.
Doesn’t understand sarcasm over text. If you say “wow, amazing job,” he will respond with a simple, “Thank you.” and genuinely mean it.
Rarely initiates conversation, not because he doesn’t want to, he just overthinks it. He’ll type “Hi” and delete it ten times before settling on “Good evening.” Then stare at it like it’s too forward.
Autocorrect loves him because he never abbreviates. Never “lol,” never “idk.” Maybe, maybe “okay” / “ok” without a period when he’s being casual. Mostly it’s:
“I do not know.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“You’re right.”
He loves when you send photos; of you, the sky, your dinner, your shoes, your pet. Hs never asks for them, but when he gets one he responds simply but warmly: “That’s nice. I like that.” or “You look good.”
Only checks the X-Men group chat when absolutely necessary. The second he opens it it’s chaos. He scrolls, sighs audibly, and mutters “I’m not doing this today.” 20 minutes later, someone pings him directly: “Scott, please do something.” He opens it again, types a full sentence with punctuation, and the chat immediately dies. “Everyone report to sub-basement two in ten minutes. Training debrief.” Silence. Message reactions trickle in. No one dares reply.
Doesn’t mute the chat because that feels irresponsible, but he wants to. Instead he reads through the flood of nonsense once every few hours like a disappointed dad catching up on what his kids destroyed.
Absolutely comes to you for slang translation.
“What does ‘it’s giving Krakoa-core’ mean? I think they’re mocking me.” / “Someone said I’m ‘based.’ Is that…insulting?”
“No, that’s good, babe.”
“Oh. Good. Then I won’t delete their field assignment.”
Scott’s most frequently used message is “Ok.”Not “okay,” not “ok 👍,” not “k.” just Ok. capital O, period. It can mean anything. Agreement. Annoyance. Exhaustion. Affection. Emotional meltdown. You’ll never know.
He’s so strict over text that sometimes you forget he’s your boyfriend and not your field commander. “Hydrate.” / “Eat something that isn’t coffee.” / “Don’t forget your jacket.” / “You said you’d rest by 10:00. It’s 10:04.”
Only uses three emojis, and they are 👍 , 👎 , 😐
When he’s stressed or working he answers in single words: “Busy.” / “Later.” / “Training.” / “Debrief.” / “Ok.” / You’ve learned that’s his version of “I love you but my brain is in mission mode.”
If someone else texts him, he’s curt, clipped, borderline scary. If you text him, he breathes before replying. His tone softens, he double-checks his phrasing to make sure he doesn’t sound cold.
You could maybe, maaaybe, get him to warm up to using “❤️” with you, but even that would take like a year for him to get comfortable with. The first time he’d send it, he’d immediately follow up with “Was that appropriate?”
summary: you've been in love with your best friend for as long as you can remember, but just when you think about confessing, you find him kissing someone else
cw: 3.9k, angst -> fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, poor communication, avoidance, blood, injury, showering together (not sexually), lots of feelings
froggi yaps -> i have a lot of feelings this week so what better than to project them onto wally? <3 hope everyone is having a good week & if not, hope it gets better
Of all the difficult things you’ve faced in your life—countless close calls and near deaths—nothing has proved to be more difficult than being in love with your best friend. He’s a part of you, an inseparable half to make up your whole, how could you not love him?
You’re gone for ten minutes, painfully tearing yourself away from him and leaving the dancefloor to grab a new round of drinks. It’s ten minutes where the world feels almost perfect, and in those last few seconds you come back to him, you feel almost weightless.
That’s when you see him, arms wrapped around someone else, his tongue down her throat. The sight brings nausea to your stomach, ice to your veins. It’s a miracle you manage to keep the drinks from slipping from your hands.
You should walk away. God, at the very least, you should look away. But it’s like watching a trainwreck where you’re the only person getting hurt.
You don’t breathe, you don’t blink, you just watch. If you listened close enough, you’re sure you could hear your heart break.
And then you’re walking away, ditching the full drinks on a nearby table. The crowd of sweaty bodies closes in, trapping you—urging you to stay in a way Wally never would. You push past it all, fighting your way to the exit until you burst through the door and you feel the relief of cold air on your skin.
The train ride back to your shared apartment feels like an eternity, each mile put between you and Wally suffocates you, wrapping you in your own anxiety until you choke on it.
Your usual bedtime routine is skipped. Your bag is left at the door, your skincare is left untouched. You barely manage to change out of your clothes before you’re falling apart, climbing underneath your bedsheets that smell too much like Wally.
Sleep doesn’t come as quickly as you’d like. The alcohol still buzzes beneath your skin, thoughts of Wally race around your head, and you can’t help but check your phone every five minutes just to see if he calls. He doesn’t.
You wake up to frantic knocking. Based on the darkness outside and the ache in your eyes, it can’t have been more than a couple hours since you fell asleep.
“Are you in there?” Wally’s concerned, frantic. “Please tell me you’re in there.”
He tries to open the door, his concern only growing when he finds it locked. He can’t remember the last time you’d locked your door.
“Please let me in,” he sighs, “I just—I really need to see you’re okay.”
Despite your exhaustion, your anger, everything, you love him too much to let him suffer. You open the door slowly, your movements sluggish with the sleep he woke you from only moments ago.
He throws his arms around you before the door is even all the way open, the smell of booze heavy on him. Booze and perfume. The scent makes you sick, bile rising to your throat all over again.
Images of them kissing, of his hands on her, flash in your mind. You go stiff in his arms, your heart not daring to flutter the way it usually does when he holds you. His touch is tainted now, cheapened. The excitement, the hope—it all died at the club.
“Oh, thank god.”
“Is there a reason you’re waking me up at,” you risk a glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand, “Jesus, 3:57am?”
“You disappeared on me, man. I was scared something happened to you.”
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You didn’t even tell me you were leaving,” he frowns. “I was worried sick.”
You fight your way out of his arms, taking a big step back and maintaining your gaze on the floor. You can’t bear to look at him right now, to see that look in his eyes that once made you feel special.
“Can I go back to bed now?”
Your tone comes out hollower than you mean to. The sudden iciness isn’t lost on Wally, nor is the distance you’ve put between the two of you.
“What’s wrong?” The warmth in his voice makes you sick.
You take a deep breath. “I just—”
Your voice breaks, the tears you've fought so hard against finally coming to the surface. You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head.
“Woah, woah, it’s okay.”
He’s torn, frozen in place. He’s not sure whether to hug you or leave you be, all he knows is that you’re hurting and for the first time in all the time he’s known you, you won’t tell him why.
“I’m going to bed.” And despite your shaky voice, your words are final.
He solemnly nods.“Sleep well. Love you lots.”
You don’t sleep much after that.
-
Something inside of you broke that night.
The composure you carefully kept for so long, the feelings you shoved away—all of it comes rushing to the surface. You thought pushing it down would make it easier but you were wrong. Now you can’t even look him in the eyes.
Wally knows something’s wrong. He sees it in your eyes, the way you carry yourself, the way you make yourself as scarce as possible. It hurts him to know you’re hurting, hurts him even more that you won’t even talk to him about it.
The lively conversations you once had have faded to awkward small talk. The nights you’d spent binging shows on the couch are gone, and Wally can’t help but grieve them. Can’t help but feel alone.
So, he throws himself into the things he can fix. He runs, he saves people, he rants to Dick. Day after day, he runs himself until he can’t anymore. He runs until his thoughts empty and the sight of your locked bedroom door doesn’t bother him anymore.
You find yourself wilting in the silence.
-
You’re in bed when you hear the crash. Loud and horrible, followed by a soft whine of pain. Wally. You’re on your feet before your thoughts can catch up, rushing to the living room.
He’s keeled over the now-broken coffee table, dark blood staining the shag carpet. His hair is a mess, his uniform torn. You can’t even suppress your surprise, a soft cry leaving your lips.
“Wally?”
For a second, you’re worried he’s not breathing.
He offers a weak thumbs up, his hand shaking.
Everything you’ve felt this week—all the bitterness, all the sorrow, all the betrayal—dissapears at the sight of your injured best friend. You crouch by his side, slowly rolling him onto his back to examine the damage.
A sigh of relief leaves his lips at your tender touch. Your hands trail down his bruised body, assessing every injury with your brows furrowed in concern. Aside from the minor cuts and bruises, the main source of the bleeding seems to be a gash on his thigh.
“The Flash got hurt?” Your lips purse together, the words spoken more to yourself than him.
He groans in response.
“Can you stand?” The concern in your voice thaws your iciness from earlier this week, “we need to clean that.”
“I-I think.” He grits his teeth and props himself up on his elbows. The blood drains from his face—a clear sign of his pain—but he forces himself to push through.
The minute he’s on his feet again, you’re ducking under his arm and bearing some of his weight on your shoulders. He’s heavy, your muscles straining under his body, but you force yourself to push through. It’s what Wally would do for you, it’s what Wally deserves.
He settles on the side of the bathtub, the blood that’s soaked into his suit staining the porcelain. Every breath he takes is heavy and laced with pain.
You rifle through the supplies under the sink, your hands finding the items you need like second nature.
“You’re gonna have to take off the suit.”
He hums weakly in agreement, lazily stripping himself of the scarlet fabric. You wince at the sight of the scrapes and bruises littering his body. Some are mostly healed—thanks to his speedster healing—but others are still fresh, still purpling from the trauma.
You crouch on your knees in front of him, eyes flicking up to meet his. To Wally, it’s an act of friendship, a glimmer of hope he hasn’t messed things up beyond repair. To you, it’s an act of devotion, a pledge of your undying allegiance—undying love—for him.
You work in silence, fingers moving along his wound the way they have a thousand times before. You try your best to be gentle, occasionally rubbing his non-wounded thigh to comfort him.
Wally’s eyes stay closed the whole time you work, his head lulled back. If it weren’t for the occasional twitching, you’d think he was asleep.
“There.” You pat the freshly applied gauze softly. “Should keep you at bay until you heal.”
For anyone else, this injury would have them out for at least a week. For Wally, maybe a day, if even.
“Thanks,” he rasps.
You hate the way his voice still has your heart fluttering only to break when you meet his eyes and see him kissing that lady in the club all over again.
“You should get cleaned up.”
It’s maybe the only words you can manage right now without opening the floodgates. You spin around, going to lock yourself in your room and cry, when his fingers catch your wrist.
“Can you stay?” He’s looking at you with those eyes like you’re the first thing he’s ever seen in colour, “please?”
And even though your heart sinks at the thought, even though tears prick at your eyes, how can you possibly say no? You take a deep breath, head tilting back to blink away your tears, and nod.
Wally offers a small smile, shifting uncomfortably to grab at the tap behind him. The minute the water starts running, you know you made a mistake in staying.
You can hardly look at the man without devastating yourself anew, how are you supposed to shower with him? Still, no matter how horrible you feel, you love Wally more.
He climbs into the shower on shaky legs, still clad in his boxers. He grips the wall tightly, trying to steady himself. He only pulls the curtain half-shut, eyes fixing you in place.
You’re shy to peel off your clothes—now stained with Wally’s blood—with him watching. When you’re stripped down to your underwear, you take a moment to brace yourself before climbing in with him.
The water is warm on your skin, soaking into your underwear, drenching your head, drowning you. It’s only now that you realize Wally’s eyes remain glued to you.
His lips move, barely a sound coming out, but you swear he mouths ‘beautiful’. The thought doesn’t excite you the way it would have a week ago.
“C’mere,” you say, grabbing the shampoo off of the shelf. “I got you.”
Wally ducks his head into your shoulder. He does his best to keep his pulse steady, to not fall asleep no matter how relaxed you make him feel. From anyone else, those would just be words. Coming from you, Wally knows they’re sacred.
You lather the shampoo on your hands before running them through his tangled mess of hair. Your touches are firm but tender, massaging the soap into his scalp. You try to ignore the way the bubbles turn red, the way the water splashing from the stream behind you has dried blood dripping from his scalp.
When you’re satisfied you’ve gotten as much of it as possible, you’re grabbing onto his waist and shuffling the two of you around until he’s under the stream. Wally is almost limp in your arms, completely surrendering himself to your touch.
You let the water do its thing, tracing the droplets that drip out of his hair and run down his face. You cup a hand across his eyebrows, trying to direct the water away from his closed eyes.
“I missed you.”
It’s a mumbled confession, spoken into the bare skin of your shoulder. You find yourself freezing, every bone in your body suddenly cold. Wally notices your stillness immediately and forces his head from the crook of your neck.
“What happened to us?”
The short-lived serenity of the shower wears off and the comfort you felt only a moment ago dies in your chest. The room closes in on you and it’s only now that you see this for what it truly is: a trap.
You force your hands away from him, turning to face the opposing wall. The cold bathroom air hits your face, ghosts down your stomach. Goosebumps rise along your skin.
Wally says your name and you shake your head, fingernails digging into your palms. Not like this, not right now. One of his hands cups your waist and that’s all it takes for you to break completely.
“It’s not fair.” The sobs you’ve barely managed to repress come bursting through, a torrent of sadness unleashing itself on you. “It’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?” He steps closer to you, his chest against your back, “talk to me.”
“I can’t, I can’t.”
The air around you feels like it’s made of stone, every breath heavy and hurtful and leaves your lungs aching. You tear yourself away from Wally, throwing aside the curtain and stepping onto the bathmat soaking wet.
You grab your towel from the hook, barely drying yourself off before running from the room. You’re horribly grateful that Wally’s too hurt, too wet, too shocked to chase after you right now.
It doesn’t take him long to finish showering, his footsteps a haunting presence in the hall outside of your door. You do your best to ignore it, to drown it out with your own thoughts.
He texts you nearly a dozen times but every single one goes unanswered. He knocks on your door, too. Softly, only once, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he tries any harder. Wally leaves you alone after that.
You spend the better part of the night curled up in a ball, sobbing so hard it makes your stomach ache. Though you try your best to muffle your sobs into the pillow you clutch to your chest, you know it does little to stifle them. You know Wally can hear them from the other side of the wall.
-
You wake up the next day with puffy eyes and that same horrible ache in your heart.
Still, you persist through your day. You force yourself to keep going, to put every thought of last night aside and be a functional human being. The longer the day goes on, the more you worry that things will never be the same again.
Your feelings for him are too much, his feelings for you are not enough. You want something he can’t give you and he deserves a friendship with someone who isn’t going to ruin the whole thing by running away.
When you get home, the dread still weighs heavily on your chest. Your only saving grace is the empty apartment. Silence haunts it, a distinct lack of Wally leaving you relieved.
That lasts about a second before the front door is opening and the redhead is bursting through. His eyes widen at the sight of you, his mouth moving to speak.
You brace yourself. You’re not ready to talk about last night and you’re certainly not ready to talk about your feelings. But the way he’s looking at you has your stomach tying up in knots and you are so sick of feeling like this.
Maybe it’s immature, and in hindsight, an incredibly poor decision, but you run. You tear away from the spot where you stand, dashing down the hall for your room. You manage to get inside, slamming both hands against the door to push it closed.
It slams shut but not before there’s a blur of lightning and Wally West is standing behind you with his arms crossed.
Your breath catches in your throat. You spin around slowly to face him.
It’s rare for you to see Wally in costume, even more rare for him to use his super speed for something so mundane. And yet here he is, staring at you expectantly, chest rising and falling with each harsh breath.
“Wally, I really don’t want to talk right now. Okay? I just—”
“No.” He cuts you off, voice stern and filled with a certain kind of finality that has bile rising to your throat. “I gave you space. I let you shut me out. I—you don’t get to push me away anymore.”
That steadiness he’d started with fades away, his words becoming less and less sure. You swallow, trying to keep yourself from crying. God, where do you even start?
“I’m not pushing you away…”
He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
The air feels stagnant in your lungs. Every word that comes to mind feels like the wrong one, like anything you say right now will just make it worse. Hot tears bubble up in your eyes and no amount of blinking will make them go away.
Wally hates seeing you like this, so much so that he almost gives in. Almost wraps his arms around you and holds you and forgets about this whole thing. But he can’t because all he can think about is the way you held him last night and the way you washed his hair—and those beautiful thoughts are soured by you running away, by your wretched sobs he heard on the other side of his wall.
“Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
You take a shaky breath, “things are just hard. That’s all.”
“Why do you keep deflecting?” He laughs dryly, the sound hollow and without any of his usual humour. “What could possibly be so horrible that you can’t tell me?”
In all of the time you’ve been friends, in all of the drunken nights and long conversations, he’s never spoken to you like this. Never looked at you like this. The earlier devastation you felt at your friendship being over returns and suddenly the tears are streaming down your face in full force.
“You don’t understand!” Your words are hardly coherent through the tears, “I’m not pushing you away, I just—”
“So ignoring my texts, avoiding me like the plague, running away from me isn’t avoiding me?” He tugs at his hair, “you’re right. I don’t understand. Because ever since the club…”
His face goes pale at that. It only takes one brief glance through teary lashes for you to see the look in his eyes, see the moment realization dawns on him.
He murmurs your name but you’re squeezing your eyes shut. This can’t be happening. Not now, not like this.
“That night,” he’s mostly talking to himself out, putting the pieces of the puzzle in order. “Did you see me kissing her?”
You almost gag at the memory, the image of them burned into your mind. The room around you spins. Too fast, too hot, too much.
“S-stop.”
“You saw me and then you left and—you were crying that night, too.”
You can’t bear to hear the rest of his sentence. For the second time tonight, you find yourself running. You’re not sure where you’ll go or what you’ll do when you get there—all you know is you need to be anywhere but here.
You’re so close, your hand is inches away from the handle of the front door. And then, in the blink of an eye, Wally is in front of you.
“Don’t go.” His voice cracks, “please. Don’t….don’t leave me.”
Your heart sinks at his plea. You let your shoulders fall, signifying your defeat, before wiping bitterly at your tears.
Your words are barely a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Why would you say that?” For a moment, his hands reach out, and then he thinks the better of it, letting them hang at his sides, “why do you think you could lose me? C’mon, you’re never getting rid of me.”
If only you could find the humour in this situation, you might laugh at that. Instead, it only has you crying harder, all of your words, your confessions, dying in your throat.
With no risk of you running out on him again, Wally finally lets himself relax. “You don’t even have to talk, okay? Just…let me get things straight.”
You hum in agreement, the only sound you can manage through your torrent of sobs.
“You’re upset because of what happened at the club. With me ki—” He sees the way your face twists into a pout. “Okay, it doesn’t matter what happened at the club. You’re upset because of that and—and for some reason you felt like you couldn’t tell me.”
You nod slowly.
“And all of this, is because of that?”
Again, you nod.
You see the exact moment it dawns on him. You see it in the way his face changes, in the way his ears turn pink, in the way he’s suddenly unsteady on his feet.
“Because you’re in love with me.”
And hearing those words come out of his mouth is your worst nightmare come true.
“You’re in love with me,” he breathes.
“S-stop saying that.” Your words are barely coherent, filled with shaky breaths and sobs, “please.”
“Because it’s not true?”
Your silence is confirmation enough.
For once in his life, Wally West is still. Speechless. Staring at you after he’s peeled back all your layers, after he’s laid you bare. You shrink beneath his gaze.
“You kept this to yourself this whole time?”
“I’m so sorry I just—”
He says your name like a promise.
“I understand if you want me to move out—”
Again, your name is soft on his tongue like it belongs there.
“I’m so sorry, Wally, I’m so sorry I—”
He’s lost his patience, closing the distance between the two of you and pressing his lips on yours. The kiss shocks you out of your rambling, leaves you standing there like a statue while Wally kisses you.
It’s soft and it’s sad and it’s long overdue. He pulls away—only for a second—and then he’s planting kisses on your cheeks, lips brushing every spot marked with tears.
“Wally…”
It’s his turn to be stubborn, his turn to shake his head. He cups your cheek, brushing away the stray tears that linger in the corner of your eye.
His other hand finds its way to your waist and then he’s pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. “Did you really think I don’t love you?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“You really thought some random lady that came onto me in a bar meant more to me than you?”
You open your mouth but he cuts you off again.
“You are my everything. Everything I have, everything I am, is tied to you. I couldn’t unbind myself from you anymore than I could stop breathing.”
“Wally, I just thought…”
He kisses your forehead, laughing sadly, “you think too much, sweetheart.”
Finally, you let yourself give in. Your arms find their way around his stomach, your face burying into his chest. Wally holds you tightly, squeezing you so much it’s almost hard to breathe. Despite the pain, his touch comes as a comfort.
“I’m sorry for all of this,” you mumble into his chest. “It was silly.”
“Maybe it was. But I like silly, and I love you, and don’t think for a second this changes any of that.”
He rubs at the back of your head, cradling you in his arms like you’re the most precious thing. Because to him, you are.
And maybe being in love with your best friend sucks, but your best friend being in love with you? That might be the greatest feeling in the world.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Summary: After being pushed to the backseat of Dick's life time and time again, you stop trying until your dad invites him to your graduation party and Dick explains what happened.
Pairing: Dick Grayson x Black!Male!Reader
Word Count: 6.1k
Tags/Warnings: this is a part 1, Minor spoilers for Black Lightning s1, reader is a Pierce, ftm reader, nurse reader, Dick is hopeless, i know very little about nursing degrees/jobs, I was watching The Pitt while writing this so it leaked in, sugar daddy jokes, talks of reader getting assaulted (punched), reader is black and has microlocs
A/n: hiii guys it’s been almost a month take this <3
Dick Grayson was nearly perfect in every single way.
You were eight years old when you met that stupid kid with his stupidly cool backflips. You must’ve talked his ear off the first time you met, asking him to do trick after trick, and he was curious about your boxing. And so, thus began the years of Dick teaching you his gymnastics skills and you teaching him boxing. It became apparent to everyone who saw the two of you that the two of you were as thick as thieves.
And you were. For a while.
You spent every weekend in Gotham, hanging around the manor and being kids outside of being Robin and Lightning Bug. Bruce and namely Alfred adored you, you kept Dick bright and happy. Even if the two of you broke several chandeliers in the process.
So it was only natural when you both grew up that things didn’t really change. Middle school had its awkward phases, the small period where things got odd when you came out, but nothing was wrong. At least until he was introduced to Barbara Gordon. You’d go over on the weekends, but he wouldn’t be home, only to sleep and shower. The third week that happened, you simply stopped going, and truth be told, you don’t think he noticed.
It was no surprise when they started dating soon after.
And that was his issue.
There was always someone else with Dick Grayson.
You’d lost your best friend for a girl he’d just met. The same girl who he’d date and then dump, a cycle repeating until they got tired of the back and forth when Dick was fifteen. And suddenly, he remembered you. Remember how he treated you.
He was at your door, apologizing with gifts and snacks. Promises that he’d never lose sight of your friendship again. And you believed him. You missed your best friend.
When he asked you to move with him, join the Teen Titans, you were hesitant. Your life was in Freeland, and you were a month from graduating from high school at fourteen. But Dick was more than willing to wait that month, leaving a room at the tower for you.
And then, a week before you left for California, Kory crashed down on Earth. Suddenly, your phone was radio silent. Your mother says it was a sign from God, telling you to focus on your school work and keeping up your grades. Now that you could commit to fully in-person classes instead of the hybrid that you assumed you’d do, you were on track to graduate at the normal pace.
Meanwhile, the same pattern was happening with Dick. For the sake of your mind and peace, you called him twice. And it only rang once both times before he declined the call.
You tried not to care, telling yourself that you saw it coming.
Soon they broke up too. And just like last time, he was back at your door, letting himself inside your house. You never did move the spare key from behind the chair. He once again came with a box of treats. Your favorite foods and drinks. But he added a bouquet of flowers.
Dick was smart, he knew your family was out. Parents divorced, your sisters and dad were at school while you were home due to your semester break. You didn’t have their stares and small noises of disappointment when you let him back in.
This time, you were hesitant. You didn’t want to jump the gun, to let yourself accept him back into your life, only to be disappointed again. An arm's length distance was good enough for you until you saw actual change.
And there was. For a while.
And then came Wally. They’d actually been friends for a while, a part of his first Titans group, but now they were dating. At that point, you stopped trying. You stopped caring. Dick was someone who prioritized his relationships over a nearly decade long friendship and it was up to you if you wanted him in your life. Ultimately, you didn’t. He was no longer a friend, he was another hero whom you had known since you were a child.
Nineteen and graduating from college (with a bachelor’s degree in science of nursing, a phlebotomy certification, and an associate's for nursing) was something your parents praised you for. For you, they were signs that you had taken everything to focus on something else. To ignore the burning desire to return to the streets of Freeland as Lightning Bug (although that didn’t last long), to forget the ache that Dick thought you were a back burner friend. Someone not even worth an occasional text. You’d started college while you were still in high school, and work consumed your every waking hour to the point where you couldn’t recall time for yourself outside of forced vacations.
It all led to this, though. The youngest in your family to graduate from college. So, it was really an exciting time for you.
They’d invited all of your friends and their colleagues to your graduation party, which, of course, included Dick.
“How does dad know Bruce Wayne?” Jennifer asks, hiding the fact that she’s talking by sipping her soda.
“Grants,” Anissa shrugs, watching the man and his son greet your father. Dick was not invited but he also wasn't not invited. Open invitation sort of thing. You were more upset that Alfred didn’t come.
“He’s fine.” Jennifer grins, and you roll your eyes. Who she was talking about, you didn’t want to know. All you knew was that you wanted some of those damn snacks on the table. Oh, cupcakes.
“Let’s sit, my feet hurt,” She groans and drags you away from the snack table to the family table.
“I wasn’t done, you ass,” You groan, dragging Anissa with you. She’d been trying to watch the Waynes as they looked around and nearly tripped when you started tugging her along.
“And my feet hurt!” She whines as she plops down in her seat. “Did I bring spare shoes?” She asks, leaning down to unbuckle the straps of her heels.
“It’s in the car,” You sigh, getting up. “I’ll go and get it.” With a thank you, you slip out of the venue and look for the car. There are so many cars in the lot, and you’ve been there for so many hours, you’ve all but forgotten where your dad had parked.
“Skipping your own party?” Dick asks as he joins you. Glancing back at him, you shake your head.
“My sister wants her shoes,” You explain and head towards a general direction.
“So you’re not avoiding me?” Following you, Dick manages to walk in stride with you. He’s wearing those fancy loafers with the small heel and stepping loud enough that you hear him. And you’re aware he’s doing it on purpose, Dick knows how to be silent in any type of shoe.
“Eh,” You shrug, spinning around when you don’t find the family car. It’s definitely one of these rows, you remember that lamp post with the missing turtle poster. Hopefully, they find Mrs Wheelbarrow.
He follows you still, but he keeps a distance of two steps so he could watch you.
He knows he’s been a… well a dick. But he swears he has a valid reason for the things he’s done; every time he gets into a relationship or even likes someone else, it hurts him to be around you. It makes him feel wrong, as if he’s wronging you in some way. So, in his head, it’s better to just lessen the time he spends with you, pushing the guilt down enough for him to savor the time he spends with his relationships.
Because he knows deep down that it’s never going to last long. Deep down, Dick knows that no one will ever compare to you and he knows that you deserve better than him. Someone who meets you halfway or makes the distance, not someone who makes you fly across the country every weekend. Someone who… isn’t him.
He frowns as you walk faster, his steps falling slower until he sucks it up and catches up to you again. This is better than no contact. What’s that thing about kids? Angry kids yearn for a reaction, even if it’s a negative one, because it’s better than being ignored. Something along those lines.
“You grew,” He puts on a smile as he catches up with you.
“That’s generally what metahuman puberty does,” You hum when you spot your family car.
Shit, you didn’t even have the car keys.
“I’ll go and get your dad,” He offers, and you stare at him. He’s grown considerably. He’s grown into an acrobat's build, you suppose being Nightwing means more tricks and flips than it did with being Robin. Not to mention his hair that’s grown into a mullet.
“I like your hair,” You admit without knowing it. He smiles and grabs some strands, looking down at them.
“I like yours,” He says, his eyes trailing down the microlocs you’ve been growing out since you were five. When they trail back up, he swallows and tucks his hair behind his ear out of habit. “Do you want me to get the car keys?” He asks again, his voice hardly above a whisper.
“Oh,” You blink. “Yes, thank you.” He nods and leaves while you watch, your eyes slowly trailing down to his pants. Damn, those squats really do help him.
When he returns with the keys, he’s smiling and waving them around, and you’re sitting on the hood of your car, barely aware of the light rain as it hits you.
“I’ve missed you,” He says as you grab the keys from his hand. For a second, his hand holds yours, begging you not to go before he catches himself and relaxes his grip. Rolling your eyes, you unlock the car.
“You seem more interested in… who is this month? Kory?” Reaching for the bag in the back seat, you slide inside and Dick follows without thinking.
“(Y/n),” He says as the door closes, and you look back at him, eyebrows raised. “I’ve been real shitty, I know. And you’ve given me more than enough chances, but…” He sighs and thinks about something for a second. “But I swear this time will be different— if… if you let me.” He adds, his eyes darting between yours. They’re so different from what he remembers.
“Dick,” Grabbing Jennifer’s shoes, you turn to him. “I don’t know what type of friends you have, but I don’t have time for someone who does the shit you did,” He’s not a child and you aren’t going to spell anything out for him, he knows what he’s done. He surely knows how it made you feel, the look on his face makes as much clear.
“I know, I know!” He rushes out, desperately keeping you close to him. “Just one more chance. I promise, I promise you that I’ll be different.”
“Why would I believe you?” You huff and exit the car through the other side. He panics, throwing the door open on his side when he does possibly the dumbest thing he’s ever done before.
“Because I love you! I always have!” He nearly shouts as he chases after you. Stopping in the middle of the lot, you look at him with a frown as he’s waiting for you in front of the car. His eyes dart between yours as his chest rises and falls, nervously waiting for your response.
Stupid wasn’t one of the things you’d call Dick but in that moment, the was the only thing that was popping up with you pictured him. Stupid enough to understand he was in love with someone and pushing them away to date other people. Stupid enough to think that those simple words would have you on your knees, welcoming him back and saying you love him back.
Namely, because you didn’t love him. You hardly even liked him as a friend. He was the ghost of an old friendship whose memories had been worn down and morphed into ones of sadness. Missing a friendship you can never get back.
“I don’t believe that,” You tell him, and slowly look towards the venue. Your mother and father are at one of the windows, sneakily talking to each other with small laughs and knowing glances. “I know love makes you do stupid shit, but what you did is beyond stupid if you do love me.”
“How can I prove it?” He calls out as you start to walk away. Stopping, you look at him and think about it.
“Show me,” You shrug, and he nods. “Be willing to put the work in and stop running away.”
“I can do that,” He nods again, a genuine smile growing on his face. “I can do that.” He repeats.
“Prove it.”
—
The next morning, as you’re having breakfast with your family, your mother included because you all but begged to have them both there, you’re all talking about idle chatter when you get a notification.
“No phones,” They both remind you as you check it. Anissa snickers, even divorced, they’re still in sync.
“One sec,” You mutter, eyes squinting at the email banner. “It’s from my financial aid.” Reading the email, you sit back in your seat and cover your smile with your hand. “My tuition loans were paid.” You announce, unable to hide a chuckle as you announce what had been oh so important, you broke the breakfast rule.
“Paid?” Your father echoes. The cost of tuition was insane for your nursing school, and you had to take out a loan for all of the years you went, but the email said they’re processing the entirety of what you had taken out. Basically, the three hundred thousand you’d taken out was paid by someone. “Who paid for it?” He asks, looking at your mother, but she shakes her head.
“Is this some new scam?” Jennifer asks, and you roll your eyes. As if you’d fall for some scam.
“Let me call someone real quick.” They nod and beg with their expressions for you not to leave the table, and you don’t. Making the call as you chew on your pancakes, you realize you need more syrup.
“Hey,” Dick answers almost immediately.
“Was that you?” You ask the second he stops speaking, pouring more syrup onto the pancakes.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.” The way he says it makes you roll your eyes. “If you’re asking if the man from your dreams was me— definitely.”
“The payment,” Pushing the conversation back in the right direction, Dick makes a oh yeah noise.
“It went through already? I thought those took a while to go through.” He admits. “I paid it the second you left me in the parking lot.” He says that as if it’s nothing, as if he’s admitting to paying for your coffee in the morning and not your entire tuition loans. Lord Almighty, to be the son of a billionaire.
“Thank you,” You smile despite yourself. “It’s creepy how you got my information, but considering it’s you, I’m not surprised.”
“Anytime,” He says. “Oh, and be home today. There should be some stuff coming in for you.” More stuff— he has to be taking this money from his father. He’s not even employed!
“What— Dick?” But he ends the call, and you stare at the phone, blinking.
“Richard paid it?” Your mother asks, and you slowly nod, setting your phone back down on the table. “Why did he pay it?” She asks, and you let out an awkward chuckle.
“Who’s Richard?” Jennifer asks. Clearing his throat, your father looks at you, and you look at your mother.
“Bruce Wayne’s son,” He answers, voice tight because he didn’t want to be the one to say it.
“Oh, so you got a sugar daddy,” Jennifer snorts, and your face drops as everyone stares at her. “What? I’m not wrong— wait, is that why they were at your party?”
“Eat your damn food,” You grumble and your parents don’t tell you to watch your language.
—
Monetary gifts did nothing to sway you, especially ones that come from the son of one of the richest men alive. So far, Dick has been doing his best for the past four or so weeks. His best gift thus far had been the tuition; how could it not be?
Then came the flowers, arranged with colors he knew you liked. You’d gotten three of those so far, always timed so when they should start wilting, you could replace them. The mix of those you’d gotten various stuffed animals, a weighted blanket far too big for your bed, a personalized bonnet that had stitching of your favorite animal, compression socks, three pairs of shoes, legos, and a brand new, not even on the market yet, laptop.
You admittedly love the Legos he picked out.
But you think the absolute best thing he’s done thus far is when he joined you for your nightly patrol. It’s been years since you’ve done this with someone, filling the gaps of your night with music and helping people walk home in the dead of night.
You’d just started, picking up your suit from Gambi’s, and started from the heart of Freeland with one ear connected to Gambi and the other open to hear around you. Wednesdays are usually quiet. The 100 collect their taxes every Wednesday, so groups go to their base and stay there for the entire night.
But tonight you needed the company.
“Hey, Buggy,” He says as you look over the block. There’s no one there, all the stores are closed, and the streets are empty, so you should probably move along. “What’s wrong?” He places a hand on your shoulder and tilts his head closer to yours. It probably didn’t take a genius to tell something was wrong with you but Dick would attest it to the fact that he knew you.
Well, he used to, but he’s sure your mannerisms haven’t changed that much. He knows you the same way he knows the theme song to Barney. It hurts a little, the memories of you are so distant— but he’s working on it. He is, really.
“Tough week,” You inhale before shaking your head. “Dad and the girls got pulled over, Anissa got arrested for going to a protest, and something is wrong with Jen. And I’m not sure what to do with myself.”
“Pulled over?” He makes a face because Jefferson wouldn’t even go one mile over the limit and, if Dick has the room to say this, is a bit of a neat freak when it comes to driving. Especially with his kids in the car.
“Profiling. The cops were looking for a black man, Dad's black. Yada yada. They only stopped because they realized he was a pillar of the community or something. I wasn’t there, there was a thing happening with the 100 across the city.”
“Did he get their names?” He asks, crossing his arms. “I can talk to B and—“
“Nightwing,” You stop him. “I appreciate the effort, but can’t exactly get rid of all of Freeland’s racist or corrupt cops. That would leave maybe three left,” Laughing, you inhale and look over the city again. It’s quiet, not the unsettling type of quiet that overtakes the city, but a nice one. The air feels nice and calm. “Besides, Black Lightning had it.”
“Corny,” He grins, knocking his fist against your shoulder. “But your dad mentioned you’re gonna be working at Freelands Hospital, right?”
“Yeah,” It’s not breaking news that your dad had told Dick this; you know they’ve been in contact since Dick’s been in Freeland. You think he’s using Dick to keep tabs on you during your patrols. “I got accepted last week, the pay is good and the hours are, too. Nurses work around forty hours a week, and hopefully, I get the ten-hour shifts.”
“Hopefully I’m one of your patients,” He winks, to which you loosely groan and jump off of the roof.
“You just had to ruin it!”
—
Here’s to day one, first day of many! Luv U Nurse (Y/n)!!!
Dickie
The note is attached to a metal bottle of still-hot coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Along with a pair of Nightwing Crocs and Lightning Bug socks. You’re surprised that you’re surprised Dick had managed to sneak inside while you were showering and leave that in your room without anyone noticing.
“The patients check in here. You will eyeball them, make sure they’re not dying. If not, they’re moved to a triage room for vitals and a quick chair exam where you and a resident can order labs and X-rays, all that fun stuff,” The doctor explains as you and three other new nurses follow her. The waiting room is packed, all the chairs are taken, and some people have decided that sitting on the fake plant pot is better than standing.
And you can’t exactly blame them.
You’ve been at hospitals before, obviously, but you haven’t worked at one- let alone Bowman before. And yet, word has spread fast because the charge nurse tells you to call your mother because she’s needed and isn’t answering her pager. Rather than, y’know, calling her down using the proper channels.
You’re embarrassed as you do so, but things move along quickly as three people come into the ER. You’re given the boring work, along with one of the first-year residents, Dennis. Watching as the others work on the patient.
The rest of the day continues, and you’ve decided you need to decompress. After getting yelled at for doing your job, getting piss thrown at you because you had to break the news that the woman’s husband had given her crabs, and then a child throwing up on you all within an hour, you were going to scream.
Tossing the dirty scrubs into the washing bin, you start back to the triage area when you catch something in the corner of your eye and inhale.
Once again, stupid isn't a word you’d use to describe Dick. But boy was he making it hard not to. You’re aware that as a nurse, your life is going to be different, and you won’t be able to patrol as often as you would like to.
Your mother clearly loves that.
Dick, however, has decided that since Bruce now also has Batgirl, Oracle, and Batwoman, who’s apparently his cousin, that he and the newest Robin could help you out a little bit. Only issue is that the new Robin is maybe twelve. He looks younger, though.
And they’re currently sitting in an open room, in the dark. Hiding from the nurses and doctors that walk by.
“See, so I don’t want a child helping you take down violent crime rings,” You whisper yell at Dick after closing the door and flicking the light on. You see that Jason is tucked under his arm, with a bullet graze on his left arm. “Because they tend to shoot people!” Jason, to his credit, is taking the bullet graze like a champ. He hardly flinches as you disinfect it and give him three stitches. You don’t think you should be impressed by that, actually. It’s quite concerning.
“It’s safer than Gotham,” Dick smiles. “Right, bud?”
“Right,” Jason nods, watching as you wrap a gauze around his arm. “Can I get a burger?” Before you can reply, your pager beeps, and you groan, checking it over.
“I have to go, stay out of sight, please,” You huff, removing the blue latex gloves before shoving them in Dick’s chest. “And put that boy in a bed— a real, apartment bed. It’s late, and he’s already stunted as it is.” Looking Jason up and down, you find it hard to believe he’s twelve. But he just smiles and watches as you leave the room.
“No wonder you can’t keep a relationship,” Jason taunts as soon as the door clicks shut. “You suck.” Dick glares down at him, hands on his hips before he flicks the wound and Jason yelps, holding his arm. The lights flicker as a warning and Dick smiles at them before helping Jason sneak out of the window again.
“I’m so telling B,”
“And I’m so not getting you a burger.”
You fully walk away, heading towards where you’re being paged, and head to your charge nurse. On the way, you see another one of the residents with a wicked grin and another looking a little dejected. Although that’s just how he’s always looked.
“Crash fucking fainted again,” Trinity grins and you high five her.
“That’s fifty dollars, Dennis.” You point at him, and he sighs, looking between the two of you. He pulls out his wallet, and you snicker with Trinity before she straightens up.
“We’re not splitting it, Nepotism.”
—
God hadn’t graced you with amazing ten-hour or even eight-hour shifts like you had preferred. You’d been given the maximum twelve-hour shifts and worked back-to-back days. You swore you were going to forget how your family looked, had it not been for the fact that you can only work forty hours a week before it’s considered overtime.
But it’s day one of your days off, and you’re intending on catching up on your beauty sleep before you have to patrol for the night. With new bedsheets, freshly washed body and a nice smelling candle that Dick had gotten you still lingering in the room, you curl into your bed and start to fall asleep.
At least until Jennifer barges into your room with Anissa quickly following behind, scolding Jenn for throwing the door open. You don’t move despite being awake. Hopefully, she’s just there to steal some of your clothes and not to bother you as you catch up on your much-needed sleep. But, no, they weren’t.
“There was a delivery for you.” Jennifer throws herself onto your back, and you groan, aimlessly slapping behind you in hopes of hitting her. It doesn’t work. Instead, she applies more pressure while talking. “With a note. What does it say, Anissa?” Anissa huffs, but she clearly is also enjoying the drama because she’s holding back a laugh as she reads it.
“Heard this was your favorite spot, order your usual—“ She pauses, looking at you with a smile. “Three hearts, filled in, and a smiley face with a tongue out. Also, know your sisters are home, hopefully they like the things I got them, too. Do you think they like me? Do they know about me? And the scratched out is- do you like me? Anyway, enjoy lunch, Buggy! From Dickie! With another heart, not filled in.” She hands you the note, and you quickly take it, tucking it under a notebook on your nightstand.
“Things between you two getting… warmer?” Jenn asks, folding one leg under the other while opening the bag. “I mean, with all the shit he’s gotten you I hope you’re giving him a little something something,” Anissa raises her eyebrows as she sits next to you.
“Jennifer, what the fuck?” You smack the side of her head and she laughs an apology. “And no, we aren’t fucking. We’re friends, he’s just a gift giver.”
“The note said, ‘do you like me?’. And don’t act like I didn’t see you two during the party. What happened?” Grabbing your food, you shrug. You’ve never told them about your friendships within the hero world. They don’t know half of your friends, they don’t know why you left every weekend, or why you and your dad had little trips so often. They just assumed it was because you’d come out at such a young age that he was helping you.
Because they swear that after those weekend trips, you’d come back more boyish. Jennifer used to joke that your dad was slowly swapping you out for a clone.
“Yeah,” Jennifer agrees, nose scrunched as she recounts that day. “You two definitely have history.”
“We did— we do,” Standing from your bed, you move to a small bookshelf and pull out a photo album. Flipping through it, you see the old digital of your time as a young hero before finding a normal picture. You’re at Wayne manor, hanging out with Dick and Ace while Bruce and your dad are in the background, watching with their arms crossed. It’s that dad stance Bruce swears he doesn’t have.
Handing it to them, you flop next to Anissa.
“That’s where I went every weekend. Spent a lot of my free time in Gotham,”
“Why?” Jennifer hands the photo over to Anissa. “I thought you and dad were going fishing or something. Playing catch or whatever,” Licking your lips, you try to think of something. You can’t tell them because your dad was worried about your developing powers, and Gambi had recommended asking Bruce for his opinion.
“It’s complicated,”
“You wanna know something complicated?” Jennifer snaps her fingers, she’d just remembered something. Something real important, by the way her eyes gleamed. “Dad's Black Lightning!”
“What?” You look between the two of them. Anissa’s head tilts as she takes in your reaction, meanwhile Jenn has no clue.
“And I mean, me and Anissa have powers too! She holds her breath and gets stronger and invincible— which is kinda lame, if you ask me. I have electric powers like dad, though!” She smiles, her fingers sparking.
“Does dad know?” Your voice is soft as you ask, bordering on disbelief and happiness.
“Yeah, he was really cagey about it, though. You’re taking this really well, mom didn’t. Right?” Jenn laughs as she pushes Anissa. But Anissa doesn’t listen, she doesn’t react to Jenn. She’s still watching you, watching your reactions.
“You’re Lightning Bug,” She finally breathes, her head hanging a little low. “I don’t know why we didn’t piece it together sooner.”
“You’re who?” Jennifer’s eyes bug and you shut yours. Resigning yourself with a nod. “Oh my god— It was so obvious!” She laughs, and you look between them. They’re mostly smiling, they’re not upset.
They’re not upset.
“I wanted to tell you guys, I did. Really. But heroes are always like ‘don’t tell your loved ones, cause it’ll put them in danger’ and every time I tried, I just kept getting a picture that you two were dead.” You rush out. “I’ve had my powers since I was a kid, um, they’re like dads but stronger. I’m pretty sure me and Jen have the same ones, they look similar.” Inhaling, you have to remind yourself not to go that long without breathing again.
“So, you can teach me?” Her eyes twinkle with hope before they dim. “‘Cause dad isn’t. He’s still on the whole, you’re my babygirl, I can't see you hurt thing.” You laugh heartily because you remember that conversation with him.
“He told me the same thing, but then I was in the bath and nearly killed myself ‘cause I sneezed and sparked the water. Had no choice but to help me after that.” Messing with the straw of your drink, you push your shoulders back. “I’ll be an excellent teacher. On my days off,”
—
Jenn paces in front of you while you hold a tissue to your still-bleeding nose. She’s ranting about the girl who punched you, apparently, they have issues in school, and she swears if you’d just let her go, she would’ve dealt with her. But you’d rather not have to write an incident report on how you got punched by a sixteen-year-old girl and your sister punched her back during your first month.
But you listen to her rambling and raving while Dr. Robby checks over your nose, just to make sure nothing is fractured. He assures you that you’re fine, it’ll bruise a little, and your nose will be sore for around a week, but that’s the extent of it.
Once he walks away, Jennifer takes the seat next to yours and continues. Her leg bounces as she tells you exactly what she would’ve done and how stupid you were to hold her back. You gently remind her that she would’ve been arrested for assault, just as the girl will be once the officers arrive.
Speaking of which, you can hear their radios crackling as they enter the ED. Looking up, you raise an eyebrow as Dick makes a B-line for you. He ignores the charge nurse and the attending— even the security guard holding the girl in his office tries to find you. His eyes seem almost frantic until they land on you, where he exhales and drops to his knees.
“You okay, (Y/n)?” He whispers, gently moving the tissue to check the damage. He winces when you do, using his free hand to gently squeeze your leg.
“I’m fine— why are you here and in a uniform?” You ask, looking away as he shines a flashlight up your nose.
“No deviation— she’s not a good punch, eh?” He grins, putting the small flashlight back. “And I joined the Freeland police department! Passed my test and the academy with flying colors. Thinking about becoming a detective, whaddya think?” He rests his hands on his legs as he stares up at you, his hair flopping to the side with the movement.
“You’re ridiculous,”
“And you’re bleeding,” His hand reaches down to pat your knee twice before he stands to his full height. You stare up at him as he scans over the room, his partner is in the guard's office getting the girl's side of the story.
“So, what happened?” He looks down at you, hands on his hips. “For my official statement.” He adds.
“Jennifer was giving me my lunch, I asked her to bring it up because I was being called to assist with a patient. I returned, and Jenn was arguing with a different patient. I noticed it was going to get physical and intervened. I must’ve been a second too late because she was already punching.” As dutiful as he can, Dick nods as he writes it down. “Mike separated the girl into the office and I stayed here with Jenn.”
“Alright, and just some follow-up questions, standard procedure,” He reassures with a grin, and you hum. “Do you want to press chargers, are you free tonight, and have you received proper medical attention?” He intentionally speeds over the second question, and you hear Jennifer laugh from where she’s also being questioned. It’s not only her; you can hear the residents and even the charge nurse giggling.
“No and yes.” You reply, leaning back in your chair.
“What time?” He asks, wiping some more blood from your nose with his thumb.
“My bad,” You hold your hand over your heart. “No, no, and yes.”
“You wound me, Buggy. I’m wounded.” He frowns, clutching his chest. And then he grins. “Maybe you should check me over, in a room where there are no others.”
Rolling your eyes, you watch as he excuses himself and meets up with his partner again. He positions himself so that he still has a clear line of view of you, his eyes constantly shifting between his partner and you while you toss out the bloody tissue before attending to someone who needs to be checked over.
Maybe Dick isn’t so bad. He has been trying. Aside from the gifts, which have been abundant, he's there for each of your patrols, and once he was invited over for dinner. You think Jennifer got into your dads head that you’ll accept Dick’s numerous proposals and he wanted to give Dick the talk before that happens. But you’re not always present with him. Things have been hectic on your side of the fence, between your sisters discovering their powers, Black Lightning coming back, work, and everything with Tobias, Khalil, and the 100; you felt like you were always busy.
A couple of times, you’d almost texted or called him, just to get an escape. Maybe take a ride out of the city or just talk in your room. Or his place. He’s since sent Jason back to Gotham because he told Bruce it was a small vacation, not an almost kidnapping. Bruce wasn’t happy when he heard whispers of Dick’s plans to have Jason’s school records transferred over.
It’s been nice having Dick back as a constant in your life. It’s been nearly three months now, and it’s the longest duration of consistent contact you’ve had with him since Barbara came into his life.
You glance at him one last time, and when your eyes catch, you hold up nine fingers. He grins, nodding once before giving his full attention to his partner.
SUMMARY — You and Clark’s secret is nearly exposed by your boyfriend. You have no choice but to leave him and your entanglement behind for as long as you could but naturally your sisters weren’t going to let that happen. Before you know it, you’re reunited with Clark but hoping to keep guardrails this time around.
WARNING! 18+MDNI. Sexual Themes. Suggestive Language.
WORDS! 26.6k
AUTHOR'S NOTE! 26k! 26k—this might be the longest fic I wrote so far. It’s been a journey to get it done with school and all but here it is. A fic of forbidden love is always the most time fun to write. Anyway, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽
PREVIOUS — HOURS & HOURS
NOAH STOOD half in, half out of the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other clutching a roll of spare programs he'd clearly come to drop. His expression moved in a visible sequence—puzzlement at the closed door, then recognition, then a clean, white shock that drained the color from his face. Anger arrived last, not volcanic but focused: the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders squared as if bracing for weather.
No one spoke for a beat too long. The parlor clock ticked once. Behind Noah, the coordinator's voice floated down the hall—"Groomsmen, two minutes to places"—bright, oblivious.
"Noah," you said, your voice coming out thin and wrong.
He blinked, as if making sure the scene didn't rearrange itself when he looked again. "I was... bringing these," he said finally, and lifted the programs a fraction, as if proof of an errand could reset the room. His gaze slid between you and Clark, taking in the distance you hadn't had time to manufacture: your rumpled lapel, the crushed edge of a white petal at Clark's jacket, the heat still painting both your mouths. He swallowed. "What is this?"
Clark stepped forward before you could dig for an answer, hands open, empty. "My fault," he said, low and even, the tone he used when taking responsibility in print. "I—"
Noah's eyes cut to him, sharp. "Don't do that. Don't make it tidy for me."
You felt something crumble at the base of your sternum. "Noah," you tried again, softer. "I'm—"
"—sorry?" he supplied, and the word wasn't cruel so much as exhausted. His gaze came back to you and stayed, and in it you saw the whole of your morning reflected: steam curling in a hotel bathroom, cedar on your skin, a lie that had sounded laminate even to your own ears. "How long?"
"Not like this," you said, uselessly. "Today isn't—this isn't—"
"Today is your sister's wedding," he said, and his voice steadied on the fact. "And you're in a room with her fiancé." The last word landed like a drop of ink in water, blooming dark.
Clark's jaw worked once. "You don't deserve to find out like this," he said, and the truth of it flickered and hurt.
From the hall: "Final call—let's go, gentlemen!"
The timing was obscene. You flinched. Noah noticed; of course he did. He inhaled, slow, like a man making a choice in real time.
"This conversation isn't over," he said, and set the programs on the console with a precision that made your throat close. He stepped back into the corridor, giving you space that felt like punishment and mercy in the same breath. At the threshold he paused. "Do your job," he added—to you, not unkindly. Then to Clark, without looking at him: "Do the right thing."
He left the door open when he went. The bustle of the wedding rushed back in—shoe leather on marble, the faint tuning of strings, Jimmy's laugh ricocheting off a wall. You stood in the current of it, breathing like you'd run, Clark three feet away and farther than he'd ever been.
You reached up and straightened his boutonnière because your hands needed a harmless task, because you didn't know what else to do. His eyes were wrecked and steady both.
"I'm sorry," he said, and it landed differently than when you'd thought the word yourself—he meant it like a vow, not a solvent.
You nodded once, because you couldn't manage language, and stepped sideways into the hallway's flow. You caught up to Noah, grabbing his sleeve before he could disappear into the current of tuxedos and flowers and steered him down a side corridor—past a stack of folded chairs, through a service door that exhaled cold air, and out onto the river terrace. The morning had sharpened; the wind off the water smelled like metal and rain. Inside, the quartet ran a last phrase; out here, the city's noise took over—buses sighing, a gull complaining, the distant thud of a runner's shoes on the promenade.
"No," he said, yanking his arm free but not walking away. "Right here. Say whatever you think you're going to say right here."
You opened your mouth. He beat you to it.
"I walked in with programs," he said, voice low and shaking. "And I saw you with my own eyes—hands on each other, lips, her fiancé." He laughed once, humorless. "Do you hear how insane that sentence is? On Lois's wedding day?"
"I know," you said, uselessly. "I know."
"How long?" His eyebrows lifted, the question a blade. "And don't give me a calendar. Give me truth."
You swallowed. "It... started months ago. Not this—" You gestured back toward the building like you could point at a specific sin. "Feelings. Confusion. We kept... stepping over lines."
"Stepping," Noah repeated, a bitter taste on the word. The wind lifted his hair off his forehead; he didn't smooth it down. "Are you in love with him?"
Silence widened between you until the river could fit inside it. "I don't know what to call it," you said, because that was the only piece that felt honest. "I know it's wrong. I know I should have shut it down sooner."
He stared at you like he was trying to line your face up with the version of you he trusted. "And last night?" he asked softly, and that softness scared you more than the anger. "You weren't in your bed."
You had rehearsed the lie, and it still tasted like foil. "I fell asleep in Clark's room after we finished groomsmen stuff," you said. "It was late. There was planning. We were exhausted and—"
"—and you kissed him this morning," he said over you, the softness gone. "In a room with white flowers and a clock you were ignoring. You can't 'exhausted' your way out of that."
You rubbed your hand over your face hard enough to sting. "I'm not trying to crawl out of it," you said. "I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry. I'm—" You stopped before the word turned into something you used like a rag and not a promise. "I hurt you. I broke our line. I'm not going to stand here and make it sound smaller."
He blew out a breath that smoked in the cool air. His next question came quiet and precise: "Did you sleep with him?"
Everything in you wanted to either confess until there was nothing left or run until you couldn't hear the music. You did neither. You clung to the one choice that felt like it wouldn't set the whole day on fire.
"No," you said, and kept your eyes on his, because looking away would tell on you. "We kissed. And I should never have let it get that far."
He closed his eyes briefly, the relief that flickered there so quick it hurt, followed by suspicion, then something that looked a lot like grief. "Okay," he said, and it sounded like a compromise he didn't believe in yet. "Okay."
He paced two steps toward the railing and back, hands on his hips, head tipping up like he was asking the gray sky for a ruling. "Do you plan on telling Lois?" he asked finally.
"Yes," you said. "But not today. I won't wreck her wedding. After—when there's room to do it right." Your throat went tight around the next promise. "And I'm done. With this. With—him. I told him so before you walked in."
Noah's jaw worked; you watched him file that away, skeptical but listening. "Here are my terms," he said after a beat, the lawyer in him returning to the room. "We get through today without a scene. You don't get caught alone with him again. You don't choose to be alone with him again. And after the reception, you and I sit down somewhere without strings and you tell me everything I ask, without spin."
You nodded, the relief and the shame landing in the same place. "Okay."
"And if I find out you lied to me again," he added, not cruel, just factual, "we're done. Not 'let's take a beat.' Done."
You swallowed. "Okay," you said again, because there wasn't anything else to say that mattered.
For a long moment the two of you just stood there, the river pushing past, the music inside beginning to knit itself into order. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at you like you were a complicated case he might still take.
"I love you," he said, and the way he said it—steel-lined, not performative—made your eyes burn. "That's why I'm not blowing the doors off this place. But don't ask me to pretend I'm not furious."
"I won't," you said. "You're allowed to be mad. You're allowed to walk away later."
He nodded once, decisive. Then he stepped in, straightened your lapel with a quick, impersonal tug, and reached behind your neck to fix the line of your collar—the kind of ordinary care that hurt more than shouting. "There," he said. "You look like a man who can get through an hour without setting a match to his life."
"Thank you," you managed.
He turned toward the door, paused with his hand on the handle. "One more thing," he said without looking back. "If you don't tell her, I will. Not today. But I won't be your accomplice."
"I understand," you said, and meant it.
Inside, the coordinator's headset voice rose to a bright command: "Places, please!" The quartet answered with the first true notes of the processional. You and Noah slipped back through the service door into warm light and the smell of peonies. He peeled off toward Lucy and the bustle of bridesmaids. You headed for the groomsmen, every step a reminder of the line you'd failed and the one you meant to keep now, even if it cost you.
The day kept moving. You set your shoulders, inhaled roses and responsibility, and got everyone where they needed to be.
The ballroom settled into a hush that felt like velvet. Chairs aligned in perfect rows, white petals scattered down the aisle like a trail of small moons, candles held their breath in glass cylinders. The quartet slid from tuning into melody, and the air shifted—expectant, ceremonial. You took your place with the other groomsmen, shoulders squared, fingers worrying the seam of your glove until you made them stop.
Across the room, Clark found you. It was nothing—half a second, a reflex—but his eyes caught yours like a hook. Blue, steady, knowing. Heat pricked your collar. You snapped your gaze away so fast you almost felt it physically, fastening your attention to the double doors at the back of the hall as though you could weld yourself to the moment and nothing else.
The doors opened.
Your father stepped out first, his arm offered with that old-school dignity he reserves for occasions that matter. Lois took it, and the room pulled in a collective breath. The dress you'd only half seen on a hanger resolved into a living thing: silk crepe skimming and then pooling, a square neckline framing the fine architecture of her collarbones, a spine of covered buttons marching into a soft, cathedral train. The veil was water and light. In her hands, white garden roses and ranunculus gathered like a small, private storm. But it was her face that undid you—lit from within, smile caught somewhere between bravado and tears, eyes locked on a future only she could see. Your father's jaw was tight the way it gets when the world is too big for words. He didn't look at the crowd, only forward, as if delivering something precious.
The aisle felt longer watching them walk it. The quartet's strings braided around the shuffle of fabric and the tap of your father's shoes. An aunt sniffled unapologetically. Someone's cufflink pinged softly against a chair. You tried to memorize everything—how the flowers leaned toward the light, how the late morning sun found the brass in the sconces, how your sister's bouquet trembled when she laughed at something your father said without moving his mouth. You kept your face neutral and your hands still. You did not look for Clark again. You didn't need to; you could feel the exact spot in the room where he stood, the way a compass feels north.
The ceremony began and your mind buckled under its own static. Words rose and fell—scripture, a line of poetry Lois had chosen, laughter when the pastor mispronounced the florist's name, the low, dangerous thud of your own heartbeat in your ears. You drifted. You saw Noah two rows back on the aisle, profile carved in concentration, jaw set. You thought about Polaroids in your inside pocket, about a terrace and cold air, about promises you owed and promises you meant to keep. The world narrowed to sensation: the weight of your boutonnière, the itch of a starched collar, the warm tide of peony and jasmine from the arch.
"...rings," the pastor said somewhere far away, and the room came in and out of focus—Jimmy producing the bands like a conjurer, your father's hand briefly covering his mouth as if steadying himself, Lois's fingers trembling just enough that Clark covered them with both of his. You blinked, and the next minutes slid by like frames in a projector: vows spoken cleanly, voices catching in the right places, a ripple of laughter when Lucy sniffled too loudly and then doubled down.
"And now," the pastor said, his voice landing with the gentle finality of a gavel, "by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife."
Reality snapped sharp as glass. Applause burst like a sudden summer rain. Clark bent to Lois, and the kiss—simple, sure, their foreheads touching after—tied the room into one warm knot. You clapped until your palms stung. You kept your eyes on your sister's smile, on your father's shoulders dropping with relief, on Lucy's triumphant grin through tears. The quartet swelled into recessional, the doors opened to light, and you exhaled a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, anchoring yourself to the one truth that mattered in that moment: your sister had just gotten everything she came here for.
THE RECEPTION moved like a film on fast-forward—sharp flashes of light and sound with whole minutes missing between them.
You remember the doors opening to a swell of applause, Lois and Clark framed in confetti and café lights. You remember the ballroom turned inside out: tables dressed in white linen and mercury glass, a champagne tower glinting like a small city, place cards marching in tidy rows. A small chalkboard at the bar announced the signature drinks—The Byline (rye, orange peel, bitters) and Lane's Lemon (vodka, lemon, elderflower)—and you made the mistake of pointing at the first before your jacket even found the back of your chair.
The first Byline burned in a way that felt righteous. The second softened the edges of the room. By the third you'd stopped tasting citrus and started chasing quiet.
You kept moving because stillness was a trap. You checked on the band's set list. You adjusted a listing centerpiece. You helped your father pin his boutonnière back into place after a hug dislodged it. You steered an aunt to her seat with the diplomacy of a UN envoy. All of it with a glass in your hand, condensation slick against your fingers, the weight familiar and busy.
When Lois and Clark did their first dance—her hand at his shoulder, his palm at the small of her back, that private smile between them that made the room feel like a witness—you applauded on cue and drained the rest of your glass. Noah stood two tables over, tie immaculate, laughing at something Lucy said, and when he glanced your way, you gave him a nod that meant schedule's tight and please don't look too closely. The nod he returned meant I see you and we're not done.
Speeches blurred. Your father surprised everyone by being brief and tender; Lucy made the room cry and then saved it with a punchline. When it was your turn you stayed safely at the surface—Lois teaching you to be brave, Clark loving her in a way the whole city could see. The words sounded like they belonged to a better version of you. The applause after felt like rain on glass.
Between courses you found the bar again. The bartender learned your shorthand and stopped asking questions. Rye slid into rye, and somewhere in there a cousin convinced you a shot of something clear would "reset the palate." It didn't. It just turned the volume down on your thoughts: Clark's hand finding Lois's waist as if it had always known the way; Noah's jaw set in that careful, controlled way that meant he was angrier than he let on; the Polaroids heavy as guilt in your inside pocket. The lies you'd told and the ones you'd bitten back. The ache of wanting and the weight of choosing. You tried to drown one with the other.
It didn't work. It never does. The room just got blurrier.
You danced because the band was too good not to—the old hits and the Motown deep cuts that make even the stubborn sway. You let Lucy spin you like you were kids. You let your father show you a two-step that shouldn't have survived the 80s. You avoided the spot on the floor where Lois and Clark were a halo of joy and heat. You ducked the camera every time the photographer swung near, suddenly allergic to evidence.
At one point you were in the bathroom, palms braced against cool marble, the peppermint sting of hotel water on your face. Your tie was crooked; your eyes were brighter than they should've been. In the mirror you looked like a man who'd been running in place. A groomsman came in and clapped you on the back—"hell of a party, coach"—and you laughed like you meant it.
Later, you stood alone on the terrace for a minute that could've been ten. The river moved like a dark muscle; the city hummed its indifferent lullaby. You thought about leaving—calling a car, letting the night swallow you, rewriting yourself as someone who never made the complicated choice. But you didn't. Running has a short half-life; it's just hiding stretched to fit a day.
Inside, dessert arrived—lemon chiffon in perfect squares that tasted like last night's laughter. Lois fed Clark a bite and he made a face like it was the first cake he'd ever eaten. The room cheered. You held your fork like a prop and kept your eyes on your plate.
When the last song wound down and the lights lifted to a gentler brightness, you watched as the married couple made their getaway look like a movie—Lois in a white wrap and sneakers, Clark in his suit jacket with the tie tugged loose, a "JUST MARRIED" sign bouncing on twine at the back of the car. Someone handed out sparklers; someone else passed little vials of bubbles. The driveway glowed with café lights strung from tree to tree, and for a few bright minutes everybody became a chorus of cheers and camera flashes.
You took your place along the path, sparkler hissing in your hand, smile set the way you'd practiced. Lois hugged her bouquet to her chest and kissed your cheek on the run. "I love you," she said, eyes bright and endless. "Text me when you're home." You nodded and said you would, because some promises are simple.
Clark rounded the trunk to the driver's side and, for one suspended second, paused. He found you across the shiver of light and noise like a compass finding north. The crowd blurred. The bubbles and sparks and shout-laughs faded to a soft rush in your ears. He lifted his hand in a small wave that didn't look like much to anyone else. You raised yours back, palm open, and the tiny movement felt like a conversation. His mouth tipped—gratitude, apology, something you didn't dare name—then he dropped his gaze to the pavement like a man remembering where he belonged.
Lois slid into the passenger seat with a happy squeal. Clark got behind the wheel. The car idled, exhaust curling white in the cool night, tin cans clacking a thin percussion against the asphalt. He looked up once more—quick, private, enough—and you looked away first, because you had to.
The engine revved. The crowd whooped. The car rolled forward through the tunnel of light and congratulations, sparklers sketching bright arcs in the dark. You waved with everyone else until the taillights stitched red down the drive and turned the corner, shrinking to nothing.
Then the sound poured back in—the last fizz of sparklers, the slap of hands, Lucy demanding everybody line up for one more chaotic photo. You set the spent wire in a sand bucket and stepped backward out of the circle, your throat tight in a way no drink could soften. The night air hit your face cool and honest. You blinked hard once, then again, and felt a tear break and trace a clean line along your cheek.
The feelings were real. That was the problem, not the solution. You folded them up anyway—neat, mean, necessary—and pushed them down where they couldn't run your feet for you. Hands in your pockets, you turned from the laughter and the lingering flash of cameras, walked past the last puddle of light at the edge of the driveway, and kept going until the noise thinned to nothing but your own breath.
THE RIDE BACK to the hotel was mercifully quiet. The driver's radio hummed low, some soft jazz station fuzzing in and out, and Noah sat beside you with his arms folded, his profile carved tight against the blur of city lights. You didn't try to fill the silence—didn't dare. By the time the shuttle pulled under the portico and the doorman swung open the glass door, it felt like you'd carried the weight of two different weddings in your chest.
Upstairs, your keycard buzzed green before Noah's. You stepped into the room first, the faint smell of cedar soap and pressed linen waiting. The suit bag you'd hung earlier was still by the closet; the bedspread was undisturbed, its corners sharp as if the day hadn't happened. You went straight to your suitcase. The zipper rasped open loud in the stillness, and you began folding clothes with mechanical care—shirts into squares, trousers into long neat lines. If everything was ready to go in the morning, you told yourself, there'd be no reason for conversation then.
But Noah came in behind you, later by a few minutes, his pace heavy but measured. He dropped his garment bag onto the second chair, shrugged out of his jacket, and let it rest across the back without smoothing it down. His silence was its own verdict.
"Packing early?" he asked, voice low, not sharp.
"So it's easier tomorrow," you said, keeping your eyes on the shirt you were folding.
The quiet stretched until it became something unbearable. Then Noah's voice came again, soft but exacting. "When did this start?"
Your hands froze. The shirt hung loose between your fingers.
He waited.
You set the fabric into the suitcase and pressed it flat with your palm. "The first time I met him properly," you said, your throat thick. "At the restaurant. Lois wanted me at dinner. I was late. Dad was annoyed. And then Clark was there—shaking my hand, looking at me like..." You trailed off, shook your head. "Like he already knew me."
Noah stood still by the desk, his reflection doubled in the black of the window. "And after that?"
You inhaled slowly. "Sunday dinner at Dad's. Lois, Lucy, Clark—everyone was there. Clark and I were sent downstairs to the bar for a bottle." You forced the words out evenly. "We kissed. Just a kiss. We knew it was wrong. We stopped. Then we started again. We couldn't seem to help it."
Noah's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
You kept going, because stopping now felt crueler. "Another time, it happened in my room. Another, in the kitchen while everyone else was upstairs. Small moments that got bigger every time. We told ourselves it wouldn't happen again, and then it did." You swallowed hard, leaving a canyon between the truth you'd spoken and the truth you refused to. Not the rest. Not the way he bent you over the counter, not the way you let him inside you. That would break everything beyond repair.
"I tried to put distance between us after that," you continued, your voice smaller now. "When I went back to school, I barely came home. I didn't answer calls. I thought if I stayed away, it would die off. And for months, it worked. Until Lois called me about the wedding and Clark asked me to stand with him as a groomsman."
Noah turned finally, leaning against the desk, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between exhaustion and steel. "And you said yes."
"I said yes," you admitted, staring down at your half-packed suitcase. "And that's when the distance collapsed. The feelings didn't vanish. The chemistry didn't vanish. And I didn't stop it."
The zipper trembled in your hand. You shut the case halfway, as if closing the words inside might keep them from spreading further. "That's the truth," you finished, your voice quieter. "Not all of it. But enough."
The silence that followed was thick with all the things you hadn't said—and all the things he still wanted to ask.
Noah stood there, arms crossed against his chest, the soft lamplight carving his features into hard planes. He had listened to every word you'd said without interrupting, but now the silence broke, and his voice was sharper than it had been all night—measured, but edged like glass.
"What was the point?" he asked, each word slow and heavy. "What was the point of asking me to come along if you knew you were just going to run right back into him?"
The question landed like a blow, because it wasn't loud, it wasn't cruel—it was honest. His eyes were on you, searching, cutting past every neat explanation you'd given and aiming straight at the wound.
You opened your mouth, then shut it again. Your hands lingered on the half-zipped suitcase, knuckles white against the handle. Finally, you forced yourself to turn and face him. "I brought you because..." Your voice faltered, then steadied. "Because I wanted you there. I wanted my family to meet you, Noah. I wanted them to see you. I wanted Clark to see you."
His laugh was short and bitter. "So I was a prop? A shield?"
"No," you said quickly, stepping toward him, but he didn't move. "Not a prop. You're not a placeholder. You're you. I wanted you there because you matter to me. Because I thought if I had you beside me, it would drown out everything else."
Noah shook his head, running a hand down his face as though trying to wipe away the weight of the evening. "But it didn't. Did it? You still kissed him. You still—" He cut himself off, pacing a step away, his voice thick with restraint. "Do you realize how humiliating it is? To walk in and find you like that? On the same weekend you asked me to stand next to you in front of your family?"
You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "I didn't bring you here to humiliate you. I swear to God, that wasn't it." You pushed the suitcase closed and let it drop onto the stand, as if freeing your hands might help you find the words. "I thought bringing you would keep me grounded. That it would stop whatever... whatever this is with him. But I was wrong. And you have every right to be furious."
His gaze snapped back to yours, a storm of anger and pain. "Then tell me—what does it say about us, about me, if I wasn't enough to keep you from him?"
The question gutted you. You reached for him, but he didn't let you close the distance. "Noah, it's not about being enough. You are. You always have been. This thing with Clark—" You exhaled, breaking eye contact for the first time. "It's not rational. It's not fair. It's a pull I don't even understand, and I hate myself for not shutting it down sooner."
Noah's voice cracked just slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. "Then why should I stay, if you can't promise me you'll stop running into him—even when I'm standing right there?"
The room went still, the weight of his words hanging between you like judgment. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, and you realized the truth: there was no easy answer, no excuse that could erase what he'd seen. Only a choice—his, yours, both of yours—about whether this was where it ended, or if there was still something left worth fighting for.
TWO YEARS slid by in a rhythm made of excuses.
At first you measured them in semesters—syllabi, midterms, finals—then in workloads and deadlines that stacked like bricks until they felt like a wall between you and your family. When anyone asked why you weren't home, the script came easy: lab meets late / my editor moved up my due date / I picked up an extra shift / I'm on a grant / we're short-staffed. You said it so often it stopped sounding like a lie and started sounding like a job title.
You didn't see your family in all that time—especially not Lois and Clark. Messages took the place of presence. You sent polite, well-timed texts that said proud of you, break a leg, tell Dad happy birthday, and dodged FaceTimes with a little "sorry, in class!" banner you kept on speed-send. The family group chat became something you read on mute, thumb hovering over the "❤️" reaction button before dropping a safe thumbs-up instead. Photos came through—Lucy under café lights with a new haircut, your father grinning next to a plate of ribs, Lois beaming in a newsroom snapshot, Clark at her shoulder—and you learned how to scroll past their faces without letting your chest cave in.
You lied when you promised you'd tell her.
You tried to make good on it once, right after they came back from the honeymoon. You remember standing outside their apartment with a small envelope in your pocket—a gift card to the old bookstore Lois loved and a note you'd drafted and redrafted until the paper went soft at the folds. You knocked. She opened. Sunburned shoulders, jet-lagged eyes, happy in a way that made the hallway feel too bright. She pulled you into a hug that smelled like coconut and salt and the shampoo you both stole from your father's house when you were kids.
"Tell me everything," she said, and poured tea, and showed you photos—dizzy-blue water, a little square table with two cappuccinos, Clark smiling at her like there was no point in looking anywhere else. Your mouth went desert-dry. You cleared your throat and reached for the envelope.
That was when she said, without a trace of performance, "I keep thinking: how lucky am I?"
You folded the envelope back into your pocket so fast the corner bit your palm. You taught yourself to say the safe thing. "You are," you managed. "You both are." You left fifteen minutes later with the card still in your coat and a rehearsed We'll do a proper dinner soon you never scheduled.
After that, the telling got harder. You drafted emails and parked them in your drafts like small, coiled animals. You opened your notes app and poured out whole confessions in the white glare of midnight, only to wake up and delete them with the kind of surgical speed that felt like survival. You even dialed once—watched the dots pulse on calling... until voicemail picked up and Lois's voice did the thing it does, turning your name into home. You hung up before the beep.
Life kept moving without your permission. You graduated and moved apartments; you learned the names of two baristas who knew your order; you bought a better mattress because your back told you to. There were a couple of almost-relationships and one date that felt promising until the check arrived and the waiter asked, "Are you Clark Kent's brother-in-law? My mom loves his column," and you smiled and said something practiced while the heat crawled up your neck and the promise drained out of the evening.
Every so often, Metropolis reminded you of the other orbit. You'd pass a newsstand and see a byline you didn't read anymore. You'd catch Lois on a panel in a lobby TV and mute it, watching her hands talk for her while your own fisted in your pockets. Holidays were the worst. You told yourself it was better not to come than to show up and make a mess of your face in the driveway. You sent gifts by courier and called your father early, when he was puttering and no one else was awake to patch you into the group call.
You worked. You ran along the river until your lungs burned enough to quiet you. You learned which trains were emptiest at which hours, which bar stools let you be alone in public. You got very good at being busy, at arranging your days so tightly there was no room for the kind of thought that cracked you open.
On the worst nights—thin ones, when the city felt like a stranger—you let yourself replay the kitchen light, the sound of a timer, a hotel room that smelled like cedar and citrus, and you told yourself it was a story you'd outgrow, like a book you loved at nineteen and winced at ten years later. On better nights you believed it.
What you didn't do was tell her. You started to after the honeymoon. You stopped. And every day after made it easier to say tomorrow and harder to mean it.
THE RIVER path was all pale gold and cool breath, the kind of morning that makes the city feel half-finished. You'd gone out shirtless, earbuds jammed in, sweat already slicking your shoulders, the bass line stitching your stride into something automatic—inhale two, exhale two, feet drumming the asphalt. A gull heckled the water. Somewhere behind you a cyclist rang a bell. You were losing yourself in the steady, thoughtless burn when—
"BOO."
You flinched hard enough to skid, windmilling an arm to keep from eating pavement. One earbud popped free. You spun, heart kicking your ribs.
Lois and Lucy stood grinning like criminals who'd just pulled off a heist, coffee cups in hand, oversized sunglasses not hiding the satisfaction at nearly ending your cardio career. Lucy was in leggings and a cropped hoodie, hair up, looking far too pleased with herself. Lois wore a loose, soft dress the color of a robin's egg, one hand resting on the unmistakable curve of her belly.
"Jesus," you panted, yanking the other earbud out. "You two trying to collect life insurance?"
Lucy sipped her coffee primly. "Consider it the ghost fee. Since you've been haunting us instead of visiting."
Lois's smile was gentler but aimed just as true. "We were starting to think you'd moved to a witness protection program." She tipped her chin toward your chest, then your face. "You look good. And hard to catch."
You took them in properly then, your gaze snagging on the swell under Lois's palm. Six months—maybe seven? The dress hung beautifully, but there was no hiding how the fabric curved, no missing the way she stood now, hips set in that protective way. Something in your stomach pitched.
"How—" Your voice cracked and you cleared it. "How far along?"
"Twenty-seven weeks on Tuesday," Lois said, unspooling the number like a ribbon. Pride softened the edges of her eyes. "We were going to tell you... well, months ago. But you've been busy." The last words weren't an accusation so much as a gently folded fact.
Guilt hit you like an undertow. You dragged a forearm across your forehead, catching sweat, and tried for a smile that didn't wobble. "You look... radiant. Really. I'm—" You started to say sorry and swallowed it, because sorry used up air and didn't change clocks. "I'm happy for you."
The wind off the river lifted the hem of Lois's dress. She laid both palms over the bump as if smoothing the fabric would soothe the baby underneath. "We need to catch up," she said simply. "No schedule excuses, no 'deadline moved up.' Come to dinner. Our place. This week. I will accept exactly one answer."
Lucy leaned in with the kind of grin that always got you grounded when you were kids. "We even made it idiot-proof: tomorrow night. I've already blocked your calendar with Dad, who, by the way, says he refuses to FaceTime his own son from three miles away."
You huffed a laugh despite the knot in your chest. "You hacked my calendar?"
"I socially engineered it," Lucy corrected, smug. "Like a woman of culture."
Lois squeezed your forearm. "Please come. Clark's on grill duty if the weather holds, and even if it doesn't he's convinced he can do magic with a cast-iron pan. We'll eat, and you can feel a foot take out your ribs from the inside if you're lucky.
At Clark's name, something in you tightened, then loosened in the same breath when the baby shifted under Lois's hands. The shape of the life she was carrying filled the space between your fears and what you owed.
You nodded, the motion small at first and then firmer. "Okay. Tomorrow."
Lucy raised her coffee in a toast. "Look at that. Growth."
Lois's relief was almost visible. "Text me if you want anything specific. Otherwise I'm making the potatoes you like because the baby has my carb agenda."
"Must be genetic," you said, and the old ease passed between you for a flicker.
A jogger in neon threaded around your small triangle of reunion; the river kept moving. Lois checked her watch. "We've got a doctor's appointment in twenty. Will you walk us to the corner or are you mid–runner's high?"
You fell into step without answering, matching their slower pace, the morning suddenly louder—geese complaining on the water, a bus kneeling at the stop, the soft squeak of Lois's flats. Lucy told a story about a barista who spelled her name "Loosey" and claimed it was a vibe; Lois rolled her eyes and then stopped mid-sentence, pressing your hand to her belly. A soft thump kissed your palm from the inside.
"Hey there," you whispered, the word catching unexpectedly. Lois watched your face, something warm and satisfied settling in her features, as if letting you feel the proof might anchor you to the present.
At the corner, they peeled off—Lucy with a two-finger salute, Lois with a hug that smelled like clean cotton and lemon hand cream. "Tomorrow," she said against your shoulder. "No disappearing act."
"Tomorrow," you promised, and this time it felt like more than a word you offered to buy yourself time.
You stood there a moment longer after they crossed, earbuds hanging loose, lungs working, the river path stretching out like a decision. The bass line in your pocket kept thumping politely. You tucked one earbud back in, not to drown anything out, but to set a pace. Then you turned back the way you'd come, running not from, but toward—dinner, the door you should've walked through two years ago, and whatever came after.
CLARK HIT the back porch with the last of the sunset on his shoulders, the sky along the river still pinking at the edges like a cooling burn. He came in the way he always did after a long day—keys in the lock, grocery tote on his wrist, the faint scent of ozone and rain clinging to his shirt no matter how carefully he'd flown. His body carried two kinds of fatigue: the newsroom's hunched hours and the city's heavier asks. He set both down with the bag on the kitchen counter.
"Clark?" Lois called from the living room.
"Yeah," he answered, loosening his tie. "Brought citrus and those tiny cucumbers you pretend aren't a personality."
Lucy snorted. "He sees you."
He rounded the doorway and stopped, smiling before he knew he was. Lois and Lucy had colonized the couch like queens of the small realm, feet tucked under throw blankets, a half-finished bowl of popcorn between them. Lois wore a soft blue dress and the glow that had nothing to do with lamps; one hand rested on the broad curve of her belly, now impossible to pretend was anything but what it was. Lucy had her hair up and her phone down, which meant she'd decided the real entertainment was in the room.
He kissed Lois first, a press to her temple that made the baby shift under his palm. "Hey, you," he murmured to both of them. "How'd the appointment go?"
"Textbook," Lois said, and her smile slipped into that private softness that undid him. "And we ran into a ghost on the river path."
Lucy wagged her brows. "A very shirtless, very startled ghost."
Clark blinked, heartbeat changing its metronome. "You saw—?"
"Your brother-in-law," Lois said gently, not making him say the name. "We invited him to dinner tomorrow. No excuses, no calendar tricks. He said yes."
The room stayed exactly the same; his insides didn't. He kept his smile where it belonged—steady, warm, no tells—and nodded. "Good." He meant it and it still tugged. "That's... good."
He carried the tote back to the kitchen like a man doing normal things on a normal Thursday—limes into a bowl, cucumbers into the crisper, the grill tongs set out because he'd promised the baby he'd learn to make potatoes exactly the way Lois liked them. The house hummed its small domestic noises—dishwasher sighing, neighbor's radio two houses over, Lucy rustling the popcorn for the salty bits at the bottom. Underneath it, the city's long chord threaded through the walls. He could hear all of it if he let himself, and he'd learned not to—not the way that took and kept.
It would be a lie to pretend he hadn't seen you in two years. As Clark, he hadn't. As Superman, the city offered him a thousand ways to fail at pretending: a laugh rising from a coffee line on 8th; the staccato of your footfalls along the river before sunrise; your voice dropping to that low, careful register you used with your father when he wouldn't admit he was tired. Sounds travel differently to him; some arrive uninvited. He learned to turn away faster. He didn't always make it in time. None of it counted. None of it was enough.
You had fallen out of his daily life like a star dropping below a horizon. It was supposed to make everything simpler—clean lines, clean choices, no corners. He built a life around that simplicity: columns filed on time; stories that put corrupt men on the back foot; grocery lists that remembered Lois's cravings before she asked; a crib assembled with an instruction manual he read twice anyway. Husband. Friend. Hope with sleeves rolled. The work made sense. The city asked. He answered.
And still, sometimes, the absence howled.
"Don't burn the marinade," Lois called, amusement curling the words.
Clark looked down. He'd grated half a lemon into the mixing bowl and forgotten to stop. "On it," he said, and put his hands to a useful task: garlic, oil, that little punch of coriander Lois liked but wouldn't admit to. Lucy wandered in and stole a cucumber slice; he swatted her hand with a dish towel and she yelped like he'd wounded her pride.
"So." Lucy leaned on the counter, eyes bright. "You okay about dinner?"
"I'm okay," he said, truth adjacent. "It'll be good."
Lois slid in beside her sister, hip to hip, and set her hand over his forearm. "We miss him," she said simply. "And you... you get faraway sometimes when his name comes up."
He could have lied to either of them, but not both, not standing in their kitchen with lemon on his fingers and a baby rolling under his wife's palm. "I get faraway about a lot of things," he said, and let the softness in. "But I'm glad he's coming."
Lois searched his face the way she read copy—fast and deep. Whatever she found, she filed without marking it up. She kissed his cheek, under his eye where the last of the day liked to linger, and wandered back to the couch, humming a song he couldn't place. Lucy pilfered one more cucumber and followed.
Clark finished the marinade and covered the bowl, wiped the counter until the lemon oil flashed clean, and set tomorrow in motion with small, decent tasks: charcoal in a tidy stack on the back porch; the good plates pulled from the high cabinet; a bottle of something crisp set on its side in the fridge. Through the kitchen window the yard leaned into evening—laundry line still, sky deepening, the maple throwing shadows like long fingers.
He leaned on the sink and let himself think your name once, quiet as a prayer, then put it away the way he'd taught himself to: not denied, just carefully stored. Tomorrow he would be what he owed—host, friend, husband—without slipping. He would listen to your ordinary answers and give you his and keep the distance both of you had learned the hard way. He would mean it.
Out in the living room, Lois laughed at something silly on Lucy's phone, and the sound lit the house from the inside. Clark turned off the kitchen light, washed the lemon from his hands, and crossed back to them, the small weight in his chest shifting into something he knew how to carry. Hope, at home, is often no more than this: a plan for dinner, a promise kept, a door opened tomorrow without letting the past blow it off its hinges.
YOU HIT the front steps at 6:59 with a bakery box tucked under your arm, the cardboard still cool from the shop and perfumed with lemon and sugar. The house looked like a postcard in early evening—brick warmed to honey by the sinking sun, a maple throwing lacework shadows across the walk, wind chimes making a small, considerate sound above the porch. Through the front windows you could see lamplight and the easy, domestic flicker of a TV on mute.
You smoothed your shirt out of pure nerves—clean white tee under a soft, slate cardigan, dark jeans, the good sneakers you reserve for being presentable without trying—and pressed the bell.
The lock turned. The door swung open on Clark.
He wasn't in a suit tonight. A heather-gray henley hugged his shoulders, sleeves shoved to his forearms; dark jeans sat easy on his hips; there was a smudge of charcoal at the edge of his wrist like he'd just stepped in from the grill. His hair was a little damp, pushed back by fingers that had clearly been busy. He smelled like cedar soap and lemon marinade with a thread of fresh air, as if he always carried a porch around with him.
For half a beat neither of you spoke. You took each other in like you were both trying to catch up to the last two years in a glance: the way he'd filled out a touch broader, the laugh lines that had deepened at the corners of his eyes; the way you'd cut your hair shorter, the steadier set of your shoulders, the newer watch at your wrist. His gaze flicked—shoes to face and back again—lingering a fraction too long at your throat where the cardigan parted. Yours snagged on small, impossible details: the pale glint of his wedding band, a faint nick along his knuckle, the slope of his collarbone under soft cotton.
"Hey," he said finally, and the word came out warm, like it had been waiting all afternoon to be used on you. "You made it."
"I brought a lemon cake," you managed, lifting the box like proof of good intentions. "Figured I'd bribe my way in."
The corner of his mouth tipped. "You never needed a bribe." He reached for the box, careful, and his fingers slid under yours for a second longer than the handoff required. Heat shot up your arm, ridiculous and immediate. All the carefully packed-away feelings you'd spent two years filing under old business jolted awake like they'd just been napping.
Before you could decide what to do with your hands, he made the decision for you. Clark set the cake safely on the little entry table, then closed the space between you and folded you into a hug.
It wasn't the quick, clap-on-the-back kind people trade in doorways. It was full—arms around your shoulders, his chest solid and warm, his breath ruffling your hair as he exhaled. You felt the slow thud of his heartbeat where your cheek brushed his sternum; he smelled like the kitchen and the evening and the particular clean that was just him. Your own arms came up almost on instinct, palms flattening between his shoulder blades. The hug lasted one heartbeat past polite, then two, and when he eased back his hands stayed on your upper arms as if making sure you were actually there.
"Hi," he said again, softer this time, like the word meant something different at this range.
"Hi," you echoed, equally useless and equally true.
From deeper in the house came the bright clatter of dishes and Lois's voice calling, "Is that my lemon cake carrier? Get it in here before I eat the box." The spell loosened. Clark's hands fell away, though his smile didn't.
"Come on," he said, scooping up the cake with one hand and gesturing you inside with the other. The entry gave way to a hallway hung with photos—Lois laughing mid-sentence; the two of them under a paper banner at a baby shower; a blurry shot of feet in the surf. The house smelled like roast chicken, rosemary, and something buttery on the stove. Somewhere, a timer ticked down.
You toed off your shoes, lined them neatly by the bench, and followed him toward the light, the warmth of the hug still pressed into your skin like a remembered sun.
The clatter of serving spoons, the soft hush of a baby monitor on the counter that Lois swore she didn't need yet but liked as "practice." The kitchen table had graduated from weeknight duty to company-ready: a linen runner down the center, a glass bowl of peonies Lois claimed were "last-minute," and mismatched plates that made Lucy declare the whole thing "charm-forward."
Your father rose the second you stepped in, his chair legs scraping back with emphasis. He gave you a once-over that started at your shoes and ended at your hair, the famous paternal inventory you hadn't had to pass in a while.
"So," he said, hands on hips, "the prodigal manages an appearance. What is it—two years? Eleven months? Thirty-seven excuses?" The words were stern; the relief in his eyes wasn't.
You smiled, sheepish, leaning into the kiss he planted on your temple. "A robust portfolio of excuses," you conceded. "Thin on merit."
"Mhmm." He squeezed the back of your neck once—affection disguised as correction—then steered you toward a chair. "Sit before the food gets cold. You can be chastised on a full stomach."
Lois appeared with a platter like a magician with the final reveal. "We have roast chicken with lemon and rosemary, potatoes that our resident grill master swears are 'scientifically crisp,' and a salad Lucy insisted needed three cheeses."
"It did," Lucy said, spearing a cube and popping it into her mouth. She tugged you into a hug that smelled like her perfume and the kitchen. "Hi, stranger. We're pretending not to be mad at you until after dessert."
"Appreciated," you said, entirely too grateful for the terms.
Clark followed with a pan still snapping faintly, the sleeves of his henley pushed to his forearms, the charcoal smudge gone now. He slid the potatoes onto the platter and set the skillet aside. His smile when he met your eyes was steady, friendly, careful. "You made good time," he said. "Cake already secured?"
"Safe and accounted for," you said, glancing toward the box near the coffee maker. "Guarded by your terrifying dogless security system."
He grinned. "Motion-sensing lemon lust."
Once everyone was seated—Lois with one palm resting absently on the easy swell of her belly, Lucy opposite her with a napkin already spattered like a Jackson Pollock, your father at the head as if it had never been otherwise—the room settled into a rhythm you recognized with a jolt of relief. Clark carved; Lois poured; your father told you to take more salad; Lucy stole a potato off your plate with the reflexes of a cat burglar.
"So," Lois said, once the first round of plates had quieted the room. "Catch us up on you. And don't say 'work is busy' like it's a personality."
You laughed, set your fork down, and gave them the thing you should've given them years ago: the simple shape of your days. "I took the position at the Center for Justice Reform at Metropolis U," you began. "Research and field work—mostly recidivism risk and diversion programs. I get to teach a section on behavioral analysis for the grad students, which makes me feel ancient in the best way. And I consult two days a week with the juvenile court—risk assessments, victimology, that kind of thing. It's messy sometimes, but it... lines up with what I studied. It feels useful."
Your father's chin tipped in a rare, sober approval. "Work worth doing," he said.
"It is," Lois echoed, eyes bright. "We brag about you to people who don't deserve the story."
Lucy pointed her fork like a baton. "And his name is on an article in the M.U. Law Review," she added. "He will not tell you that, but I read it and wrote 'icon' in the margins like a teenage fan."
You tried to wave it off; your ears warmed anyway. "Co-authored," you said. "Mostly footnotes and headaches."
"You always were weirdly good at footnotes," Clark said, amusement tucked into the edge of the compliment.
Conversation braided itself around food. Your father wanted to know if you still ran the river path ("Gulls don't respect schedules," you said). Lois demanded you feel the baby kick again ("He does cardio just to spite me"). Lucy launched into a rant about an art director who believed in fonts "with emotional arcs." Clark asked gentle, reporterly questions that made you feel seen without being cornered.
Somewhere between seconds on salad and Clark's proud unveiling of the "scientifically crisp" potatoes, his tone shifted just a hair. "And Noah?" he asked, quiet enough that it didn't knock the table off balance, but direct enough that it didn't pretend.
You took a sip of water you didn't really need, then set the glass down. "There's no me and Noah," you said, meeting Lois's eyes first, then Clark's, then your father's. "Hasn't been for quite a while."
Lois's hand found yours on the table, squeezing once. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it without making it a centerpiece. "He seemed kind."
"He is," you said. "It just... wasn't right. Not to string it out. For either of us." You left the rest unsaid, because tonight was for bridges, not autopsies.
Your father harrumphed in his way that contained both sympathy and advice. "Some things have seasons," he said. "Doesn't make the harvest a failure."
Lucy, mercifully, changed the angle. "Okay but also: are you dating? Do I need to set you up with a ceramicist named Xan who wears overalls and makes bowls that change lives?"
"Please don't," you said, laughing, the knot in your chest loosening. "I'm... fine. Work and sleep and eating real vegetables."
"Speaking of," Clark cut in, sliding you another spoonful of the evil-good potatoes. "Scientific evidence suggests these count as a vegetable."
"Barely," Lois said, popping one and failing to hide her delight.
Dinner fell back into its small, forgiving music—stories, seconds, the scrape of cutlery, Clark's hand ghosting to Lois's shoulder when she winced and then laughed, "Just a kick, don't call anyone." You let them soak you in the way families do after a long absence: too many questions, too many jokes, too many offers to send you home with leftovers. You let your father's mild chastising land and soften; you let Lucy's razzing untie the last knots. You ate until you were full, talked until your voice lost its edge, and, when the plates were cleared and the lemon cake unboxed, you let yourself believe that this was a door you were allowed to walk back through—carefully, honestly, one dinner at a time.
THE BACKYARD had settled into that soft, late-evening hush that makes every small sound feel intimate. The grill on the patio clicked as it cooled; a citronella candle shouldered out the last of the mosquitoes with a thin, lemony smoke. Beyond the fence, Metropolis murmured—distant siren, a commuter train whispering over the viaduct, a neighbor's TV leaking a laugh track into the dark. String lights stitched a warm halo over the lawn, and the maple leaves traded secrets in a faint breeze.
Clark nudged the screen door open with his shoulder and came out carrying two glasses of iced tea beaded with condensation. He wore that gray henley from earlier, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a faint clean scent of soap and charcoal still clinging to him. He passed you a glass, then dropped into the Adirondack chair beside yours, knees pointed toward you like he didn't know how to sit any other way than fully present.
"Start over," he said, easy. "The Gotham thing. You were saying?"
You took a swallow—cold, sweet, unhelpful—and traced a fingertip through the ring it left on the armrest. "There's an opening at the Gotham Center for Juvenile Justice. Half research, half in-court assessments. It's... bigger, messier. The work overlaps with what I'm doing at the Met U center, just with more direct diversion programs. I'd still teach—one seminar, maybe—and partner with their public defender's office."
Clark tipped his head. "That sounds like you. Hard problems, real leverage."
"It terrifies me," you admitted, and then shrugged. "Which probably means I should do it."
He smiled at that, a quiet curve that said I know you. The silence that followed was gentle, the kind that invites you to keep talking. You could have. You didn't. He glanced toward the kitchen—Lois and Lucy's voices a soft clatter inside—then back at you. The steadiness in his eyes shifted a notch.
"I'm glad you're here," he said. "I'm glad you told us about Gotham. But there's one thing I keep circling, and if I don't ask it will just... keep circling."
You knew before he said it.
"What happened with Noah after the wedding?" His voice stayed low, the words careful. "After he saw us. And why the two years of... not just distance. Disappearance."
You set your glass down. The condensation ring looked like a small eclipse. "He pulled me outside," you said. "By the river, behind the venue. He was furious—he had every right to be. He asked how long, what it was, whether I loved you." You exhaled through your nose, heat biting behind your eyes at the memory. "I told him we'd kissed. I didn't... I couldn't go past that. Not that day. He laid down terms to get through the ceremony without blowing it up. After, he wanted the whole truth. We tried to have that conversation. We tried to keep dating, to see if anger could cool into something livable."
"And?" Clark asked, though you could hear he already knew the shape of and.
"And it couldn't," you said. "He deserved someone who wasn't building scaffolding around a feeling for somebody else—somebody off-limits. We ended it. Cleanly, as clean as you can end something after that."
You rubbed your palms on your jeans, the cotton gone cool in the night air. "As for the disappearing... some of it was cowardice. I told myself it was protecting Lois, protecting you, protecting me. But mostly? I didn't trust myself not to keep... slipping. I'd rather everyone think I was busy than risk being in a room and wrecking it again." You stared at the fence slats until your vision doubled them. "I was going to tell Lois. I even wrote it down. I stood in your hallway with the note in my pocket and watched her show me honeymoon pictures and talk about how lucky she felt. I folded the paper back up. I chose the wrong thing because it was easier in the moment."
Clark sat with that. He didn't fill the space with absolutions. The string lights hummed. Somewhere inside, a cabinet door clicked shut; the baby monitor on the counter purred softly.
"I'm sorry," he said finally—not performative; simple. "For my part in all of it. I keep trying to decide if sorry is supposed to be a promise or a bandage, and I think it has to be both." He scrubbed a thumb along the sweating side of his glass. "Noah didn't deserve the morning he got. Lois didn't deserve to have to live anywhere near this. You didn't deserve to carry it alone for two years." He swallowed, a small, visible effort. "I missed you. I told myself missing you was the price of being decent. Most days that was true. Some days it was also... just missing you."
You looked at him then. The lights threw small, warm constellations across his cheekbones. He didn't look away.
"I kept tabs on you," he admitted, barely above a whisper, a confession shared with the night. "Not the way I shouldn't—that stopped. But in the ordinary ways. Asking your dad if you were sleeping. Reading when your name showed up in a symposium program. Hoping you were... okay. It didn't feel like enough. It felt like the only thing that was fair."
You let that settle, a stone finally reaching the bottom of a deep pool. "I'm okay," you said. "Better now that I stopped pretending avoidance is virtue. Gotham's as much about the work as it is about making a new pattern that isn't just 'don't show up.'"
He nodded once, something like relief easing his shoulders. "If you go," he said, "I'll be proud of you from here. If you stay, I'll be proud of you from here. Either way—" He caught himself, chose his next words with care. "Either way, I want to be your family in ways that don't pull us back into the worst versions of us."
You huffed a small laugh. "Guardrails."
"Guardrails," he agreed. "Group settings. No doors that click shut. If either of us feels the floor tilt, say so out loud and step back. I won't... listen for you. Not in the ways that steal from anyone." He lifted his glass, not quite a toast. "Lois first."
"Always," you said, surprised at how steady it felt on your tongue. "And me doing the grown-up thing I should've done two years ago: tell her the truth. Not tonight. But soon. With care."
Something like gratitude crossed his face—complicated, bright. "If you want me there, I will be," he said. "If you don't, I'll be down the hall, keeping dinner warm."
You smiled, small, honest. "Down the hall sounds right."
The screen door creaked; Lois's silhouette filled the frame, one hand on the jamb, the other curved under her belly. "You two going to flirt with the fence all night or come inside for cake?"
"Coming," Clark called, the word soft with affection. He stood and offered you a hand without thinking; you took it, and he used it only to lever you up, nothing more. The touch lasted exactly as long as it needed to. No longer.
On your way in, he paused and tilted his head toward the kitchen. "We're good?" he asked—not asking for absolution; asking for alignment.
"We're trying," you said. "That's better than disappearing."
He held the door for you, and the warm square of kitchen light swallowed the backyard. Inside, the house smelled like lemon and sugar. Your father was already angling for the corner piece; Lucy was threatening to put the baby's name to a vote; Lois had two forks and a look that said family meeting adjourned. You took your seat, the night air still on your skin, and let the small clatter of dessert do what it could: sweeten what had been hard, and make room for what had to come next.
THE SHIFT didn't happen with a speech; it happened with Saturdays.
Once the air was cleared and the worst of the guilt finally had somewhere to live besides your ribs, you started showing up again—on purpose. Coffee with your dad on Sundays after his walk. Midweek texts in the family chat that weren't just emoji reactions. A standing invite to drop by Lois and Clark's "anytime after 5, bring an appetite." The house began to recognize your knock.
Lois weaponized your return immediately. "If you're going to loiter," she said, brandishing a paint fan deck like a general with a battle map, "you're going to have opinions." That's how you and Clark ended up in the future nursery on a breezy afternoon, barefoot on a drop cloth, rolling a soft sage green over spackle-sanded walls while Motown crackled from a little speaker in the window. The room smelled like clean plaster and lemon cleaner and the faintest whisper of baby lotion from a basket someone had gifted too early.
Guardrails were there, intentionally invisible and absolutely real: door open, playlist loud enough to drown out silence, Lois floating in and out with snacks and commentary ("Tighter W's on your roller strokes, Michelangelo"), Lucy arriving in the last hour to hang framed prints and roast you for being "too symmetrical." You and Clark worked in companionable rhythm—he cut in along the ceiling with the steadiness of a surgeon; you rolled broad lanes below, trading the tray and the roller without brushing fingers because that was one of the quiet rules you'd both chosen.
The errands became their own ritual. A hardware-store run for anchors and a stud finder turned into a lesson in the arcana of wall types: lath and plaster versus drywall, Clark patiently tapping and listening and then handing you the drill with an exaggerated flourish. "Your turn, Professor." A trip to the reuse center produced a weathered bookshelf you sanded together on the back porch, careful with the edges so tiny hands wouldn't find splinters. Lucy painted the back panel a riotous pattern of tiny stars; your father dropped off a clamp light "because your sister will read until dawn if you let her."
As the weeks slid forward, the room began to collect small, ordinary magic: a mobile of paper cranes you strung on fishing line and Clark balanced by eye until they turned with the slightest breath; a rocking chair you assembled with only three wrong bolts and one triumphant "aha"; a basket of board books Lois swore were "nonnegotiable canon"—Corduroy, The Snowy Day, a chewed-up copy of Goodnight Moon your father claimed was yours. You installed the baby monitor while Clark read the manual out loud in a faux-broadcaster baritone; Lois filmed it, cackling, and sent the video to Lucy with the caption: two geniuses, one camera.
Conversations stayed in the bright places and the true ones. You talked Gotham—interviews, the kind of cases you'd see, where you might live if you went. Clark asked questions like a reporter and a friend: not to trap you, but to help you hear yourself. Sometimes he told you about a column that refused to land; sometimes he told you about a fire he'd pulled three people from without ever saying how he'd gotten there so fast. Lois would appear in the doorway and slide into the talk as if she'd been there the whole time, one hand absently smoothing the small planet of her belly while she argued for blackout curtains and against anything "with faces that stare at you in the dark."
There were near-misses, the kind of tiny tilts that used to turn into slides. A laugh that lingered a hair too long; a pause when you both reached for the same screw; a silence that could have opened into something else if you'd let it. You didn't. One of you would step back, or Lois would call from the kitchen, or Lucy would crash through the door with bubble wrap and chaos. You learned to notice the angle and right it without drama. It started to feel like a skill rather than a battle.
On the night the crib went up, the four of you stood back and admired the straightness of the rails as if you'd raised a barn. Lois pressed your hand to her belly and the baby thumped—a solid little hello. Your father, who had come by "just to drop off a level," found himself measuring the rug instead, and stayed long enough to declare the room "fit for a human."
When you left that night, the nursery smelled faintly of wood glue and lavender. The string lights Clark had rigged under the bookshelf threw a soft, golden wash across the room. You paused in the doorway and looked at what you had all built together: something sturdy, soft-edged, ready. Clark came to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. "Looks good," he said, and the words meant the room and the work and the way you were learning to be in the same frame without falling out of it.
"Yeah," you said. "It does."
You turned off the light and pulled the door softly to, leaving it an inch ajar—another guardrail, another promise kept.
The evening had unfolded with a deceptive slowness, stretching far beyond what you'd anticipated when you first arrived at Lois and Clark's house. The dinner had been a warm, chaotic affair—platters of herb-crusted roasted chicken, creamy mashed potatoes flecked with black pepper, and tender green beans glistening with butter passed around the table amid bursts of laughter and playful arguments over who got the last dinner roll.
The clink of wine glasses and the hum of overlapping voices filled the dining room, the air rich with the savory aroma of the meal and the faint sweetness of a candle burning on the sideboard. After dessert—homemade lemon bars dusted with powdered sugar that melted on your tongue—the group drifted to the living room, trading plates for steaming mugs of coffee. The conversation lingered, weaving through old family stories, teasing jabs, and quiet moments of shared history.
Lucy suggested a movie to cap the night. The television flickered on, casting a soft blue glow across the room as a low-key drama began to play, its dialogue barely audible over the rustle of blankets and the occasional chuckle. Lois had nestled into the couch, her head resting on Clark's lap, her dark hair spilling across his thigh. A knitted throw blanket draped over her, rising gently with the curve of her pregnant belly. Her breathing deepened as sleep took her, her face softened in the dim light, lips slightly parted.
Lucy was the first to leave, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Lois's forehead, her voice light but warm as she tossed you a "don't be a stranger" before slipping out the front door. Her boots crunched on the gravel driveway, the sound fading into the crisp autumn night. Your father followed soon after, still muttering about the city's erratic traffic patterns as Clark walked him out, their voices a low murmur under the starlit sky.
By the time Clark returned, the house had settled into a hushed calm. The movie's credits rolled silently, the room bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. You were sprawled on the couch, your body heavy with the weight of the long day, your eyelids drooping as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness. You stood, stretching your stiff shoulders, and reached for your jacket slung over the armrest, the leather cool against your fingers. The rustle of fabric stirred Lois, who blinked awake, her voice thick with sleep as she propped herself up on one elbow, her hand instinctively smoothing the swell of her belly.
"Don't even think about it," she mumbled, her tone firm despite the grogginess. "You're not driving across the city this late. Guest room's clean. Sheets are fresh. Stay."
Clark stepped back into the room just then, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, slightly awkward way that always seemed to betray a quiet thoughtfulness. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of collarbone, and his dark hair was slightly mussed, curling at the ends from the long evening.
"She's right," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying that calm certainty that made arguing with him feel pointless. "Roads'll be empty, sure, but tired driving's still bad driving. Just crash here."
You opened your mouth to protest, a reflex born of stubborn pride and a need to maintain boundaries. But the truth was undeniable: your limbs felt like lead, your eyes gritty from hours of conversation and laughter, and the thought of navigating the city's labyrinthine streets at this hour was exhausting.
"Alright," you conceded, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you met Lois's triumphant gaze. "But only because you've got me cornered with those damn lemon bars and your relentless hospitality."
Lois smirked, satisfied, and pushed herself up from the couch, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her pregnancy evident in the careful way she moved.
"Guest room's at the end of the hall," she said, her slippers scuffing softly against the polished hardwood floor as she shuffled toward their bedroom. "Towels are in the linen closet if you need 'em. Goodnight."
Clark lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting yours in a quiet, fleeting exchange that carried the weight of years—shared history, unspoken moments, and lines carefully drawn. He offered a small, almost shy smile before following Lois down the hall, his footsteps steady and unhurried.
You made your way to the guest room, your overnight bag slung over your shoulder, the straps digging slightly into your skin. The room was simple but inviting: a queen-sized bed with crisp white sheets that smelled faintly of lavender detergent, a sturdy wooden chair in the corner, and a small window letting in slivers of moonlight that danced across the hardwood floor. You dropped your bag on the chair, kicked off your shoes, and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to change out of your jeans and sweater.
Sleep came swiftly, pulling you under like a tide.
Sometime after 2 a.m., you woke with a start, your body jolted awake by an urgent, twisting pressure in your lower abdomen—the kind that demanded immediate attention. The house was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the silence alive with small, subtle sounds: the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the faint creak of century-old floorboards as you shifted your weight, the distant tick of a clock somewhere down the hall.
Barefoot, your toes cold against the hardwood, you padded out of the guest room, rubbing sleep from your eyes. The hallway was dimly lit by a plug-in nightlight, its warm glow casting soft shadows as you navigated by memory toward the bathroom.
The bathroom door was closed but not latched, a thin sliver of pale light spilling from the gap beneath. Half-asleep, your mind fogged with exhaustion, you pushed the door open without a second thought.
And then you froze, your breath catching in your throat.
Inside, Clark stood at the toilet, his broad frame bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight pouring through the frosted window above the sink. He wore a fitted white T-shirt that hugged the planes of his shoulders and chest, the fabric stretched taut across his back, hinting at the strength beneath. His plaid pajama pants hung low on his hips, the elastic waistband sagging just enough to reveal the smooth dip of his lower back and the faint shadow of muscle beneath his skin. One hand was braced against the tiled wall, fingers splayed wide, anchoring him as his body leaned slightly forward. The other hand was wrapped around his erect cock, thick and flushed, moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each motion was measured, controlled, his fingers sliding from base to tip with a rhythm that spoke of both urgency and restraint. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat—a muffled groan, raw and private, barely audible but heavy with need. His head was tipped forward, dark hair falling messily over his forehead, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His shoulders rose and fell with each uneven breath, the muscles in his arm flexing with every stroke.
The air in the room was warm, thick, charged with the scent of him—clean soap from an earlier shower, the faint salt of sweat, and a deeper, muskier note that hit you like a physical force, making your chest tighten and your pulse spike. The moonlight carved out every detail of his body: the taut curve of his biceps, the ripple of his forearm, the subtle shift of his hips as he rocked slightly into his hand. His lips parted, and though the words were too soft to catch, he was murmuring something to himself, the sound intimate, almost reverent, like a prayer meant for no one else. His thumb brushed over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he let out another low sound, his head tilting back slightly, eyes half-closed in concentration.
You stood rooted in the doorway, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Heat flooded your body, a visceral rush that pooled low in your belly, dragging up memories you'd fought to keep buried—nights years ago, stolen moments in dark corners, the press of his hands, the weight of his body, the way his breath had felt against your skin. But this was different. This was the line you'd sworn never to cross again, no matter how much your body burned with the memory of him, no matter how the sight of him now—vulnerable, exposed, lost in his own pleasure—threatened to unravel every promise you'd made to yourself.
You knew you should move—step back, pull the door shut, erase the image before it etched itself into your mind forever. But for one dangerous, fleeting moment, your body betrayed you, rooted to the spot, caught between the pull of desire and the sharp, searing knowledge of what crossing that threshold would mean.
You spun on your heel, your bare feet slapping too loudly against the cool, polished hardwood of the hallway, the sound jarring in the silent house. Your lips moved, muttering half-formed apologies to no one—maybe to yourself, maybe to the air—as you hurried back toward the guest room, desperate to bury the image of Clark, the raw sound of his pleasure, deep in the vault where you'd locked away every other near-slip, every dangerous moment that had ever passed between you.
You were halfway down the hall, the guest room door in sight, when the faint creak of hinges stopped you cold. The bathroom door had opened behind you, the sliver of moonlight widening as it spilled into the hallway.
"Wait," Clark's voice called, low and measured, not sharp or commanding but steady enough to halt your retreat. It wasn't a plea, but it carried a weight that pinned your feet to the floor.
You froze, your body half-turned, your gaze fixed on the long shadow his frame cast across the hardwood, stretching toward you in the pale, silvery light. Your breath caught, shallow and uneven, as you fought the urge to keep moving, to flee back to the safety of the guest room. Slowly, reluctantly, you pivoted, your eyes tracing the floorboards—worn and smooth underfoot—before daring to lift them to meet his. Clark stood in the bathroom doorway, one hand gripping the frame, his knuckles pale against the dark wood. His pajama pants still hung low on his hips, the waistband sagging to reveal the faint line of his hipbone, a detail that felt dangerously intimate in the quiet of the night. His face was a complicated mosaic—half-caught, half-resigned, with no trace of the embarrassment you'd expected. Instead, his eyes were steady, searching yours with a quiet intensity that made your stomach twist.
"Come in," he said softly, his voice almost a request, threaded with a hesitation that suggested he wasn't entirely sure he should be making it.
Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse, to turn and walk away, to let the guest room door and a locked handle erase this moment. But your legs betrayed you, hesitating, rooted to the spot as if caught in some invisible pull. The air felt thick, charged with the weight of what had just happened, what was still happening. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, and took a tentative step toward the bathroom, your bare feet silent now, deliberate. Clark didn't move closer, didn't reach for you, just held the doorframe like it was an anchor keeping him from crossing a line he wasn't sure he could uncross.
"I know what you saw," he said, his voice rough, not from shame but from the raw edge of disuse, like he hadn't spoken in hours. "And I'm not proud of it." He paused, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. "But I need you to understand something." His eyes flicked downward briefly, a fleeting glance at the floor before they steadied on yours again, unwavering.
"Lois... she's been incredible. Strong. Brave. Carrying this baby, dealing with everything that comes with it—morning sickness, exhaustion, moods that swing so fast it's like whiplash. None of it's her fault, and I'd never blame her for it. But in that department..." His voice dropped, softer now, almost confessional. "It's been months. Longer than I thought I could handle. She's needed space, and I've given it. She needs comfort, not pressure, and I've tried to be what she needs. But that doesn't erase what I feel when I'm alone, when the house is quiet, and it's just me and... this."
The honesty landed like a stone in your chest, heavy and unyielding. It wasn't an excuse; it was a confession, raw and unguarded, and that made it so much worse. The words peeled back layers you'd both spent years building, exposing the fragile, dangerous truth beneath. The air between you felt electric, thick with the scent of him—clean soap, the faint salt of sweat, and that deeper, muskier note that still lingered from what you'd walked in on. It clung to the back of your throat, making it hard to breathe.
"I wasn't... I wasn't going to say anything," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper, catching on the edges of the thick night air. "I was walking away."
Your hands fidgeted at your sides, fingers twisting together as you fought to keep your composure, to keep the memories at bay—the kitchen counter years ago, the hotel room, the weight of his hands on your skin, the way his breath had hitched when you'd whispered his name.
"I know," Clark said, softer now, his voice like a low tide pulling back. "You were going to bury it, just like you've buried everything else between us." He let out a slow, heavy breath, his chest rising under the thin cotton of his shirt, the fabric shifting slightly over the curve of his chest. "But I can't keep pretending I don't think about you. Especially not when you're right here, in my house, sleeping down the hall."
The words hit like a physical blow, sharp and precise, ripping open the careful stitches you'd sewn over the past. You could still feel the cool edge of the counter against your thighs, the way his fingers had curled into your hips, the low growl in his throat when he'd pressed himself closer. It was all there, alive and pulsing in the space between you.
Clark leaned against the doorframe, his body still, deliberate, not crossing the invisible line that separated you. His eyes, though, held no such restraint—they traced your face, lingering on your lips for a fraction too long before meeting your gaze again.
"I shouldn't have asked you to come in," he said, his voice quieter now, laced with a regret that felt more like longing than remorse. "But I needed you to hear it from me. Not as some dirty secret, not as something to shove away. Just... the truth."
The night held its breath, the air thick with heat and restraint, the hum of the house a faint backdrop to the tension coiling between you. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was a living thing, thick and pulsing, until a small, disbelieving laugh slipped past your lips—half nervous, half a desperate attempt to break the tension that threatened to consume you.
Your hand flew to your mouth, fingers trembling slightly as you tried to stifle the sound, your shoulders shaking with a single, involuntary shudder before you regained control. The laugh felt like a fragile shield, a way to keep the moment from swallowing you whole.
Clark tilted his head, his brows knitting together in a faint frown, a crease forming between them that only deepened the intensity of his gaze. "What?" he asked, his voice low, rough, laced with a curiosity that carried an undercurrent of something darker, something that made your skin prickle.
You dropped your hand, a wry smile tugging at your lips, though your heart was still racing, your body acutely aware of the scant distance between you.
"I just..." You shook your head, the smile faltering as the absurdity of the situation collided with the raw heat simmering in the air. "I can't believe I walked in on Clark Kent—sweet, buttoned-up, choir-boy Clark Kent—jerking off in the middle of the night."
The words came out shaky, edged with a nervous humor that felt like a lifeline, but the image of him—his hand wrapped around his thick, flushed cock, stroking with deliberate, restrained need—flashed vivid and unbidden in your mind, sending a fresh wave of heat curling through you.
"If people only knew..." you added, your voice softer, almost a whisper, as another quiet laugh escaped, though it did nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.
For the first time, a flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, the corners twitching upward, but his eyes remained dark, molten, locked on yours with an intensity that made the air feel thinner. He pushed off the doorframe, his movements slow, deliberate, and folded his arms across his chest, the motion pulling his T-shirt tighter, accentuating the hard curve of his biceps, the broad expanse of his chest. His gaze didn't waver, and the spark in his eyes wasn't playful—it was raw, unguarded, a challenge that sent a shiver down your spine.
"You of all people," he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word a slow burn, "should know I'm not as innocent as they think."
The words struck like a match in a room soaked with gasoline, igniting a fire that roared through your veins. Your breath hitched, the heat in your stomach twisting tighter, spreading lower, a pulsing ache that rooted you to the spot. The memories came unbidden, vivid and relentless.
Clark didn't look away, didn't retreat into the safety of shyness or excuses. His eyes held yours, dark and piercing, a silent dare to deny what he'd said, to pretend you didn't feel the same pull, to act as if the memory of him—buried deep inside you, his breath hot against your neck, his hands bruising your thighs—wasn't as vivid for you as it was for him. His chest rose and fell, shifting with each breath, and you couldn't help but notice the faint outline of his still-hard cock against the fabric of his pajama pants, a reminder of what you'd interrupted, what he hadn't finished. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively, your body betraying the restraint you were trying so hard to hold onto.
"I don't usually..." he started, his voice low, even, almost clinical, as if he were trying to strip the moment of its heat with raw, unadorned honesty. He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose, the sound heavy in the quiet hallway, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.
"When it gets to be too much, I'll use the living room. Everyone's asleep, lights down low, the couch is... private enough." His eyes flicked to yours, steady and unflinching, a dark intensity in them that made your stomach twist. "But with you here tonight—"
His voice caught, just for a moment, before he pressed on, his gaze holding yours like a tether. "With you under the same roof, I couldn't. It didn't feel right. So I came in here. Shut the door. Less chance of you ever knowing."
The words landed like a stone in your chest, heavy and unyielding, each syllable threaded with a weight that was both confession and restraint. He wasn't embarrassed—not in the way most men would've been, their faces flushed with shame at being caught. Instead, there was a quiet dignity in his admission, a respect woven into the raw honesty, as if he were trying to honor you even in the midst of something so messy, so human.
You blinked, trying to ground yourself, and let out a dry, shaky laugh, shaking your head as you raked a hand through your hair, your fingers catching in the strands.
"Clark..." you started, your voice softer than you meant it to be, "this is your house. Your rules. You don't need to explain yourself to me."
The words were deliberate, a careful attempt to rebuild the boundaries you'd both spent years reinforcing, to keep the moment from spiraling into something neither of you could take back.
You took a step back, your bare feet silent against the cool hardwood, the tension in your body loosening slightly as you found a safer line to stand on.
"I was only up because I needed the bathroom," you said, your tone light, almost teasing, though your heart was still pounding, your skin still tingling with the memory of what you'd seen.
"I'll head back to bed. You—" You gestured vaguely toward the half-open bathroom door, toward the quiet admission still hanging in the air, your hand trembling slightly as you tried to keep your voice steady. "You can... continue with whatever plan you had."
The words were deliberate, a reminder to both of you that you weren't here to judge, to police, or to blur the lines you'd both fought so hard to redraw. But even as you spoke, your eyes betrayed you, lingering for a fraction too long on the broad line of his shoulders, the way the hallway light caught the faint halo of his dark hair, curling messily at the nape of his neck.
The heat in your chest hadn't faded, and the memory of him—his hand wrapped around himself, stroking with deliberate need, his low groan echoing in the small space—flashed unbidden in your mind, sending a fresh wave of warmth through you.
For a moment, Clark just studied you, his arms still folded across his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing subtly as he held himself in check. His jaw was tight, a flicker of something unnameable—regret, longing, restraint—passing across his face. His eyes, dark and searching, traced yours, as if looking for something you weren't ready to give voice to. Then, slowly, he gave a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment of the space you'd offered, the respect you'd returned to him. It was a gesture that felt like both a thank you and a surrender, a recognition of the fragile boundary you were both trying to maintain.
"Goodnight," you said, softer now, your voice barely above a whisper as you forced your eyes away from him, away from the way the light carved out the angles of his face, the faint flush across his cheekbones, the tension in his body that mirrored your own.
You turned, your bare feet padding silently against the hardwood as you made your way back toward the guest room.
YOU HAD barely eased the guest room door shut behind you, the soft click of the latch echoing faintly in the stillness, when the tension that had coiled tight in the hallway began to loosen, if only slightly. The room was cool, the air carrying the subtle soothing scent of lavender as you slid beneath them.
The cotton was crisp against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat still simmering in your chest, and you pressed your face into the pillow, exhaling deeply, willing your body to release the weight of the moment—the awkwardness of stumbling into Clark's private act, the heavy press of old history that tightened like a band around your ribs.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push it all down, to let the quiet of the guest room and the steady rhythm of your breathing erase the charge still humming through you.
Just as your pulse began to slow, your breaths evening out into something resembling calm, a soft knock broke the silence—two gentle taps against the wooden door, not urgent, not loud, but hesitant, as if the person on the other side wasn't entirely sure they should be there.
Your heart lurched, a fresh wave of adrenaline spiking through you, because you knew, without a doubt, who it was. You pushed yourself upright, the sheets sliding down to pool at your waist, your bare legs prickling in the cool air as you blinked into the dimness of the room. The only light came from the faint sliver of moonlight seeping through the window and the soft glow of the hallway nightlight creeping under the door, casting long, gentle shadows across the hardwood floor.
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet brushing the smooth, cool wood as you stood, your loose sweater shifting against your skin, the hem grazing your thighs. You crossed the room in a few quiet steps, your hand pausing on the doorknob, the metal cool under your palm as you steadied yourself.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there, half-shadowed by the weak, amber glow of the hallway light. His expression wasn't guilty, not exactly—it was searching, careful, his blue eyes catching the light as they met yours, holding a question he hadn't yet voiced. It was the look of someone who had turned this moment over in his mind a hundred times in the span of minutes, weighing every word, every consequence.
"Sorry," he said immediately, his voice hushed, barely above a whisper, careful not to carry down the hallway where Lois slept. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just... I needed to ask something."
You leaned against the doorframe, your shoulder brushing the smooth wood, your arms crossing loosely over your chest as you waited, your pulse drumming steady and high, a rhythm that echoed in your ears.
Your bare feet shifted slightly on the hardwood, the coolness grounding you as you met his gaze, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your body betrayed you with the slight flush creeping up your neck.
Clark's throat worked, the muscles in his neck flexing as he swallowed, his jaw tightening briefly before he spoke again.
"Would it be wrong," he asked, his voice low, deliberate, each word measured as if he were stepping carefully across a minefield, "if I asked you to join me in the living room?"
He didn't look away, didn't soften the question with a smile or a deflection. His tone carried the weight of restraint, of someone standing at the edge of a line he knew was dangerous to cross, his eyes searching yours for an answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. The question hung between you, raw and unadorned, but beneath it was another, unspoken one, pulsing in the silence: Do you want this too? Do we dare?
The space between you seemed to shrink, the hallway light casting a soft halo around his silhouette, highlighting the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach out.
The quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic tick of the baby monitor were the only other sounds in the house, a faint backdrop to the weight of the moment, as if the entire space was holding its breath, waiting to see what you would do. Your heart pounded, your skin prickling with the awareness of how close he stood, how easy it would be to close the distance, to let the pull of memory and desire unravel the careful boundaries you'd both spent years building.
"Clark..." you started, your voice hushed to match his, barely above a whisper, careful not to carry down the hall where Lois slept. You tried to keep it steady, to anchor yourself in logic, but a faint hesitation crept into the end of your words, betraying the part of you that wasn't entirely convinced by your own refusal. "That might not be such a good idea."
He gave a small nod, his lips pressing into a thin line, as if he'd anticipated your resistance but wasn't ready to let it end there. Instead of retreating, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, the motion slow and deliberate, his body tilting just enough to close a fraction of the distance between you.
"I know how it sounds," he said quietly, his voice low and measured, each word chosen with care, addressing the unspoken implication that his invitation could be mistaken for something more—a request for intimacy, for the kind of connection that had once burned between you. "But I'm not asking for... that." His tone softened, deliberate in every syllable, as if he were laying out a promise he intended to keep. "I'll behave. I promise."
Your brow furrowed, a mix of skepticism and curiosity, but before you could respond, he pressed on, his voice dipping even lower, a rough edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.
"I just..." He glanced down the hall toward the living room, his eyes lingering on the shadowed doorway for a moment before returning to you, steady and unyielding. "I don't want to sit out there by myself tonight. I'd rather have your company, if you're not too tired. We don't even have to talk if you don't want to. We can just... sit. Watch whatever's on—some late-night rerun, static, doesn't matter. Play cards. Anything."
He gave the faintest shrug, his broad shoulders lifting slightly, the motion meant to seem casual but unable to hide the weight behind it—the quiet plea woven into his words. "I'll take whatever you're comfortable giving."
The words hung in the quiet, raw and sincere, stripped of any pretense. They were a naked request for companionship, for a closeness that didn't demand bodies colliding but sought something simpler, more human—a way to quiet the noise in his head, to share the weight of the night with someone who understood him in ways others didn't. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, the way he'd laid himself bare, not hiding the vulnerability of needing you there, even if just to sit in silence.
YOU TOOK Clark at his word—company, nothing more—and the two of you drifted toward the living room, moving with the cautious, silent steps of conspirators. Your bare feet whispered against the cool hardwood, the faint creak of the floorboards barely audible in the stillness of the house. The living room was cloaked in near-darkness, illuminated only by the soft, golden pool of light spilling from a small table lamp in the corner, its warm glow catching the edges of the furniture—the worn leather armrests of the sofa, the smooth grain of the coffee table. The blue wink of the baby monitor's light pulsed faintly on the kitchen counter, a quiet reminder of Lois sleeping down the hall, her presence a tether grounding the moment. Clark moved with purpose, retrieving two ceramic mugs from the kitchen, their handles chipped from years of use, and set them on coasters with a faint clink. The chamomile tea steamed gently, its floral scent mingling with the lingering warmth of the house, a subtle counterpoint to the tension still humming in your chest.
You claimed one end of the plush, navy-blue sofa, tucking your legs beneath you, the soft fabric of your loose sweater brushing against your thighs as you adjusted. The remote was cool in your hand, its buttons worn smooth from use, and you gripped it like a lifeline, grounding yourself in the familiar ritual of choosing a movie.
"Ground rules," you said, your voice firm but edged with a playful lilt, a deliberate attempt to keep the moment light. "Door stays open, volume low, and you're not allowed to make fun of my comfort movies." You arched a brow, meeting his gaze, daring him to challenge you.
Clark stood at the opposite end of the sofa, his broad frame silhouetted against the lamplight. He lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes—dark and steady—held a weight that made your pulse quicken.
"Scout's honor," he said, his voice low, warm, with just a hint of amusement. "What are we watching?"
You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you scrolled through the streaming menu, the blue light of the television flickering across your face.
"The Twilight saga," you declared with dangerous solemnity, your finger hovering over the play button. "All of it."
He blinked, his brows lifting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "All... five?"
"And the extended baseball scene," you added, your voice deadpan, though the corners of your mouth twitched with suppressed laughter.
Clark let out a quiet laugh, the sound low and rich, catching himself mid-breath as he nodded, his expression settling into one of mock-serious resolve, like a man accepting a daunting but sacred mission.
He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the sofa, careful to leave a deliberate expanse of space between you—a neutral territory marked by a throw pillow with a faded geometric pattern and a neatly folded wool blanket draped over the backrest. The distance felt like a silent agreement, a boundary both of you were determined to respect, though the air still thrummed with an unspoken awareness.
The opening credits of Twilight washed the room in a moody Pacific Northwest blue, the haunting notes of the soundtrack curling through the air, all misty forests and melancholic piano. You relaxed almost instantly, the tension that had knotted your shoulders all evening dissolving under the familiar rhythm of the film.
This was muscle memory for you: the cadence of the scenes, the way the muted greens and grays of the color grading soothed your pulse, the quiet ache of a story that insisted love could be messy, inconvenient, and still fiercely true. You sank deeper into the sofa, your legs tucked under you, your fingers brushing the soft edge of the throw pillow as you let the movie pull you under.
Clark watched the screen, but his gaze kept drifting to you, subtle and unguarded, as if he couldn't help it. He didn't mean to stare; it was just that you were there, alive in a way the flickering images on the TV could never be. He noticed the way you mouthed certain lines without realizing, your lips moving silently to Bella's awkward dialogue, as if the words were etched into you.
He caught the quick, conspiratorial glance you shot him before the cafeteria scene, your eyes glinting with a playful spark, like you were sharing a private joke with a thousand fictional teenagers. He saw how your expression softened, your eyes brightening when Bella and Edward's first look sparked across the screen, a moment of quiet longing that seemed to resonate deep in your chest. And when the camera lingered too long on a fragile, vulnerable moment, he noticed your hand drift to the edge of the blanket, fingers curling into the wool as if anchoring yourself against the ache of it.
"You've seen these a few times," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, careful not to break the spell of the movie or the fragile balance between you.
"Dozens," you admitted, your tone light but honest, your eyes still fixed on the screen. "They remind me to believe in love despite... everything."
The words slipped out before you could catch them, raw and unguarded, and you felt a flush creep up your neck, though you didn't look at him.
Clark was quiet for a moment, parsing your words, his fingers wrapped loosely around his mug, the chamomile tea long since gone cold. Onscreen, the tension between Bella and Edward hummed, all stolen glances and unspoken promises. You leaned forward, your voice losing its self-consciousness as you launched into an explanation of the coven politics, your hands sketching invisible constellations in the air—fingers tracing arcs as you described the Volturi's power plays, the dynamics of loyalty and betrayal.
You had opinions about the soundtrack too, your voice growing animated as you explained how a certain guitar line, wistful and layered, made a scene feel like rain on bare skin, like the ache of wanting something you couldn't quite name. Clark listened, his questions coming at just the right moments—reporter-curious, thoughtful, never puncturing the spell you were weaving.
"Why that choice?" he'd ask, or "What makes this work for you?" His tone wasn't probing the movies; it was probing you, learning the contours of your thoughts, the way you saw the world through this flawed, glittering story.
By the time the vampire baseball scene roared onto the screen, all thunder and kinetic energy, you were fully alive, sitting up cross-legged, your elbow propped on the throw pillow between you, your eyes lit with unrestrained enthusiasm.
"Okay, this is camp and also peak cinema," you whispered, your voice hushed but brimming with excitement, as if you were sharing a secret. "Watch the way they move to the thunder. And the code under it—family, rules, restraint."
You gestured toward the screen, your fingers brushing the air, your body leaning slightly closer to the neutral space between you, the pillow a flimsy barrier.
Clark watched, his eyes flicking between the screen—the lightning, the crack of bat to ball, the supernatural grace of the Cullens—and your reflection in the glass of the TV: your face open, shining, unguarded, alight with a passion that made something in his chest tug hard.
Restraint had been his native language for years, a discipline carved into his bones, but hope—hope was his other language, the one that whispered of possibilities he'd sworn he wouldn't chase. Tonight, sitting here with you, both felt like talismans he clutched tightly, warding off the pull of something he couldn't name but could feel in every glance, every shared breath.
As New Moon bled into Eclipse, you declared yourself firmly Team "healthy boundaries," your voice half-laughing but earnest, though you confessed in a quieter moment that you still melted at the idea of two people choosing each other again and again, even when it hurt. You talked about Bella's stubbornness, how it read to you not as recklessness but as an argument that love could be a discipline, not just a flood—a choice to hold fast against the chaos.
Clark sipped his cooling tea, the mug cradled in his hands, and let your words settle over him, your faith in a flawed story sharpening his own into focus. Devotion, danger, self-control, vows—these were not theoretical to him. They were the tectonic plates of his life, shifting beneath the surface, and hearing you speak of them with such unguarded conviction made his own feel closer, more tangible.
Between films, he rose quietly, his movements careful not to disturb the moment, and refilled a glass pitcher with water, the faint clink of ice against glass breaking the silence. He returned with a small bowl of green grapes, their skins taut and glistening, and the last two lemon bars, their powdered sugar dusting catching the lamplight. He set them on the coffee table, within reach but not closer than the neutral pillow, a deliberate choice to maintain the fragile boundary between you.
When he noticed your bare feet curling against the cool air, he draped the wool blanket over them, the gesture so subtle you barely registered it, though the warmth of the fabric sent a quiet shiver through you. When you caught him looking—his eyes lingering on the curve of your smile, the way your hands moved when you talked—he deflected with a quick joke about the world's sparkliest vampires, his voice light but his gaze still warm.
You launched into a mock-lecture on authorial intent, your tone teasing but passionate, and he accepted it with a hand over his heart, his lips twitching into a smile that felt like a shared secret in the quiet, lamplit room.
THE HOUSE had softened into a hush by the time you queued up Breaking Dawn: Part 1, its edges blurred by the late hour, the world beyond the living room fading into a quiet cocoon. The screen flickered to life, the opening credits washing the room in a blinding white light and grays that seemed to pull the tension from your shoulders.
Your body responded to the film as it always did, a ritual so familiar it felt like slipping into well-worn clothes. Your shoulders unhitched, your breath evened out, and a quiet, stubborn hope you could never quite extinguish rose to the surface, warming your chest. You sank deeper into the sofa, your legs tucked beneath you, the soft fabric of your loose sweater brushing against your thighs, the hem swaying slightly as you adjusted.
Clark started out watching the screen, his eyes tracking the montage of wedding preparations—an invitation flying out of Jacob's hand, the delicate script curling in the light. By the time the camera found the forest chapel—a corridor of towering trees, their branches heavy with moss, white chairs flanked by lush ferns, a ribbon of soft white petals stitched down the aisle like a promise—his gaze had shifted.
You didn't notice at first, too caught up in the scene, leaning forward with your elbows propped on your knees, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as you told him about the production design you loved: how the chapel's natural frame made the world narrow to two people, even with a crowd of witnesses.
Clark humored you with a soft smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to crinkle the skin around his eyes, and asked a question or two—reporter-curious, his tone warm and attentive, genuinely listening as you described the way the ferns seemed to lean in, the way the light filtered through the trees like a vow of its own.
Then the first piano notes of "Turning Page" threaded through the room—bare, measured, a melody that felt like it arrived from a memory rather than the speakers—and your throat caught, a familiar ache blooming in your chest.
You'd watched this scene more times than you could count, its pacing embedded under your skin like a heartbeat: the glimpse of Bella's delicate white shoes peeking from beneath her gown, the tilt of Edward's chin as he waited at the altar, the long, deliberate hold on the aisle as if the film itself were teaching patience, reverence.
Your eyes softened, your lips parting slightly as the music gathered strings beneath the piano, adding depth, like an extra breath drawn in a quiet moment. You murmured something about how the sequence believed in vows without mocking them, your voice low and earnest, and then you let yourself fall silent, as you always did here, letting the moment carry you.
Across the cushion-length divide, Clark set his mug down on the coffee table with a faint clink, the movement so careful it was as if he feared even the ceramic might disrupt the fragile spell of the room. He didn't lean toward the TV; he leaned—fractionally, unconsciously—toward you, his body shifting just enough to tilt the air between you.
You felt it before you saw it, a prickle along your arms like the shift in weather before a storm breaks. The corner of your vision caught details that didn't belong to the movie: the small flex of a muscle at his jaw, the way it tightened and released; the glint of the lamplight catching the edge of his wedding band as his right thumb worried the pad of his left hand, a nervous habit that betrayed the calm he wore; the steady rise and fall of his chest, shirt shifting with each breath, hinting at the strength beneath. When the camera cut to Bella at the end of the aisle, the melody swelling with a cascade of strings, you felt his stare like a physical touch, a warm weight settling on your shoulder.
You tore your gaze from the screen, your breath catching as you found him watching you. Not greedy, not hungry, but utterly, devastatingly present, his blue eyes soft and unyielding, holding yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart stutter.
"What?" you breathed, a half-laugh slipping out, a flimsy shield against the ridiculousness of the moment, against the rules you'd both set, the open door, the vows you both carried. The score swelled, all piano and strings, a melody that could make you believe in anything.
He didn't answer, his silence louder than words, as if the truth was too heavy to speak in this house, with Lois sleeping down the hall. Onscreen, Edward was mesmerized at the sight of Bella coming down the aisle, the white fabric of dress look like a sigh, soft and deliberate. The strings joined the piano, a gentle brush of sound that felt like it was stitching the moment together.
In the small, suspended space between those notes and the swelling crescendo that always followed, Clark moved, crossing the neutral divide in a single, fluid motion so careful it felt like a prayer. The throw pillow shifted slightly, the blanket rustling as he closed the distance.
His hand found your jaw—not your mouth, not your neck, but the delicate curve of your jaw, his fingers warm and steady, as if asking a question his words couldn't form. His touch was light, reverent, the calluses on his fingertips brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath hitch.
For a heartbeat, you didn't move, your body caught in the space between instinct and choice. Then your chin tipped—permission or gravity, you'd argue with yourself later—and his mouth found yours at the exact moment Edward's found Bella's onscreen, the timing so precise it felt scripted, fated.
The kiss wasn't built to steal breath; it gave you yours back, a gentle press of lips that felt like remembering every version of you he'd ever known. His mouth was warm, soft, tasting faintly of chamomile and the sharp tang of citrus from the lemon bars, a combination that grounded the moment in something achingly real.
The TV's cool flicker painted the backs of your eyelids silver, the piano notes of "Turning Page" keeping time with the small, stuttering gasps of your lungs. Somewhere in the fog of it, you had the surreal sensation of white petals falling—onscreen, yes, drifting through branches and catching in Bella's hair, but also in your chest, a soft, soundless cascade, the kind of inner weather that comes when you tell yourself a truth and stop fighting it.
Your hand moved of its own accord, finding the front of his T-shirt, the cotton warm and smooth, softened by countless washings, the faint nap catching under your fingertips. Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric, as if it had always belonged there, anchoring you to him. He didn't deepen the kiss, didn't press for more; he held it exactly where it was, a fragile line he refused to cross, his lips moving with a care that spoke of restraint, of knowing how easily this could unravel.
His thumb stroked once along your cheekbone, a slow, deliberate brush that sent a shiver through you, and for that long, suspended moment, the world contracted: no hallway, no house, no years of choices or vows; just the taste of him, the quiet weight of his palm, the melody stitching the room to itself.
The song moved through its middle, the strings swelling then pulling back, as if even the arrangement understood the need for restraint.
Clark breathed against your mouth—a small, involuntary sound, half-groan, half-sigh—and your body answered it, a low ache blooming deep in your core, a pull that had little to do with the past and everything to do with being seen, chosen, in this single, impossible minute.
Onscreen, the minister's voice murmured words you both knew by heart, vows about forever and fidelity, words that carried weight because you understood their cost, their promise.
You parted first—or maybe he did—a fraction of an inch at a time, the way you separate two pieces of glass that have fused too closely, afraid they might shatter if moved too quickly. His hand lingered on your cheek until the last possible second, then dropped to the cushion between you, resting there like a promise laid down gently rather than snatched back.
You both turned to the TV in the same breath, as if the moment had been choreographed, directed by some unseen hand that knew how to keep you on the right side of the line.
Applause blossomed from the speakers—onscreen guests cheering in the forest, petals tossed into the air, catching the light. In the living room, there was no sound but the faint hum of the baby monitor and the high, slightly embarrassed thump of your hearts finding their rhythm again.
You swallowed, the taste of lemon and chamomile lingering on your lips, mingled with something that felt like relief and terror intertwined, a fragile alchemy of truth and restraint.
Clark didn't say "I'm sorry." He didn't say "I shouldn't have." He stayed very still, his eyes fixed on the screen he hadn't watched, the forest chapel fading into the reception scene. The final piano figures of "Turning Page" descended, soft and measured, like careful steps back to solid ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was a thread pulled through a needle's eye, precise and quiet.
"That... wasn't fair," he said, as much to himself as to you. "And it was also true. Both things."
You stared at your hands, folded in your lap, steady despite the tremor you felt beneath your skin. You surprised yourself with the calm in your voice, no bravado, just honesty.
"I know." Your mouth quirked, not quite a smile, a flicker of acknowledgment. "The movie brings out the worst kind of faith in me."
"The best kind," he countered, almost reflexively, his voice soft but certain. Then he cleared his throat, like a man waking from a dream, and without looking away from the screen, he reached for the throw pillow, setting it back between you—not as a wall, but as a boundary you both could honor, a tangible reminder of the line you'd just brushed against.
Onscreen, the camera pulled back, swallowing the couple into the forest, light filtering through the trees in impossible, golden shafts. In the living room, the lamplight pooled as it had before, unremarkable and kind, casting soft shadows across the coffee table, the empty mugs, the bowl of grapes still untouched.
You shifted your feet under the blanket, the wool warm against your skin as the room's chill settled in. Clark leaned back into his corner of the sofa, his fingers wrapping loosely around his mug, though the tea had long gone cold. The house exhaled, the faint creak of floorboards settling, the baby monitor's light blinking steadily in the distance.
The film kept moving, carrying Bella and Edward into their next chapter through scenes you'd memorized over countless viewings, their dialogue a soft hum in the background, but your mind was anchored elsewhere—trapped in the echo of "Turning Page," the piano notes still resonating in your chest, synced to the moment Clark's lips had pressed against yours as Bella and Edward sealed their vows onscreen. The memory of that kiss lingered like a live wire, sparking and humming, impossible to ignore.
You shifted beneath the blanket, its weight warm but not enough to settle the restless energy coursing through you. Your focus was fractured, your pulse hammering with the weight of what had just happened. The forbidden edge of it burned like static in your veins, a low, electric hum that refused to fade. You could still feel the ghost of Clark's lips on yours, soft and deliberate, the memory of his hand cradling your jaw—warm, steady, calluses brushing your skin—lingered like a brand, searing itself into your senses.
Finally, you exhaled, a shaky breath that broke the silence, the words spilling out before you could swallow them back.
"We can't just... pretend that didn't happen," you murmured, your voice low, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet of the house, might wake Lois.
"Clark, that kiss—it's not just a slip. It's everything I've tried to bury coming back. I have feelings for you. I never stopped."
You turned to him, your eyes locking onto his, even though a part of you wanted to look anywhere else—out the window at the dark, starless night. But his gaze held you, and the admission felt like tearing open a wound, raw and aching.
"And if we let ourselves keep doing this, it's just the same cycle starting all over again. The same danger, the same guilt, the same—"
Clark had been watching you the entire time, his profile sharp against the TV's pale light, the glow catching the tense line of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows. When you said "feelings," something flickered across his face—a layered, fleeting expression, relief and longing tangled with a quiet sorrow, like light refracting through glass. He didn't flinch, didn't try to deflect or excuse it away, just held your gaze with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
"You think this is just a cycle," he said, his voice quiet but steady, each word measured, as if he were laying them down like stones to build something solid. "But I don't see it that way."
Before you could argue, he moved, his motion fluid and deliberate, the throw pillow with its faded geometric pattern nudged aside as if it were no more substantial than air. His hand found yours, warm and grounding, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, his thumb brushing the pulse point where your heart betrayed you, beating too fast. The touch pulled your focus from the spiral of guilt tightening in your chest, anchoring you to the moment, to him.
He leaned in, close enough that you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle tremor of restraint running through him, the way his dark hair curled messily at the nape of his neck. The scent of him—clean soap, the faint salt of sweat, and that deeper, muskier note from earlier—filled the small space between you, stirring a heat low in your belly that you were desperate to ignore.
"I kissed you," he said, the words a confession, not an apology, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of truth. "Because it's real. Because I can't keep pretending it's not. I don't care if it's wrong, or complicated, or forbidden. It's ours. And I..."
His voice cracked, just a hairline fracture, before he steadied it, his eyes never leaving yours. "I want it."
And then he closed the space again, his lips finding yours with a purpose that stole the air from your lungs. This time, it wasn't the careful, testing kiss of the wedding scene, soft and reverent like a question. This was deeper, heavier, a surge of years of silence and buried want bleeding through in one unguarded motion. His free hand slid up, fingers brushing your cheek, then curling around the back of your neck, his touch firm but tender, anchoring you to him as if he were afraid you might slip away.
His lips moved against yours with a hunger that felt like it had been held back for too long, molding to yours with a warmth and sincerity that made your chest ache. The movie played on, forgotten, the score swelling with strings and piano, as if it had been written for this moment, for the way his breath mingled with yours, for the way his fingers tightened slightly at the nape of your neck, grounding you in the reality of him.
You should've pulled back. You knew that, the knowledge sharp and insistent at the edges of your mind, whispering of Lois, of vows, of the open door down the hall. But the moment Clark's lips pressed to yours again, every carefully constructed wall you'd built over the last two years shattered like fragile glass under the unrelenting strike of a hammer, the cracks spiderwebbing out in an instant, irreparable and complete. The initial contact was a spark that ignited everything you'd suppressed—the warmth of his mouth, soft yet insistent, molding against yours with a familiarity that made your breath hitch. You accepted him without a second's hesitation, your lips parting instinctively, inviting him deeper, letting yourself ravish the taste you'd fought so hard to erase from your memory. There it was, Clark—warm and intoxicating, his breath was hot against your tongue, a rush of air that carried the subtle salt of his skin, and beneath it all, that familiar, impossible sweetness, a unique essence that was purely him, something you'd hated to admit you'd missed more than you'd ever missed anyone, a craving that had haunted your quieter moments like a ghost.
Your hands moved on their own, fisting into the soft, worn fabric of his shirt, the cotton warm from his body heat, the faint nap of the material catching under your fingernails as you tugged him closer. The pull was urgent, needy, a demand for more contact, more proof that this was real—that he was here, solid and present, choosing you in this stolen, dangerous moment despite everything. The shirt stretched taut across his chest, the seams straining slightly under your grip, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms, echoing your own racing pulse.
Clark responded without a word, his body mirroring your urgency; one large hand braced at the small of your back, his fingers splaying wide across the curve of your spine, pressing through the thin fabric of your loose sweater, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin like sunlight. His other hand slid up, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of your jaw before cradling it fully, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, as if he were committing every angle, every contour of you to memory, his touch both tender and possessive.
In one fluid, effortless motion, he guided you across the sofa, the cushions dipping under your combined weight, the faint rustle of the wool blanket shifting beneath you. You moved with him, your body following his lead until you were straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his strong thighs, the pajama pants soft against your bare skin where your sweater rode up.
His body was solid beneath you, unyielding yet welcoming—the hard planes of his chest pressing against yours, his hips shifting slightly to accommodate you, the faint outline of his arousal evident even through the layers of fabric, a reminder of the vulnerability you'd walked in on earlier.
His chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours, each breath a shared exchange, as if the act of kissing you both stole and restored his air in the same instant. He pulled you in tighter, his arms circling your waist with a hunger he'd long restrained, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he held you close, his grip firm but not bruising, as though letting go was an unthinkable betrayal.
The kiss grew hotter, messier, evolving from that initial confession into something raw and unrestrained—your teeth grazing his lower lip, a gentle nip that drew a low, involuntary sound from his throat, a rumble that vibrated against your mouth and sent your pulse thundering in your ears. His tongue slid against yours, warm and exploratory, tasting you with a deliberate slowness that built the heat between you, each stroke sending sparks cascading down your spine. You clung to him, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, dragging through the messy curls of his dark hair, the strands soft and slightly damp from the night's earlier tension, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made him shudder faintly beneath you.
Desperation fueled every movement, a need to close the last slivers of space between you, to erase the years of denial and distance with the press of bodies and breaths.
The forgotten movie flickered on in the background, its pale blue glow casting shifting shadows across the living room—the only world you could feel was the one you and Clark were tangled in, two people pressed together like the universe itself had been holding this moment back for far too long, denying you both until the pressure became unbearable.
Each kiss was a confession, a vow, a surrender—his lips capturing yours again and again, soft then firm, exploring the curve of your upper lip, the seam where your mouths met, the way your breaths mingled in hot, ragged exchanges.
You moaned his name, "Clark," the sound spilling from your lips, low and breathless, a plea and a surrender as his kisses burned a trail across your skin. His lips had moved from your mouth to your neck, then lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive hollow of your collarbone, each one a deliberate act of worship that sent shivers cascading down your spine.
The faint rasp of his stubble grazed your skin, a delicious friction that heightened every sensation, and his breath was warm, humid, layered with the deeper, musky warmth of his skin. The pressure of his kisses was unrelenting, each one lingering longer than the last, his tongue flicking out to taste the pulse point at the base of your throat, drawing a soft gasp from you that echoed in the quiet room.
Your body surrendered to his touch, every nerve alight, your muscles softening as you leaned into him, letting him guide you deeper into the moment.
His hands roamed with purpose, sliding from the small of your back to your ass, his fingers splaying wide as he squeezed, the pressure firm and possessive, sending a jolt of heat through you. The thin fabric of your jeans did little to dull the sensation of his hands, callused from years of quiet strength, gripping you with a hunger that felt like it had been held back for far too long.
He guided you closer, pulling your hips forward in a slow, deliberate motion, your body shifting in his lap until your hard dick pressed against the taut plane of his stomach, the friction sending a sharp, electric pulse through you. The contact was maddening, the heat of him seeping through the layers of fabric—your jeans, his T-shirt—his muscles tensing beneath you as he felt you against him, a low, rumbling sound escaping his throat, vibrating against your skin where his lips still lingered.
Your fingers curled tighter, pulling at the material, and you arched into him, your chest pressed flush against his, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin cotton, grounding you even as it set your nerves ablaze. Your hips shifted again, instinctively, the hard length of you rubbing against his stomach, the pressure drawing another soft moan from your lips, the sound swallowed by the quiet intensity of the room.
Clark's hands tightened on your ass, his fingers digging into the denim, guiding your movements with a subtle but undeniable control, each squeeze sending a fresh wave of heat curling through you. His lips moved back up your neck, slow and deliberate, kissing along the curve of your jaw before finding your mouth again, the kiss deeper now, hungrier, his tongue sliding against yours with a warmth and urgency that made your head spin.
His breath hitched, a low, involuntary groan rumbling in his chest as you pressed yourself closer, the friction of your arousal against his stomach sparking a shared heat that felt like it could consume you both. His hand at your neck slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently to tilt your head, giving him better access to deepen the kiss, his lips molding to yours with a need that felt like a confession of all the nights he'd spent wanting this, wanting you.
The kisses slowed, a momentary pause in the fevered rhythm as your hands, driven by an unspoken need, slipped beneath the hem of Clark's shirt. The fabric was soft and warm, worn smooth by countless washings, and it clung to the hard planes of his chest, catching slightly as your fingers brushed against his skin.
The heat of him radiated through the cotton, a quiet promise of the strength beneath, and your palms flattened against his abdomen, feeling the taut muscle there, the faint ridges of his abs contracting under your touch. His breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound that vibrated against your lips, and his kisses faltered for a moment, his mouth hovering just above yours, warm and unsteady, as he surrendered to the sensation of your hands exploring him.
You slid your hands higher, tracing the contours of his body—the smooth dip of his lower ribs, the broad expanse of his chest, the subtle flex of his pectorals as he shifted beneath you. The shirt bunched under your wrists, the fabric stretching as you pushed it upward, your fingers grazing the faint line of hair trailing down from his navel, a detail that sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you.
Clark lifted his arms, a silent agreement, and you guided the shirt over his head, the motion fluid but deliberate, the cotton catching briefly on his shoulders before you tugged it free. It fell to the side, pooling on the sofa beside the tangled wool blanket, its faded geometric pattern barely visible in the dim glow of the table lamp.
His body was revealed in the soft, golden light of the living room, the cool blue flicker of the forgotten movie casting shifting shadows across his skin. Clark's torso was a study in quiet strength—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, muscles defined but not ostentatious, the kind of power that came from years of restraint rather than show. The lamplight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, highlighting the smooth curve of his pectorals, the subtle rise and fall of his chest with each uneven breath.
His skin was warm, a faint flush spreading across his chest, and you could see the steady pulse at the base of his throat, a rhythm that echoed the frantic beat of your own heart. The faint scattering of dark hair across his chest trailed downward, disappearing beneath the sagging waistband of his plaid pajama pants, which hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp, tantalizing curve of his hipbones.
Your hands lingered on his bare skin, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders, the warmth of him grounding you even as it set your nerves ablaze. His eyes, dark and molten, held yours, a quiet intensity in them that made your breath catch, and his lips—still slightly parted, still glistening from the kisses—curved into a faint, almost shy smile, as if he were both vulnerable and certain in this moment.
Clark's hands roamed with purpose—one splayed at the small of your back, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your loose sweater to brush the bare skin there, the touch electric; the other sliding down to your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans.
His touch was deliberate but impatient, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of your jeans, the denim pulling taut as he worked to undo it. He tugged gently at first, then with more urgency, his lips found yours, his breath hitching as he murmured your name against your mouth, the sound raw and desperate.
You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your lips tingling, your chest heaving as you met his gaze. His eyes were dark, molten, filled with a need that mirrored your own, but the reality of the moment crashed in, sharp and insistent.
"Clark," you whispered, your voice low and unsteady, barely audible over the faint hum of the TV, "we're in the living room."
Your words were a half-hearted protest, a nod to the open door down the hall, the baby monitor's blinking light, the sleeping house that could wake at any moment. Your hands rested on his bare shoulders, fingers digging slightly into the warm muscle, grounding yourself against the pull of him.
Clark's hands stilled on your hips, his fingers still hooked in the waistband of your jeans, but his expression didn't waver. His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing briefly, and his eyes held yours with an intensity that made your pulse thunder in your ears.
"I don't care," he said, his voice low, rough, a confession that carried no shame, only truth. "I want you. Right here. Right now."
The words were a vow, unapologetic and raw, and the way he said them—his voice steady despite the tremor of restraint running through him—sent a shiver down your spine.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin as he murmured, "I'm prepared to fuck you right in the middle of this living room."
The bluntness of his words hit like a spark, igniting the heat already coiled tight in your core. His hands moved again, more confident now, tugging at the zipper of your jeans, the metal teeth parting with a soft rasp that echoed in the quiet room.
His fingers brushed the bare skin of your hips as he pushed the denim down, the fabric catching briefly on your thighs before you shifted to help him, your movements instinctive, driven by the same hunger that burned in his eyes.
Your hard arousal was evident, straining against the confines of your underwear, and as the jeans slid lower, Clark's hand grazed you there, a deliberate, fleeting touch that drew a low groan from your throat, the sound swallowed by the press of his lips against your neck.
The emotions crashed over you both—longing sharpened by absence, regret twisted with relief, a fierce, unspoken love that had never truly faded, now exploding in touches and gasps that left no room for pretense.
Your hands, trembling slightly with the weight of the moment, snuck downward, fingers brushing the sagging waistband of his pajama pants, the elastic soft and worn under your touch. The fabric was warm from his body, and as your palm slid beneath it, grazing the coarse trail of hair leading lower, you felt the heat of him, the hardness waiting.
Clark's breath hitched sharply, a low groan rumbling in his throat as your fingers wrapped around his dick—thick, hot, and pulsing in your grasp, the velvety skin smooth over the rigid length, a bead of precum already slicking the tip.
He shifted beneath you, his thighs tensing under your knees, and with a hurried, urgent motion, he lowered his pajama pants just enough to allow full access, pushing the plaid fabric down to mid-thigh. The pants bunched there, exposing him completely—the flushed shaft curving slightly upward, veins prominent along its length, the head glistening in the dim lamplight, his balls heavy and drawn tight beneath.
The sight of him, vulnerable and aroused, sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you, your own arousal straining against the remnants of your jeans, the friction maddening as you ground subtly against his thigh.
Clark's eyes locked on yours, dark and hooded, filled with that same intense emotion—a mix of desperation and devotion that made your chest ache. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the denim, guiding you closer as if he couldn't bear even an inch of space.
Your lips found his again, crashing together in a kiss that was all fire and surrender, your mouth opening to him immediately, tongues tangling in a wet. The kiss was messy, urgent, your teeth grazing his lower lip as you poured everything into it—the missed years, the unspoken aches, the forbidden truth now laid bare.
Your hand worked on his dick in rhythm with the kiss, fingers wrapping firmly around the thick girth, stroking from base to tip with a slow, deliberate twist at the head, spreading the slick precum down the shaft to ease the glide.
Clark groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, his hips bucking faintly upward into your grip, seeking more friction, more pressure. Your thumb circled the sensitive ridge beneath the head, teasing the slit where another bead of precum welled up, and he shuddered beneath you, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, holding you to the kiss as if afraid you'd vanish.
The sofa creaked with each subtle movement, the cushions dipping under your knees as you straddled him, your sweater riding higher, exposing more skin to the cool air and his wandering touches.
His dick throbbed in your hand, hot and heavy, the veins pulsing under your fingers as you pumped him faster, matching the escalating rhythm of your kisses—deep, devouring, lips swollen and breaths ragged. The emotions surged between you, intense and overwhelming: the joy of reconnection, the pain of what you'd lost, the reckless abandon of finally giving in.
Clark's tongue delved deeper, exploring your mouth with a possessiveness that made your core clench, his groans growing louder, muffled against your lips, as your hand twisted and stroked, milking him with a skill born of memory and renewed desire.
Though halfway through the rhythmic stroking of Clark's dick—he broke the kiss with a sharp, ragged inhale. His lips, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, pulled away from yours, leaving a cool void where the warmth of his mouth had been. His eyes locked onto yours for a fleeting second, a storm of emotions swirling there—hunger, longing, a flicker of the guilt you both ignored in this moment.
With a gentle but insistent push, Clark guided you back against the sofa, his large hands—warm and callused—pressing against your shoulders, easing you down until your back met the soft, slightly rumpled cushions. He hovered over you for a moment, his plaid pajama pants still bunched low on his thighs, his hard dick jutting free, flushed and slick from your earlier attentions, bobbing slightly with his movements.
He leaned down, capturing your lips again in a brief, searing kiss—soft at first, his tongue flicking out to trace your lower lip before he pulled away. His mouth trailed lower, hot and deliberate, brushing the salty skin of your jaw, then settling on your neck. He sucked gently at the sensitive curve there, his stubble rasping roughly against your flesh like fine-grain sandpaper, the wet heat of his lips and the faint metallic tang of his breath sending sparks skittering down your spine.
The love bites came next—small, insistent nips followed by the warm suction of his mouth, marking you with faint red blooms that throbbed warmly under his attention, each one a claim accompanied by the soft, wet sounds of his kisses and your quickening breaths, a reminder of the dormant fire now raging.
His breath was hot and uneven against your throat, carrying the subtle, musky scent of his arousal, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he worked, the vibration humming through your skin like a bass note in the quiet room.
He moved lower, his hands pushing up the hem of your loose sweater, the fabric whispering against your torso as it bunched under your arms, exposing your chest to the cool draft of the room and the warmth of his gaze.
The air felt crisp against your heated skin, raising, and Clark's lips found your nipples—first one, then the other—his tongue circling the sensitive peak with slow, deliberate swirls, the wet, velvety texture of it dragging over the hardened bud, tasting faintly of your skin's saltiness.
He sucked gently, the pull creating a delicious ache that shot straight to your core, teeth grazing the peak with a light scrape that sent electric tingles radiating outward, the sensation blending pleasure and a hint of pain.
You moaned out his name—"Clark"—the sound low and broken, spilling from your lips unbidden, echoing faintly in the quiet room amid the faint, wet smacks of his mouth and the distant murmur of the TV. Your fingers threaded into his dark, messy curls, tugging lightly to anchor yourself, feeling the soft, slightly damp strands slip through your grasp as you arched into him, the sofa cushions yielding softly beneath your back.
His lips trailed down your stomach, hot kisses pressed against the taut, sensitive skin, his stubble scraping lightly like a teasing rasp, leaving faint red trails that tingled in the cool air. His breath fanned warm and humid over your navel, carrying the scent of chamomile and his own arousal, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating from his throat as he nuzzled lower.
He paused at the waistband of your briefs, his fingers hooking into the elastic with a deliberate tug, the fabric snapping softly against your skin as he pulled them free, the cool rush of air hitting your exposed arousal like a shock. The briefs slid down your hips, catching briefly on your thighs before he tossed them aside with a faint rustle to join the discarded Clark's shirt on the floor, the hardwood cool beneath where they landed.
Your hard dick sprang free, flushed and aching, the sensitive skin prickling in the room's draft, a bead of precum glistening at the tip and catching the lamplight.
Clark's eyes met yours for a moment—dark, intent, filled with that same intense emotion—before he lowered his head, settling between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders nudging them wider, the sofa creaking under the shift.
His breath ghosted hot and teasing over your length first, a warm exhale that made you twitch in anticipation, the musky scent of your arousal filling the air between you. Then his mouth enveloped your dick in one smooth, enveloping motion, the wet heat of it overwhelming—like velvet wrapped in fire—his lips sealing around the shaft with a soft, suctioning pressure that drew a sharp gasp from your throat.
The taste of you seemed to spur him on; his tongue swirled over the sensitive head, lapping at the salty precum with broad, flat strokes, the slick texture rough and smooth in turns, exploring the ridge beneath with a flick that sent jolts of pleasure shooting up your spine.
The sensation was electric, a wet, slurping heat that built with every bob of his head, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and balls, adding a rough, prickling contrast to the silky slide of his mouth. He hummed around you, the vibration a deep, rumbling buzz that resonated through your core, making your hips buck upward instinctively into the tight, warm cavern of his mouth, the faint taste of salt and skin on his tongue as he took you deeper.
His hand wrapped around the base, fingers warm and firm, stroking in tandem with his sucks—slow pulls that created a delicious friction, the wet sounds of his efforts filling the room, mingling with your ragged moans and the distant swell of the movie's score.
You had no idea Clark possessed this skill, no clue he was that good at it—the revelation hit you like a wave crashing over your senses, leaving you reeling in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. As his mouth worked on you, the wet heat enveloping your dick in a rhythm that was both precise and instinctive, your mind fractured between the physical ecstasy and the swirling questions bubbling up unbidden.
His tongue swirled with expert finesse, tracing the sensitive ridge beneath the head with a flat, broad stroke that sent electric tingles radiating outward, the slick texture rough and silky in turns, tasting the salty bead of precum that welled up anew with each teasing flick.
The suction was perfect—not too tight, but firm enough to create a delicious pull that made your hips buck involuntarily, the soft, slurping sounds of his efforts filling the dim living room, mingling with your ragged moans.
His stubble rasped against the tender skin of your inner thighs, a prickling contrast that heightened every sensation, the faint scrape like fine sandpaper against your heated flesh, while his breath fanned hot and humid over your length, carrying the subtle, musky scent of arousal that blended with the room's lingering notes of chamomile from the cold tea on the coffee table.
Clark hummed around you, the deep vibration rumbling through your shaft like a bass note thrumming in your core, resonating in your balls and making your toes curl against the tangled wool blanket bunched at the sofa's edge.
His free hand cupped your balls gently, fingers warm and callused, rolling them with a tender pressure that bordered on teasing, the skin there tightening under his touch, slick with a faint sheen of sweat that made his palm glide smoothly.
Where the hell did he learn this? The thought flashed through your mind, sharp and insistent amid the haze of pleasure, your body arching off the couch cushions as he took you deeper, the back of his throat relaxing to accommodate your length, the tight, wet heat contracting around you in a way that drew a guttural groan from your lips.
Was it something he'd picked up in those quiet years apart, in stolen moments you didn't want to imagine? Or was it instinct, honed by the same quiet intensity he brought to everything—his reporting, his restraint, his hidden depths?
You almost had to ask, the words forming on your tongue even as another swirl of his tongue—wet and insistent, lapping at the underside with a flick that made stars burst behind your eyelids—stole your breath and silenced the question.
His eyes flicked up to meet yours then, a flicker of knowing amusement in them as if he sensed your wonder, his cheeks hollowing with another deep suck that pulled at your very core, the salty taste of you on his lips, the vibration of his own muffled hum sending fresh waves of ecstasy crashing through you.
The golden pool of the table lamp highlighting the sheen of saliva glistening on his lips as he pulled back briefly for air, the faint, wet pop echoing softly before he dove down again.
MEANWHILE, Lois Lane-Kent stirred in the king-sized bed, the crisp white sheets tangled around her legs like a half-hearted embrace. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft red 3:17 a.m., its numbers casting a faint crimson hue across the pregnancy pillow propped against her side. Her bladder pressed insistently, a common midnight intruder in her sixth month, but that wasn't what woke her fully.
It was the emptiness beside her—the cool dip in the mattress where Clark should have been, his body heat a familiar anchor on nights when the baby kicked restlessly or her mind wandered to deadlines and dangers. She reached out instinctively, her hand, her palm sliding over the smooth cotton sheet, finding only lingering warmth, as if he'd slipped away minutes ago.
"Clark?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep, sitting up slowly and rubbing the swell of her belly, the baby shifting in response like a quiet echo.
The room was dim, moonlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains, painting silver stripes across the hardwood floor and the scattered clothes from earlier—her maternity nightgown draped over the chair, Clark's flannel shirt folded neatly on the dresser.
No answer came, just the faint hum of the house: the refrigerator's low drone from the kitchen, the occasional creak of old wood settling.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floorboards, a slight wince at the chill that sent a shiver up her spine. Pregnant and restless, she figured he'd gone for water or to check the baby monitor—ever the protector, even in the small hours.
Padding down the hallway on silent feet, her hand trailing the wall for balance, Lois rubbed her eyes, the faint scent of lavender detergent from the guest room sheets lingering in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of lemon bars from dinner.
The house felt oddly alive, a subtle vibration she couldn't place, like a distant murmur or the low hum of the TV left on. She approached the living room archway, the open door spilling a mix of golden lamplight and the cool blue flicker of the television screen, the volume muted but the soundtrack's strings faintly audible, swelling dramatically.
She froze in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat like a sharp intake of icy air.
There, on the navy-blue sofa—the one they'd picked out together for family movie nights—was Clark, her husband, the father of her unborn child, positioned between the legs of... you. Her little brother. The one who'd stayed for dinner and crashed in the guest room. The sight hit her like a punch to the gut, a visceral twist that made her hand fly to her mouth, stifling a gasp that tasted of bile and betrayal.
Clark's broad, bare back was to her, muscles flexing under the lamplight's glow, his dark hair tousled and catching the TV's blue hue. He was shirtless, pajama pants pushed low, his head buried between your thighs, moving with a rhythmic intimacy that left no room for misinterpretation.
The wet, slurping sounds—soft but unmistakable in the quiet room—cut through the air, mingling with the faint hum of the movie and the distant pulse of the baby monitor on the kitchen counter. Your body was arched on the cushions, sweater rucked up, briefs discarded in a heap on the floor beside the tangled wool blanket, your hard dick disappearing into Clark's mouth with each bob of his head.
Your hands—God, your hands—were threaded through his hair, fingers curling into the messy curls, tugging gently as you guided him, your moans spilling out low and broken:
"Clark... oh, God, Clark..."
The name—her husband's name—echoed in her ears like a dagger, raw and pleading, laced with pleasure that twisted Lois's stomach into knots. She could see the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your chest heaved under the bunched sweater, your thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders. The air carried the heavy, musky scent of arousal, salt and sex overpowering the faint chamomile from the mugs on the coffee table, the untouched grapes glistening innocently nearby.
Lois's heart pounded, a roaring in her ears that drowned out the TV's dialogue, her hand pressing harder against her mouth to stifle the sob rising in her throat.
The baby kicked sharply, as if sensing her turmoil, a painful reminder of the life they'd built—the vows, the family, the trust now shattered on the living room floor.
Clark's hands gripped your hips, steadying you, his own arousal evident in the strain of his pants, and the sight burned into her mind: the man she'd married, the hero the world adored, lost in this forbidden act.
Tears blurred her vision, hot and stinging, her free hand clutching her belly as she backed away silently, the floorboards creaking faintly under her weight.
The hallway swallowed her retreat, the living room's glow fading behind her, but the image—the sounds, the betrayal—etched itself into her soul, a wound that would bleed long into the dawn.
Thats so awesome! Then let me put in my own little Clark x Male reader request, kind of similar to some of your other stuff because you have GOOD taste in dynamics. Maybe Clark with M!Reader who's a complete virgin, just a tiny, sweet, endearingly awkward guy. A friends to lovers thing where maybe best friend reader drunkenly asks Clark to take his virginity. Ties over to the next night where reader shows up and Clark is pulling out all the stops trying to be as comforting as possible 🥲 towel on the bed so theres no messes, flavored lube on the nightstand next to a glass of water, emergency snacks. Just being so sweet and trying to make everything special for his friends first time💔 Bottom reader probably, lots of praise, reassurance, way-too-close-to-be-just-bros (LOL) and just realistic dialogue, and some size kink stuff. Didn't mean to write so much eek 🥲 Thank you!
You don’t mean to say it. You mean to keep it folded in the warm, safe pocket where you keep the other things you don’t say to Clark, the way you count his freckles when he laughs, the way you memorize the sound of his footsteps in your hallway. But somewhere between your third drink and the way he tucked you under his arm to keep you from slipping on the rain-slick sidewalk, the words tumble out, soft and serious as a prayer.
“Clark,” you say, cheek pressed to the slope of his shoulder, “I want you to be my first.”
He goes still the way oceans go quiet. His hands, always so big and careful, tighten around your elbows, then loosen. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, like he’s afraid of scaring the moment away, “you’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I know what I said.” You hear it echo back at you, ridiculous and honest. “I want you.”
The streetlight paints him in gold. He looks at you like you’re something that might break and something he’s always wanted to hold anyway. “I would never… not while you’re drunk.”
“I didn’t say now, dweeb.” You swallow, pulse jumping. “I meant… tomorrow. If you still want to. If you ever did.”
You’ve never seen someone look so relieved and so wrecked at the same time. “I,” He exhales, and the breath shakes. “Yes. If you’re sure. If you wake up tomorrow and you still want that, you come over. Or I’ll come to you. We’ll do this the right way.”
“The right way,” you echo, dizzy for a different reason. “What’s the right way?”
He nudges your temple with his nose, tenderness like a match struck in the dark. “The way where you feel safe. The way where I take care of you.”
-
You wake with sunlight on your face and a text already waiting.
Clark: good morning. drink some water. i’m here if you want me. no pressure, sweetheart.
Sweetheart makes your stomach do a useless little flip. You stare at the word until the screen dims, then you’re moving through your day: shower, clean sheets, standing too long in front of the mirror wondering if your mouth looks kissable, wondering if it matters when he’s seen you in every flavor of unflattering. You’re smaller than him, almost comically so. He’s all breadth and warmth and shoulders that have carried the world and a smile that still gets shy at the edges.
At seven on the dot, there’s a knock. You open the door and there he is: gray t-shirt soft with a thousand washes; hair combed, then clearly finger-ruined on his way over; eyes gentle, asking.
“Hi,” he says, and then, softer, “Hey, you.”
You don’t realize you’re nervous enough to shake until he’s taking your hands to steady them. His palms are warm, engulfing, like a promise. “We can just watch a movie,” he says. “We can eat all the snacks I brought. You can tell me I’m too much and send me home. Whatever you want is what happens.”
“What did you bring?” you ask, because asking is easier than falling into him right there in the doorway.
He lifts the little tote in his other hand. “Flavored lube,” he says, ears going pink, “which, look, I felt like if it tasted like candy maybe it would be less scary? And water. And, don’t laugh, granola bars and those gummy bears you like. Also, uh,” He leans to look past you, at your bed, then back. “I brought a towel. So we don’t make a mess of your sheets.”
“I have towels you know. But I appreciate the prep, boy scout,” you say, smiling helplessly.
“I’m always prepared,, scouts honor,” he jokes, smile tipping; bashful, but pleased. “Can I come in?”
You step back and he follows, careful as if he’s walking into a chapel. He sets the tote on your nightstand, glancing at you for permission with every move: okay to put this here? okay to breathe? okay to want?
“Are you okay?” he asks at last. “Do you still want me?”
“Yes,” you say, and you hear yourself. It’s steady, not brave so much as true. “I want you. Tonight.”
His shoulders ease like he’s been holding a weight for years. “Okay,” he says, quiet. “Thank you for trusting me.”
You don’t know where to put your hands, so you put them on his chest. He looks down, watching your fingers press into the cotton over his heart. It’s fast. You don’t know why that makes you want to kiss him, but it does.
He tilts your chin with two fingers. “We’re going slow,” he says, like a promise he’s binding himself to. “You tell me everything you feel, even if it’s weird or you think it’s nothing. You don’t have to be… good at this.”
“What if I want to be good at it for you?” you ask, half a joke, half a very real ache.
His smile is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever survived. “You’re already perfect for me,” he says, shamelessly earnest. “You. Right now.”
He kisses you like he’s been waiting and also like he’s afraid to startle you: slow, warm pressure, mouth moving carefully against yours, his thumbs slipping to the corners of your jaw as if to hold the world steady. You gasp and he swallows it, makes a soft sound of his own when you open for him, when you reach to curl your fingers in his t-shirt and pull.
You mean to be measured. You mean to be good. Instead you’re clumsy and greedy, little sounds you didn’t know you could make catching at the back of your throat. Clark only makes it worse, or better: he keeps praising you, keeps telling you the tiniest things count.
“Just like that,” he murmurs when you lick into his mouth. “You taste so sweet.”
“Because you brought candy,” you say against his lips, breathless.
“Because you’re you.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the soft place below your ear that makes you shiver. “You shake when you’re excited. Did you know that?”
“Shut up,” you say, and he laughs, delighted, kisses your throat and you feel it all the way down your spine.
He doesn’t push. He lets your body be the compass. When you tug him toward the bed, he follows. When you hesitate, he stops dead, hands hovering, eyes searching your face.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“I want you to touch me,” you say. “Everywhere. Please.”
The please turns his face undone. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Gosh, yeah.”
You sit on the edge of the mattress and he kneels between your knees, that impossible body folding like devotion. His hands trace up your calves to your thighs. He feels big there, too, palms covering, thumbs drawing half-circles that turn you molten. He says your name like a vow and leans forward to kiss over your shirt, open-mouthed, reverent, like he’s tasting the shape of your heartbeat. When he pulls back, you chase him.
“I want to see you,” you say. “All of you.”
He hesitates only to check you want to keep going, then he peels his shirt off. Your mouth goes dry. He’s broad the way you know he is, but up close it’s something else: the long gorgeous chest, the gentle dusting of hair, the strength he carries like second nature, the softness that never, ever leaves his eyes when they’re on you.
“Wow,” you say, failing at play-it-cool. “You’re… a lot.”
“I can be less,” he offers, voice light but gaze intent. “Smaller.”
“You don’t have to be less,” you say. “Just be careful.”
“Always.” He says it like he’s swearing an oath.
He helps you out of your shirt with those same careful hands, palms skimming skin, a kiss pressed to each inch he reveals like he’s thanking your body for existing. Every time you flinch with nerves, he pauses; every time you sigh, he smiles against you. You end up on your back with your head on your pillows, Clark propped up on one elbow beside you, one hand splayed warm over your stomach.
“You okay?” he asks. "You can change your mind at any point.”
“Perfect,” you say, the word catching because your throat has decided to be unhelpful.
He strokes your sternum with two fingers until your breathing evens out. “That’s my brave boy,” he says, and the phrase makes heat unfurl low in you, startled and sweet.
“Again,” you whisper. “Call me that again.”
“Brave,” he says, close to your mouth. “Good. Sweet. Mine, if you want to be.”
“I want to be,” you say, fast, before he can take it back.
Something like wonder crosses his face. He leans in to kiss you slow, and then slower, as if time is something he gets to decide. The kisses deepen and tilt and then he’s licking into your mouth again, dragging a little sound out of you that you can’t swallow. His hand slips lower. He doesn’t rush; he explores, maps, learns what makes you arch and what makes your thigh jump and what makes you bury your face in his shoulder. He’s patient the way weather is patient, constant, there.
When you’re shaking, he nudges his nose against your temple. “Want me to taste you?” he asks, and your whole body feels like a wire struck through with yes.
You nod. “Please.”
“Love the way you ask so sweet.” He moves down the bed, kisses a trail that feels like it’s writing something on you, something you’ll be able to read later when you’re alone and trying not to smile like a maniac.
“I don’t know what to do with my hands,” you confess, and he looks up from where he’s kissed the sharp of your hip to grin at you, wicked and fond.
“Put them in my hair,” he says. “On the headboard. On your own thighs and feel how you’re shaking for me. Anywhere you like. You’re not going to break me.”
You bury your fingers in his hair. You’re not prepared for how careful his mouth is, how slowly he learns you, how he stops every time you gasp like it might’ve been a flinch. He asks quiet questions and celebrates the answers like he’s been given a gift. It takes five minutes for you to stop thinking about how you must look; it takes thirty seconds after that for you to realize you’ve made a sound you didn’t know you could make. He pulls back, lips wet, eyes blown.
“That good?” he asks, unnecessarily smug and devastatingly sweet.
“So good,” you say. “You're so good, Clark.”
“Only for you.” He licks his bottom lip, like he can’t help himself. “Ready for more?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, more.”
When he finally reaches for the nightstand, you catch his wrist, sudden panic rushing your face hot. He stills instantly.
“Hey,” he murmurs, climbing up to you, foreheads touching. “What do you need?”
“I’m just… I’m not…” You close your eyes, then open them because looking at him makes telling the truth easier. “I’m nervous about… all of you. You’re,” Your hands gesture, helpless. “Big.”
He smiles like a sunrise. “You’re the one I’m fitting,” he says. “I’ll go slow. I’ll listen. I’ll stop if you breathe wrong.”
You huff. “That sounds like you.”
“I’m going to make you so comfortable,” he says, solemn as scripture. He taps the towel with two fingers, smirking. “Told you I came prepared.”
He lets you open the lube because your hands want to do something. You fumble the cap and he doesn’t laugh; he kisses your knuckles like they’re sacred. The scent is candy-sweet and stupidly endearing. He slicks his fingers, shows you his hands, talks you through every inch of the way he’ll touch you, where you might feel pressure, where you might just feel full.
At first you’re tense. Then you’re surprised. Then you’re melting the way sugar does under warm water. He keeps his eyes on your face, not your body, like your expressions are the only map he trusts. When he finds the spot that pulls a sound out of you you’ve never heard before, his mouth falls open like you just gave him a gift.
“That’s it,” he says, hoarse. “Right there?”
“Right there,” you gasp, fist curling in the sheet.
He keeps you there until you’re squirming, until your breath goes ragged and you’re saying his name like it’s the only one you remember. He’s breathless too, more undone than you’ve ever seen him, chest heaving like it’s taking work to keep his patience intact.
“Still okay, sweet boy?” he asks again, because he’s himself.
You nod, dizzy. “mm.”
“You ready to have me?” His voice slips lower, softer, as if he’s telling a secret. “Ready to feel how good you take me?”
You look at him and the ache turns bright and easy. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I want you.”
He fits his body over yours, bracing on his forearms so his weight is a shelter, not a press. He’s big everywhere and warm everywhere and somehow the softest thing you’ve ever known. He kisses you while he settles, kisses your cheek when you hitch, kisses your jaw until you unclench.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “In, out. That’s it, baby. That’s perfect.”
You do. You feel him, slow, careful, checking your eyes, checking your breath, whispering praise that smooths your nerves like a hand over rumpled sheets. There’s pressure and then a deep, tender stretch that shocks you with its sweetness, like the ache you get sometimes when you look at him too long. You grip his shoulders and he groans, a sound he bites off against your throat.
“Okay?” he asks, frantic and reverent.
“Okay,” you say, and mean it. “Better than okay.”
He pauses there until your body tells him, in its own clumsy language, that it’s ready for more. When he moves, it’s barely anything; when he moves again, it’s everything. He keeps it shallow at first, praise slipping out between the breaths he tries to keep even.
“Look at you,” he says. “Taking me so good. That’s it, there you go. You feel that? That’s us. That’s me and you, sweetheart.”
You realize you’re shaking not with fear but with too-much, with the overwhelm of the way he’s looking at you like this is his first time too, like nothing has ever felt like this before. You reach up and cup his face and he turns into your hand, eyes closing, a soft sound like he’s being touched for the first time.
“Clark,” you say, voice coming out raw and guttural, because saying his name is a spell that makes the world make sense. “You’re, god, you’re so big.”
“I know,” he says, wrecked laughter in his voice. “I know, baby. I’ve got you. You’re perfect for me.”
“Say it again,” you breathe.
“You’re perfect for me,” he says. “Mine. So good. So brave.”
He finds a rhythm that makes you forget language. When it gets too much, you press a hand to his chest and he stills instantly, kisses you through the overwhelm, rocks smaller until your breath evens. When you whine for more, he gives you more, like he was only waiting to be told.
You realize somewhere in the heat and the softness and the ridiculous sweetness of the flavored lube and his whispered praise that he’s shaking too. You hold him through it, drag your nails lightly down his back and feel him shudder, bite his shoulder because you need to bite something and he laughs breathlessly, delighted.
“Is this okay?” he gasps. “I need you to tell me.”
“More,” you say. “Please.”
He gives you more. The world gets small, the towel under your back, the shape of his shoulders, the way his mouth keeps finding yours like his orbit can’t help it. He doesn’t talk you through finishing so much as he talks to you while you do, his voice a steady line you can follow to shore. When it happens, it feels like a wave finally allowed to break, the relief so big it makes you tear up. He breathes it in like it’s oxygen, murmurs your name, praises you through every shiver.
He stays right there, holding your face, kissing your eyelids, telling you you’re okay, that he’s got you, that you did so good for him; when he falls after you, it’s with a stuttering breath and your name against your throat like a promise.
For a while there’s nothing but breathing. His weight is heavy in a way that feels good, anchoring. When he finally moves, it’s tender chaos, apologies for crushing you, laughs against your cheek, another kiss because he can’t seem to stop.
“Don’t move,” he instructs gently, and then he’s gone only long enough to take care of everything that needs taking care of. He uses the towel like the genius he is. He talks to you the whole time, nonsense and sweetness: “Such a good job,” and “Your hands were shaking; was that okay?” and “I brought the water, here, small sips,” and “Gummy bear?”
You take one and it tastes like childhood and victory. You take another because he looks so pleased to feed it to you.
“Guess the snacks were a good plan,” you say, teasing.
“Deployed in an emergency,” he says solemnly, then ruins it by smiling so wide his eyes go crinkly.
He tucks you in like you’ve swapped hearts and need to be kept warm with both. He keeps his distance for exactly three seconds before he can’t help himself; he’s back, curling around you, big arm under your head, the other slung over your waist. You’re small; he’s not; it fits.
“You okay?” he asks for the hundredth time, voice gone drowsy and wondering.
“I’m… dumb happy,” you say, honest because lying feels impossible with him breathing against your hair.
He hums, pleased. “Good.”
You turn enough to see him. In the lamplight he looks like the kind of beautiful that makes poets annoying. “You’re so…” You shake your head. Words won’t help you. “Thank you for being careful.”
“Thank you for trusting me.” His thumb strokes your lower lip like he’s cataloging you, learning you even in this. “I’m proud of you.”
It lights something in you you didn’t know was wired for praise. “Yeah?”
“So proud,” he says, and kisses your forehead. “You were perfect.”
You flush, ducking your face into his chest. He laughs, soft and delighted, and you feel it roll through his ribcage. “I meant it,” he says. “Not just tonight. Always.”
“You’re… kind of a lot,” you mumble, affectionate.
“I know,” he says cheerfully, and then, more quietly, like it’s fragile, like it might fly away, “I meant it earlier. You're mine, if you want to be.”
You tip your head back to look at him. He’s braced for impact, as if saying it out loud was the scariest thing he’s done in weeks. You touch his jaw, run your thumb over the little nick of a scar you’ve always pretended not to notice.
“I was already,” you say.
He blinks. The breath he lets out sounds like relief and a laugh combined. He kisses you, unhurried and smiling, and then he tucks you close again as if he’s cataloged the exact place your head belongs on his shoulder.
“Tomorrow,” he says after a while, voice sloping toward sleep, “you’re going to wake up and maybe feel weird or shy, and I’m going to take you to breakfast and be insufferably gentle about it.”
“Sounds awful,” you say, the most relaxed you’ve ever been.
He nuzzles your hairline. “And then we’re going to eat the rest of the gummy bears and watch something Lois would hate. And at any point you can tell me to leave or to kiss you or to climb under the blanket and hold you so tight you forget where your edges are. I’m at your service.”
You close your eyes. You breathe him in. “Clark?”
“Mm?”
“Say it again.”
He knows what you mean; somehow he always knows. His mouth finds your temple. “You’re mine,” he says, careful and bright. “And I’m yours.”
You sleep in the circle of that, towel forgotten at the foot of the bed, water glass sweating a little ring on the nightstand, emergency snacks no longer emergency. When morning comes, you wake to the soft scrape of a spatula and the smell of batter in a pan and Clark humming off-key to a song that’s probably in your head now for life.
You pad into the kitchen, sore in the way that feels like you’ve been carefully taken apart and put back together better. He turns, spatula in hand, hair a disaster, smile immediate and so proud to see you that you forget to be shy.
“Hi,” he says, relief blooming again like it never left. “How do you feel?”
You reach for him, tug him down by the collar of his ridiculous pajama shirt. He goes easily, always. You kiss him. It tastes like morning and sugar and whatever it is you both have decided to call this.
“Hungry,” you say against his mouth.
He grins. “Good. Thought about taking you out to breakfast, but figured the more romantic move would be to cook. I maybe got carried away.”
You slide your palm up his chest, over all that size, all that warmth that somehow never felt like too much. “I like when you get carried away,” you admit, small and honest.
He swallows. His ears pink again, hopeless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Be too much for me.” You pull him back in, whisper, “Always.”
He kisses you like he heard a choir start singing, and then he flips a pancake one-handed because apparently he’s just good at everything infuriating, and you find yourself leaning on the counter in his shirt while he makes you breakfast, while he keeps touching you just to make sure you’re still there.
You are. You’re here. And later, when you’re both on the couch with a bowl of gummy bears between you and a ridiculous movie on, you’ll catch his hand and lace your fingers and he’ll squeeze once, twice, like a code. You’ll squeeze back, and neither of you will need to say what it means.
But for now, he plates pancakes and you steal a gummy bear and he pretends to be offended and the kitchen fills with small, ordinary sounds that feel like the most special thing in the world. And when he leans in, just before you take your first bite, to murmur against your cheek, “So proud of you,” you’re pretty sure you’ll never need another first anything again.
PAIRING:
Joey Tribbiani x Male Reader
SYNOPSIS:
Joey realizes he’s jealous when you start spending a lot of time with Ross—who even willingly spends time talking about dead dinosaurs? For once, the smooth “how you doin’” guy can’t figure out how to confess his feelings without sounding like a fool.
The group had gotten used to you fitting in almost too seamlessly—Ross had introduced you, and before long you were just another fixture on the orange couch. You laughed at Chandler’s sarcastic digs, humored Monica’s need for order, and matched Phoebe’s oddball humor with ease. It was all natural, effortless.
But Joey noticed something else. You seemed to spend a lot of time with Ross lately. Maybe it was the way you leaned in close over coffee, your heads nearly touching as you joked about some museum anecdote. Or how you and Phoebe had this quiet, conspiratorial way of whispering mid conversation, breaking into laughter he didn’t understand. For Joey Tribbiani—lover of women, king of confidence—it was an odd and unwelcome feeling creeping in: jealousy.
“Why’s Joey pouting?” Chandler asked one afternoon, tossing popcorn in the air and missing his mouth completely.
“I’m not pouting,” Joey snapped, eyes still glued to where you and Ross sat across the room, bent over a stack of papers. “I’m just…watching.”
“Uh-huh. Watching your boyfriend flirt with a paleontologist.” Chandler deadpanned.
Joey turned scarlet. “He’s not my boyfriend!”
That was all Monica needed to chime in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Joey, you’ve been sulking since yesterday when Ross and Y/N left together. It’s kind of obvious.”
Even Phoebe, bless her oblivious honesty, chimed in, “Yeah, Joey. You get all growly when they laugh at each other’s jokes. It’s cute. Like a jealous puppy.”
“I don’t get growly!” Joey defended, though his voice cracked enough to earn him a round of knowing smirks.
The problem wasn’t that he didn’t like you. Quite the opposite. He liked you too much. Your laugh made him grin without even meaning to. The way you remembered the smallest details about him—like his audition schedule or the kind of sandwich he liked best—had him reeling. But what was he supposed to say? That Joey Tribbiani, master of smooth pick-up lines, couldn’t figure out how to flirt with someone he actually cared about?
He practiced in the mirror.
“Hey, I like you more than pizza.” Too much.
“How you doin’?” Too cliché.
“If I were Ross, I’d spend all my time with you too, but lucky for you, I’m not Ross.” Way too weird.
The more he tried, the more ridiculous he felt.
It wasn’t until one evening at Central Perk, when Ross leaned in to show you something on his notebook, that Joey finally snapped. He stood up so fast his chair nearly toppled. “Okay! Enough with the fossils, Ross!” The whole café turned to stare, but Joey was too far gone to notice.
“I mean, come on, you’re hogging him! Y/N’s supposed to hang out with all of us, not just you.”
Ross blinked in bewilderment. “Joey, he asked me about my work—”
“Yeah, well maybe I got stuff to show him too!” Joey blurted, before realizing every eye was on him—including yours. His friends were trying (and failing) to hide their laughter.
Later, when the group had scattered, you found Joey pacing outside the café, muttering to himself. “Joey?”
He froze. “Y/N. Uh. Hey. So…about before.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You jealous of Ross?”
Joey’s ears burned red. “No! I mean yeah. Okay, fine. Maybe a little. I just don’t like seeing you spend all your time with him when I…” He trailed off, wringing his hands, which for Joey was as uncharacteristic as it got.
“When you…?” you pressed, gently.
He finally looked up, and the usual cocky grin was replaced with something softer, almost nervous. “When I like you. A lot. And I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.”
Your smile spread slowly, warm and amused. “That’s the least idiotic thing I’ve heard you say.”
Joey’s shoulders sagged in relief, and then, as if on instinct, the grin came back. “So…how you doin’?” This time, you laughed and tugged him into a hug, his relief evidently in the way he held you. Inside, Joey promised himself one thing—he wasn’t going to let Ross or anyone else try to rob you away.
SUMMARY — Months of silence were supposed to cauterize what you’d lit between you and your future brother-in-law, Clark Kent. You buried yourself in Metropolis U, skipped family dinners, and learned to breathe around the ache. When the wedding weekend finally arrived, you didn’t come alone— your boyfriend, Noah Reyes, steady and warm, walked in at your side.
WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Sexual Themes. Swearing.
WORDS! 20.6k
AUTHOR'S NOTE! — here we are with the sequelllll!!! So far school has been fun and full new experiences, but nothing’s more fulfilling than writing so good ole adultery. In other news, the third part to PROTECTION is underway until then enjoy your reading✨🥹
PREVIOUS - FIFTEEN MINUTES
YOU DIDN’T see Clark for months, and that was a mercy on paper. Distance, you told yourself, is a kind of discipline.
So you built a life that didn't have room for him.
Mornings started earlier. You laced your shoes before sunrise and ran the river path until the city unspooled from gray to gold, lungs burning just enough to drown out the memory of warm hands and a kitchen light. After shower and coffee, campus swallowed you whole—lecture halls that hummed with fluorescents, professors pacing in front of slides on deviance theory and abnormal psychology, you in the third row taking notes like you were transcribing a confession.
You anchored yourself to routine. Library carrel, same one every day. Noise-canceling headphones, a playlist with no lyrics. Flash cards rubber-banded in brutal stacks. You ate vending-machine almonds at 2 a.m. and learned the security guard's name. When your brain tried to drift—to string lights and a rye bottle and a voice asking, Tell me to stop—you pressed your pen harder and copied another paragraph until the urge passed.
Home became a place you visited by text. Sunday dinners became polite excuses: study group, lab practical, shift at the tutoring center. Your father harrumphed into the family chat, then left a rare "Proud of you" you reread more than once. Lucy FaceTimed from the couch with a face mask on, diagnosing you with "terminal avoidance" and recommending brunch as treatment. You laughed, promised soon, and let the call time out while you highlighted DSM criteria you already knew.
Lois sent photos—swatches pinned to a corkboard, a florist's crowded table, a quick selfie of her and Clark at a venue walkthrough, his tie crooked in a way only you would notice. You typed and deleted a dozen replies before landing on something safe. You look happy. She did. She was. You screen-locked before your eyes could wander to the edge of the frame, to the hand on her waist, you could still feel on your skin.
Sometimes, across a coffee cart or a subway bench, you caught his name in print: By Clark Kent above a column that smelled like shoe leather and rain. You trained yourself to skim for the lede, not the byline. You did not buy extra copies. You did not check the timestamp to see if he'd been in your neighborhood.
On campus, the seasons turned loudly. Red leaves stuck to your boots in October; in November, you fogged up the library windows with your breath; December dusted the quad with a thin, sincere snow. You stayed. You volunteered for extra credit, joined a study cohort that met Saturday nights, and took on tutoring hours you didn't need. Even your advisor noticed. "You're focused," she said, surprised and pleased. You nodded and didn't explain that focus was easier than guilt.
When you did go home—once, briefly, to drop off a book your father wanted—you timed it for the exact window Lois said she'd be out. The house felt different without her laugh ricocheting off the hallway. Your old room smelled like dust and winter sun. You put the book on the table, straightened the stack of mail, and left before your reflection could ask you who you were trying to be.
At night, when routine softened and the city quieted, your mind reran the tape anyway. It didn't matter how many pages you read or miles you logged; your body remembered in perfect detail. You made new rules and taped them to your fridge like a syllabus. Lois first. Avoid proximity. No nostalgia. No what-ifs. You checked them off each morning like a ritual that might keep you clean.
It worked, mostly. Weeks clicked into place. The ache dulled to something you could carry. You learned the shape of wanting and not having and how to breathe around it.
And then one afternoon, between a lab and a late train, a heavy cream envelope slid through your dorm mailbox with a flourish of calligraphy you recognized instantly: Save the Date: Lois Lane & Clark Kent. You stood in the hallway under the humming fluorescent, thumb on the embossed edge, and felt the familiar gravity shift under your feet.
You told yourself distance was discipline. The date on the card suggested the distance had an expiration.
But you were never going to miss Lois's wedding. Not after everything—childhood skinned knees, teenage conspiracies, the way she's always shouldered your father's expectations so you didn't have to. When her "wedding weekend" email hit your inbox—Friday welcome dinner, Saturday rehearsal, Sunday vows—you RSVP'd yes before you finished reading the subject line.
Then Clark called.
He was all careful warmth over the line, that steady, measured voice you could pick out of a crowded newsroom. "Lois wants you up front with me," he said. "I do too. Will you stand with us?"
You stared at the window long enough for a tiny constellation of your breath to fog the glass. Groomsman. Beside him, not behind him. The word fit and didn't; it was an honor and a test. You said yes, because of Lois. You said yes, because saying no would raise questions you weren't ready to answer. He exhaled in relief and launched into logistics—suit palette (charcoal and dove), tie (soft blue), call time (painfully early), boutonnières (white ranunculus). You wrote it all down with a hand that only shook a little.
You also knew you weren't walking into that weekend alone.
Noah Reyes had slipped into your life quietly and then refused to budge—easy smile, sharp eyes, a way of listening that made you tell the truth without realizing you were doing it. He was steadier than your caffeine intake and warmer than your apartment's radiators: dark curls he kept threatening to cut, a dimple that showed up like a secret, the kind of shoulders a coat hangs off just right. He laughed with his whole chest and argued like a gentleman, and he'd been good for you—in the practical ways (eat, sleep, get sunlight) and the harder ones (forgive yourself, try again).
You chose coffee as your ask terrain: neutral ground, daylight, a table that didn't have history. Late afternoon sun fell in slanted bars across the café; the air smelled like orange peel and espresso. Noah was already there—book open, one ankle hooked over the other, a knit sweater soft enough to make you want to lean across it.
"You look like you're rehearsing a speech," he said as you sat, amused and kind.
"Accurate," you admitted, and told him. About the weekend schedule. About Clark's call. About the groomsman's question and how honor and irony can hold hands without blinking. You didn't describe string lights or kitchen counters. You didn't have to. Noah knew the outline; he'd been there for the weeks you spent suturing it closed.
He listened, thumb idly circling the rim of his mug. When you finished, he glanced at your list—times, addresses, tie color in the margin—and then at you. "Do you want me there?" he asked, not a test, just a door.
"Yes." You didn't let the word wobble. "I want you with me. I also... need you with me."
The corner of his mouth tugged up. "Then I'm in. I've meant to terrify your father with my excellent posture and progressive politics." He leaned forward, eyes on yours. "And to meet the sister who already owns half your heart."
Some of the tightness in your chest has let go. "It'll be a small dinner Friday—Lois and Clark's inner circle—then rehearsal Saturday, wedding Sunday." You hesitated. "It's the first time they'll meet you."
He reached across the table, palm up, an offer. You set your hand in his. Warm. Grounding. "We'll make it easy," he said. "I'll shake hands, tell your dad I admire punctuality, charm Lucy with dessert opinions, and rave about Lois's dress without asking for spoilers. You set the pace on... us. PDA, none, somewhere in the middle. I'm good either way."
"Middle," you said, grateful. "Hand on my back, not my throat."
He snorted, then sobered. "And Clark?"
You held his gaze. "I'm a groomsman. That's the whole sentence."
"Good." He squeezed once. "I've got you."
The week sprinted. You sent Noah the itinerary and the palette. He texted back a photo of a perfectly cut suit ("charcoal enough?"), a tie swatch ("dove-ish?"), and a pair of shoes that said I can stand for six hours and still carry you to the car if needed. He booked a room at the hotel Lois had negotiated down to "family rate, no extortion." You ordered a fresh shirt, polished your old watch, and found cufflinks you hadn't worn since graduation.
The family group chat crackled to life: Lucy asked if the welcome dinner was "cocktail glam or cocktail unhinged," and your father demanded precise addresses and parking instructions. Lois sent voice notes that were 70% laughter and 30% orders. You typed, "I'm bringing someone on Friday. His name's Noah." A full minute of typing dots from Lois. Then: "Can't wait. Also, bring Tupperware. I'm not wasting leftovers."
YOU AND NOAH stepped out of the cab into the same wash of brass light and city noise you remembered from that first night—the old Metropolis steakhouse with the revolving door that smelled like rain on leather and charred rosemary. Déjà vu hits hard enough to slow your steps. Same maître d', same framed Daily Planet front page over the corner booth, same low murmur of moneyed conversations. Different from you. You weren't alone.
Noah smoothed your lapel with two fingers, a quiet check. His charcoal suit, open collar, and the soft knit under his jacket made him look unfairly touchable. "Ready?"
"Not remotely," you said, and pushed the door anyway.
The maître d' clocked your name and tipped his head toward the back. You heard Lois before you saw her—bright laugh, a bell through the noise—then Lucy's running color commentary, and your father's baritone adjudicating proper parking etiquette in a city that refused it. Clark's voice threaded beneath it, warm and steady, and your chest forgot how to behave.
He stood when you reached the table. Everyone did. Lois launched herself at you, perfume and satin, feeling twelve and safe for one whole second. Lucy kissed your cheek and immediately took Noah in with a rake of the eyes. Your father rose dignifiedly and shook Noah's hand like he was testing for structural integrity.
"Everyone," you said, heart thudding in your mouth, "this is Noah Reyes—my boyfriend."
There it was, set on the white tablecloth like a place card. Boyfriend. The word felt bright and grounding in your mouth, a line drawn with ink that would not wash.
Lois's smile doubled. "Finally," she said, wrapping Noah in a welcome that ignored personal space in favor of enthusiasm. "I've been hearing about you for months."
"Selective edits, I hope," Noah said, already charming, and earned your father's first amused huff of the night.
Then Clark.
He stepped around the chair with a plate-setter's grace—tie a softer blue than the house lighting, hair a little longer than you remembered. "Noah," he said, offering a hand. "Clark." The handshake was perfect: firm, brief, respectful. His gaze slid to you for a fraction—there and gone—before landing squarely where it belonged, on the man at your side.
"Good to meet you," Noah returned, even as he clocked—and you felt—the slightest roughness under Clark's even tone.
Everyone resettled. Lois engineered the seating without making it look like engineering: you and Noah on one side, Clark beside her across, Lucy in the power spot by the aisle, your father anchored at the end like a gavel. Menus opened and wine arrived. The room edged back toward ordinary.
The first few minutes were safe terrain. Wedding logistics: timing, weather app obsession, the florist who spoke in riddles about peonies. Noah was easy in it—asking your father about the venue's historic permit, flattering Lucy's earring choice, laughing with Lois about sheet cake versus artisanal cakes that required a thesis defense.
You tried not to look at Clark and failed twice. The second time, memory collided with it like a shoulder check—string lights, rye, and a timer on a countertop. You took a sip of water big enough to qualify as a swim.
Clark did the genial host thing—refilled your father's glass, signaled the server, kept Lois's napkin from sliding off her lap—but there were tells. The way his thumb pressed too hard into the base of his rocks glass. The jaw muscle that jumped when Noah's hand rested, casual and open, on the back of your chair. The half-second lag before he smiled when Lois told a story you'd heard him laugh at. Jealousy didn't storm his face; it flickered in the margins, a lantern behind frosted glass.
"So," Lucy said, unwrapping her straw like lighting a fuse, "how did you two meet? I want the cute version, not the algebraic one."
"At a campus panel on criminal justice reform," you said, quick with the truth before anyone could make it cuter. "He asked a better question than the moderator."
"Which is not hard," Noah added, earning a general laugh. He turned to your dad. "Your son had the better answer."
Your father's eyes warmed a shade you rarely saw in public. "Hmph," he said, which in his dialect meant impressed.
Clark lifted his glass. "To good questions," he said, and clinked with Noah first. Polite, perfect, and the slightest octave lower than usual.
The first course landed. Smoked trout on rye crisps, a house wink you tried not to take personally. As conversation flowed, Clark's attention drifted to you like a compass needle can't help itself. He asked Noah where he grew up, what he did, how long he'd been in Metropolis—curious without being territorial, but you could feel the edge under it. Noah fielded everything calmly, answering to the table and not to Clark, then pivoting to include Lois so it never became a duel.
When your plate arrived, a ribbon of sauce clung to your fork and streaked your lip on the first bite. Muscle memory had you catch it with your tongue before your brain could veto. You didn't look up. You didn't have to. Clark's glass paused midair; the tiniest muscle feathered under his eye. He set the glass down with surgical care and reached for Lois's hand under the table. Even that had a tell: he needed an anchor.
"Everything okay?" Lois murmured aside to him.
"Perfect," he said, smiling at you like it hadn't cost him anything.
Reality settled over the table like a second tablecloth—Noah's thumb brushing your knee under the linen, your father asking Clark about the column he'd filed that morning, Lucy plotting photo angles that were "emotionally honest" but also "face flattering," Lois glowing with the kind of happiness you'd come to protect. The past flickered in your peripheral vision; the present kept refocusing the frame.
When the server cleared plates, you caught Clark watching the two of you for one unguarded second—Noah leaning in to murmur something that made your mouth tilt without permission. Jealousy showed on him then with the barest outline: the swallow, the recalibration, the smile returned to full wattage by force of will.
He raised his glass again, this time to Lois. "To the smartest decision I ever made," he said. "And to everyone who's going to make this weekend run on time."
Your father nodded, pleased in his soul. Lucy whooped. Lois pressed her shoulder to Clark's and shot you a look complete with sister noise that said nothing and everything: I'm happy. Be happy with me.
You breathed in, breathed out. Reached for Noah's hand under the table and found it solid and warm. Metropolis hummed beyond the window; inside, the restaurant played its part—brass light, low music, steak smoke in the air. You'd come back to the room where the story had tilted and found it standing level.
Across the table, Clark's gaze touched yours and moved on, all the words you weren't going to say folded neatly behind his teeth. The jealousy didn't vanish; it learned how to sit up straight and mind its manners like everything else in this family.
The night rolled forward. The past didn't leave; it just made room. And the reality you'd spoken aloud—my boyfriend—took the seat next to you and stayed.
The check arrived on a silver tray, with that soft, satisfied lull that settles after a good meal—looser shoulders, half-finished drinks, the scrape of chairs as everyone leans back. Candlelight puddled across the white tablecloth; outside, Metropolis blurred by in streaks of yellow cabs and slate-blue night.
Noah tapped his napkin against his plate, eyes cutting to Clark with an easy grin. "So," he said, casual as a weather report, "are we pretending you're not having a bachelor party, or have you secretly got one planned that involves bourbon, bad karaoke, and someone rescuing you from a novelty sash?"
Lois snorted into her water. "If there is a sash, I want photos."
Clark's mouth curved, sheepish but game. "I, uh, hadn't really thought about it. Lucy's been running point on... well, everything."
"Correct," Lucy announced, raising a hand like a foreman on a construction site. "Lois's schedule is under control. Clark, however, is a blank Google doc screaming for content."
She swiveled and pointed both index fingers squarely at you. "Enter: our event planner."
Your fork paused mid-air. "Absolutely not. He's a suit-and-notebook guy, not a shots-and... whatever the opposite of a notebook is—glitter?"
Noah, traitorous and charming, nodded solemnly. "Seconded. Give him three sips of whiskey and a microphone, and he'll lead a sing-along of Springsteen. Don't let the tie fool you; he's repressed fun."
Clark's brows jumped, amused. "Repressed fun?"
"Pent-up," Lucy clarified, delighted. "Like a champagne cork. Our boy needs a controlled pop."
Your father, who had been auditing the exchange with the tolerant expression of a man who survived the '80s, hummed. "Bachelor parties are overrated. But if you must, keep it tidy. And punctual."
You lifted both palms. "See? Sanity. Also, Clark's idea of a wild night is filing a column five minutes before deadline and eating a whole pie."
Clark angled his head, blue eyes steady on you. "That's... not entirely wrong." Then, after a beat: "But it's not entirely right, either."
The table quieted just enough for the sentence to land. Lois tipped her chin, curious. Lucy's grin sharpened.
You arched a brow. "Oh?"
Clark rested his forearms on the table, relaxed, certain. "I think you know how to plan a night I'd actually enjoy," he said, voice low, unshowy. "And I trust you to make it... good."
Heat pricked the back of your neck. You reached for water you didn't need. "Define 'good.' Because if you're imagining my kind of wild party—"
"I'm open to being surprised," he said, the smallest dare tucked into the edges of the smile. "Within reason. And law."
"Boring," Lucy sighed.
"Legal is sexy," Lois said, patting her arm. "Also, I want him at the altar with all his organs."
Noah leaned back, bumping your shoulder with his. "There you have it. Commission accepted."
You pointed at him. "You're enjoying this too much."
"I enjoy watching you delegate chaos into charm," he murmured.
Clark cleared his throat, expression softening. "Look, if it helps: no strippers, social media, or cross-state bail. But friends, good food, something that feels like... us?" His gaze flicked to Lois and back. "I want to remember it for the right reasons."
That, more than anything, anchored you. "Okay," you said slowly, the shape of an evening forming: a private room that smells like oak and orange peel, a playlist that knows the difference between nostalgia and noise, a late-night rooftop where the city looks like a promise instead of a problem. "I can work with that."
Lucy clapped once. "See? Our planner has entered the chat."
Your father signed the receipt with a satisfied flourish. "If it starts on time, I'll call it a success."
Lois squeezed Clark's hand under the table, eyes bright. "He's in good hands."
Clark looked at you when he answered. "I know."
The server swept away the last of the glasses, coats were shrugged on, and the revolving door sighed you all back into the city. On the sidewalk, plans scattered into the night air—rideshares, rehearsal call times, who had the garment steamer. As everyone peeled off in pairs and threes, Noah caught your eye, a question tilting his mouth. You nodded once: I've got this.
Behind him, Clark did the same—no bravado, trust, quiet and unforced. And there it was, humming under the streetlamp like a low note only you could hear: he wasn't the sash-and-shots type. But he was willing to let you show him another wild—and to follow your lead.
YOU MET the guys just after 9 AM, the tailor's bell giving a polite little jingle as a burst of wool and steam-press heat wrapped around you. The shop was all mirrors and dark wood, bolts of fabric stacked like city blocks, the air faintly citrus from someone's aftershave and sharp with chalk dust. Clark was already there—shirt sleeves rolled, jacket draped over his forearm, a tape measure looped around the tailor's neck like a stethoscope.
Noah had peeled off with your father a few minutes earlier—coffee and a "little tour of the venue" that sounded suspiciously like a background check. Pray for him, you'd texted Lucy. She replied with a headstone emoji and "he'll be fine."
Groomsmen banter filled the first twenty minutes—who forgot their socks; who needed loaner cufflinks; a short debate over peak lapel vs notch that the tailor, Armand, ended with a single raised eyebrow. Measurements were called out like stats: "42 long. Inseam 33. Shoulder half down on the right." Pins snicked, hem chalked, jackets rotated along a rack with the soft hush of expensive fabric. When the others were sent to the front for espresso, you hung back to help Clark with the little things—out of habit or gravity, you didn't examine too closely.
"Hold still," you said, setting the dimple in his tie. The silk was a soft dove that made his eyes ridiculous; your fingers remembered the rhythm of a Windsor knot without asking permission. He watched you in the mirror, not the knot—quiet, intent.
"How long's it been with Noah?" he asked, voice level—genuine curiosity riding on something tighter.
"Months," you said, smoothing the tie down his shirtfront. "Good months."
"Is he... good to you?" That landed softer. Real.
"He is," you answered, meeting his eyes in the glass so he could see you meant it. "I'm trying to be good back."
He nodded once, thoughtful, and then—lighter, territorial in the edges—"Your hair's shorter." His gaze flicked down and up, cataloging. "Suit fits differently. You've been running more."
"Observant," you said, because what else do you call a reporter in a mirror? "And you've let yours grow out. It works." You reached to settle the line of his jacket. "Armand will sing."
He smiled without moving. "You look... steady." A beat. "Happy."
"Working on it."
Armand ghosted in to jab a pin at Clark's cuff and float off again, leaving a small wake of chalk dust. You took the cue and circled, tugging the jacket at the shoulder seam and stepping in close to slip the pocket square into place. The world narrowed to fine motions—straighten, press, align—and the more precise you got, the less air there seemed to be.
When you glanced up, you looked directly, not through the glass. The room hushed around the thrum of the steamer. You could list a dozen reasons not to move an inch closer, and you could feel each one step politely out of the way.
"This is a bad idea," you said, because someone had to say it.
"Terrible," he agreed, and kissed you anyway.
It wasn't the basement—no rush, no timer—just heat pulled tight and quiet. He tasted like coffee and winter air, the kiss slow enough to be deliberate, deep enough to admit you'd both thought about it for months. Your hands found his lapels; his slid to the small of your back, careful pressure through fine wool. The mirror caught you at an angle that made the moment look even more stolen than it was—two men close enough to share breath, a white square of pocket linen bright as a flag you weren't waving.
"Are you happy?" he asked into the slide of your mouths, the question wrecked at the edges.
"I'm here," you said, which wasn't an answer, but somehow, you answered everything.
He drew you in another fraction—forehead against yours, the contact that felt more dangerous than the kiss. The shop's noises came back like someone unmuted the world: the hiss of a press, the laugh of a groomsman from the front, a ringtone under a pile of suiting.
Then: commotion. A clatter of hangers, Armand's theatrical "Mon dieu, who moved my pins?", and the quick staccato of dress shoes approaching down the runner. You both broke clean—trained reflex—hands flying to neutral tasks. He pivoted to the mirror and adjusted his cuff as if you'd always been discussing sleeve length; you took a step back and found your tape measure, looping it around your neck like a prop you'd owned all morning.
The curtain whisked aside. "Monsieur Kent!" Armand sang, oblivious, sweeping in with a baker's dozen boutonnières and a mouthful of opinions. Two groomsmen piled in behind him with paper cups. Someone bumped your shoulder, almost sending you into Clark's chest again; you caught yourself on the rack, smiled with your teeth, and took the nearest espresso like it had been intended for you all along.
"All right?" one of the guys asked Clark.
"Perfect," Clark said, steady as a photo, and flashed a grin that would print well in the Sunday edition.
You stepped away and set his pocket square to rights one last time—one tap, no looking at his face. Again, the room was filled with chatter and angles, and the dangerous quiet dissolved into the safe noise of a wedding weekend, doing what it does.
Outside, your phone buzzed with a text from Noah: Your dad knows three bartenders by name at the venue. I think we're friends. You smiled, typed back I told you he collects people, and slid the device away.
"Next," Armand declared, hands in the air like a conductor, and the line moved forward. You and Clark didn't look at each other. You didn't need to. The mirror had already said enough.
You chewed yourself out the entire walk from the tailor to the hotel—every step a metronome for the exact two words: not again.
Months apart were supposed to cauterize whatever lived between you and Clark. Time, you told yourself, is solvent. It loosens knots. It didn't. One quiet room, a mirror, your fingers at his lapel, and you'd folded like bad paper. Your lips still buzzed with its ghost while the elevator rose, and the doors sighed open on rehearsal evening. The scent of gardenias and furniture polish met you like a warning.
The venue was already in that pre-wedding hum—staff wheeling racks of glassware past an arch dressed in white roses; the coordinator in black with a headset, pointing with two fingers like a symphony conductor; a chalkboard schedule lettered within an inch of its life: Line-up 6:15. Processional 6:30. Vows practice. Toasts. Out by nine sharp (your father's note, underlined twice).
You engineered distance like a pro. When Clark and Lois crossed the room together—her hand on his arm, a swell of friends following—you took two tidy steps back and slid neatly into Noah's orbit. He smelled like cedar and citrus and calm. You let his palm settle at the small of your back, a quiet anchor. "You okay?" he asked under the music.
"I will be," you said, meaning it by force of will.
Purpose kept your hands busy. You straightened escort cards and re-twisted a stubborn votive wick. You checked that the boutonnieres hadn't wilted in the cooler and made a mental note to hand Clark's over at the last minute to minimize proximity. You fetched a glass of water for the officiant, updated the best man on the order of toasts, and negotiated peace between Lucy and the DJ over whether "first look" music should be cinematic or "emotionally honest bops."
When the coordinator called, "Places for the processional!" you planted yourself where the groomsmen line began, one body between you and Clark, eyes forward. The doors swung; the music swelled in rehearsal form; pairs walked; timing was tweaked. From the corner of your eye, you watched Lois glow even under house lights, watched your father pretend not to wipe at his eye. You did not watch Clark. You heard him—that low, steady voice when the officiant asked him to practice his "I do," the soft laugh when Lucy stage-whispered a correction from the back—but you kept your focus stapled to the floor runner's edge.
When it was time to rehearse ring exchange, your chest did that traitor-tighten. Memory flashed—warm bulbs, a timer, a promise you were trying to keep. You inhaled, exhaled, and replaced the thought with logistics: rings go to the best man; you are not the best man; therefore, you will not touch Clark's hand.
Rehearsal bled into dinner—long farmhouse tables under café lights. Place cards in Lois's tidy caps, yours tucked between Noah's and Lucy's by design. You took the seat gratefully, a deliberate buffer of laughter and sibling chaos between you and the head of the table. Clark poured wine at the far end, attentive and composed, the kind of host who leaves no glass empty. Once, his gaze skimmed the room and caught on you like a coat on a nail. You looked away first and took Noah's hand under the table like a vow.
You made a litany of reminders and looped it in your head whenever your attention tried to drift:
— Why are you here: Lois.
— Who are you here for: Lois, your father, this family.
— Who you brought: Noah, steady and kind, the man who chose to stand next to you while you did the right thing.
— What you are: a groomsman, a brother, a boyfriend.
— What you are not: a secret.
Toasts began. Your father's was unexpectedly warm and brief (miracle); Lucy's was comedic with a sniped edge; yours was simple: Lois, who taught you spine and softness; Clark, who loves her well. Your voice held. Noah squeezed your knee under the linen exactly once when you sat, enough to make the room come back into focus.
Meanwhile, Clark did what he'd promised himself he would do: he stepped back.
He filled his hours with errands that kept him on the opposite side of rooms from you—signing off on seating charts with the coordinator, double-checking transport with the hotel manager, chasing down a missing boutonnière order like it were a tip on a story. When conversations drifted your way, he pivoted to Lois, Lucy, or the florist's clipboard. He learned the geography of the venue in terms of escape routes: if you were by the bar, he was at the doors; if you were with the DJ, he was in the courtyard counting lanterns. He made "distance" look like "useful."
It helped. It didn't fix it.
Because distance is measured in feet, what he was fighting lived in frequencies.
He could pick your voice out of a room the way a farmer hears the weather change—no matter the laughter, the clink of glass, the hush of a sound system idling, there it was: the rounded vowel when you were kind, the clipped consonant when you were teasing, the breath that caught when you were surprised. He would see it and then have to do something with his hands—line up stemware, re-fold a napkin, tighten his tie—to keep from looking.
The worst part wasn't now. It was months ago, when the only place he let himself be dishonest was with his hearing.
You'd gone quiet after that night. He told himself that was good. He told himself it was proof that both of you knew what mattered. Then the first week passed, then three, and he still woke with the memory of your mouth and the timer's buzz in his chest like an aftershock. He was doing his duty as Superman—flying around, keeping the peace, taking down Kaijus—until he heard a familiar sound thousands of miles away in a bright, busy wash. He should have tuned it out. He didn't.
He found you in the noise without trying. The library of Metropolis U had its own weather: pages turning, laptops humming, coffee lids snapping on; and there you were at a carrel by the window, voice low as you quizzed a classmate, the lilt you got when you explained something complicated without making anyone feel small. He let himself listen for one minute. He told himself it was nothing—just proof that you were okay and working. The minute became two. You laughed—quiet, honest—and he felt the shame of it like heat on his face. He tightened his hearing to one point— taking off to answer a citizen's cry for help.
He told himself he wouldn't do it again. He did it twice more before he stopped for real. He put a rule on it, and the way he puts rules on deadlines and diet is absolute and unbending. It worked until it didn't, and then he built a stricter fence.
Now, in the crush of the wedding weekend, the questions came like hail—quick, hard, forcing him under cover.
What was this? Why couldn't he get free of it? He tried to make it small—call it chemistry, proximity, the intimacy that happens when you're in a room with a good person, a timer, and a mistake. Lust is simple; lust has an off switch. Lust doesn't make you want to know whether someone ate lunch, or whether exam week chewed them up, or whether they sleep with a window cracked because they like the city air.
He thought of lust and felt the pull low and bright—the kitchen counter, the warm hush, the way your name sounded when he didn't have breath to say it correctly. He thought of love and it landed somewhere older—how you kept your father from being lonely while pretending not to; how you carried Lois's orders like they were crown and oath; how you wrote rules for yourself and tried like hell to keep them even when you failed. He could feel, actually feel, the difference in his body: lust was heat; love was weight.
Jealousy surprised him. He hadn't expected that—the brief, hot sting when Noah's hand fit easily at the small of your back, the windless moment when you said "my boyfriend" and looked relieved to have said it aloud. He hated himself for the first feeling and respected himself for the second. They coexisted like two truths he didn't know how to file.
So he did what he knew how to do: he tested the edges. He asked himself bad-weather questions and stood in them.
If it were only lust, would he have tuned his hearing to your voice in a library and then torn it back like a burn? If it were only lust, would he have stood at a rehearsal dinner watching you help Lucy without making it your scene, and felt... proud? If it were love, what then? Love is not a permission slip. Love is an obligation with teeth. He'd made a promise to Lois. He loved Lois—real, full, chosen. Loving one person doesn't grant you a license to harm another.
So he made the promise again in smaller language: Lois first. No corners. No listening on purpose. No stealing time that doesn't belong to you. He repeated it like a catechism while he counted boutonnières, straightened chairs, and asked the bandleader about power strips. He practiced a skill he learned in Kansas and at a newsroom desk: want the thing and don't do the thing.
But gravity is gravity. In the tailor's mirror, your fingers on his tie were a story he didn't know how to edit without cutting out the part where two people were human at the same time. He kissed you and then hated himself and then hated himself for hating himself when what he should have done was not kiss you at all. He felt the apology ghosting behind his teeth for an hour afterward and said nothing because sorry is a word that should do work, not absolve you.
Later, when he found you across the rehearsal space with Noah, he made himself catalog what was true. You were steadier. You were eating. You were working. You looked at Noah like someone looks at another person when they've decided to be brave in public. Clark stood beside Lois, set his palm on her back where she liked it—the center of gravity, not possession—and wished every complicated thing inside him into a shape that didn't spill.
Is it love or lust? The honest answer scared him: it was both, and something stranger—the way a frequency can imprint, the way a reporter can be helplessly interested in a subject he has no business writing about. He chose to treat it like weather: acknowledge, prepare, don't pretend it isn't real, and don't let it blow you off the road.
He took one more step back. He let Noah make you laugh. He let Lois shine. He tuned his hearing to the band's downbeat, his eyes to the clock, and his hands to the small, decent work that keeps a promise honest.
And when your voice found him anyway, bright as a page turning, he did the quiet, hard thing he'd taught himself to do.
He didn't turn his head. He didn't listen closely. He just stood where he belonged and stayed.
THE REHEARSAL dinner broke like a tide—chairs scraping back, candles guttering into gold stubs, the last of the toasts dissolving into hugs and logistics. Café lights blinked to their dimmer setting, and the coordinator's clipboard snapped shut with the satisfaction of a day well herded. Outside, the courtyard held a thin spring chill; breath showed in little commas as people drifted toward rideshares and hotel shuttles.
You checked your watch—bachelor-party o'clock.
Noah slid your garment bag over your shoulder and kissed your temple—quick, public, soft. "Text me if you need an extraction," he murmured. "I'll stage a fake emergency, and your father will love me forever."
"You already have him," you said, smoothing his lapel. "He knows three bartenders at the venue by name."
"Networking," Noah said solemnly, then squeezed your hand and let the shuttle swallow him up. Your father and Lucy were in an animated debate over whether the DJ would allow "one tasteful Beyoncé."
You pivoted into host mode, thumbs flying: group chat pinged awake—📍address, 🔑 entry code, 🥃 dress code ("no sashes, no novelty straws"), 🎶 playlist link. A handful of replies: on my way, parking now, do we tip the cigar guy in cash? Your plan had crisp edges: a private room at an oak-and-orange-peel bar with bartenders who spoke fluent rye, a late-night rooftop for skyline and air, a slight detour to a bowling alley with old neon and worse shoes because Clark loved good things without trying.
You were tucking your phone away when a voice cleared at your elbow.
"Hey." Jimmy Oslen—boyish grin despite the suit, tie already loosened, the kind of energy that made cameras and trouble follow him—bounced on the balls of his feet. "Got a second?"
"Always," you said, steering him away from the clustering aunts. "What's up?"
He glanced left, right, conspiratorial. "Clark's bachelor thing. I, uh, also... may have planned... a thing."
You blinked. "A thing-thing?" You half-smiled to soften it. "Like a... parallel universe thing?"
Jimmy winced. "Don't hate me. Lucy asked me months ago if I had ideas in case Clark forgot to let anyone plan something for him. And then you—" a little finger-gun at your chest "—appeared with a Google doc and a color palette, and I didn't want to step on it. But—" He exhaled. "I booked a set at The Comet. Open-mic karaoke, but I bribed the sound guy, and I've got people queued to roast him lovingly. And there's a Polaroid wall. And I rented the kind of ugly bowling shirts in a way that becomes glorious."
You pictured Clark in a shirt with his name chain-stitched over the pocket. It did terrible, delightful things to your composure. "Okay," you said, buying time. "That's... adorable and also chaos."
Jimmy's shoulders sagged. "I can cancel. There's a window. I—he's my guy, you know? I wanted something like him before the world got big and fancy."
You reached for the plan in your pocket, then put it down figuratively. "You shouldn't cancel," you said, surprising both of you. "But you should talk to Clark about how he wants to jump. Tonight's not about whose spreadsheet wins; it's about him enjoying it."
Jimmy's relief arrived like a visible exhale. "You're not mad?"
"I'll be furious if the bowling shirts aren't photo-documented," you deadpanned. "But go ask him. Seriously. If he wants karaoke and a roast, we pivot. If he wants quiet and whiskey, we stick. If he wants both, I can stitch the timelines together."
Jimmy's grin came back full wattage. "You're terrifyingly competent. I get why Lois trusts you with fireworks."
"Strong word usage," you said, even as your phone vibrated—arrived, here, elevator code?. Over Jimmy's shoulder, you caught Clark in profile under the café lights, listening to Lois with that open, careful attention he gave to the things that mattered. For once, the feeling in your chest didn't yank you off balance; it set you down.
"Go," you told Jimmy, nudging him in that direction. "Ask him. I'll give the bar a ten-minute heads-up either way."
Jimmy jogged over, intercepted Clark with a hand to his arm, and began a rapid-fire pitch punctuated by flailing. You watched Clark's face—the initial surprise, the amusement, the glance toward you like a question mark. You tipped your head: your call. He looked back at Jimmy and said something that made Jimmy pump a fist in victory, then pointed across the courtyard to you.
A moment later, they both reached you.
"So," Clark said, hands in his pockets in that way that made him look both reporter and farm boy. "I didn't know I had options."
"You do," you said. "One: the quiet version—good whiskey, good music, rooftop air. Two: Jimmy's chaos gauntlet—karaoke, roast, Polaroids, bowling shirts. Three: a tasteful hybrid. Your night. Your rules."
He studied you for a beat, then Jimmy, then the sliver of skyline between the venue's buildings. "I trust you," he said, and you felt the sentence land like a weight you wanted to carry properly. "But—" he tipped his head at Jimmy, "—I also don't want to crush a man's dream of humiliating me in public."
Jimmy clutched his heart. "Our friendship is built on ethical humiliation."
You laughed, the sound loosening something in all three of you. "Hybrid it is," you decided. "We start with oak and orange peel, we end with bad choreography. I'll reroute the guys and text the bar."
Clark's mouth curved, and gratitude was quiet and real in his eyes. "Perfect."
Jimmy was already texting in all caps. You fired off a new set of instructions—✨update: stop one for an hour, then The Comet, then midnight bowling; bring your worst voice and best attitude✨—and got a rain of thumbs-up and skull emojis in return.
Lois called across the courtyard that the shuttle was here. Clark squeezed Jimmy's shoulder, peeled off to kiss her forehead, and herded an uncle toward the correct bus. Jimmy lingered a second longer, fidgeting with his phone.
"Hey," he said, looking up. "Thanks. For not... You know. Big-footing."
"It's Clark's night," you said, meaning more things than you said out loud. "He gets the version that feels like him."
"Then he's in good hands," Jimmy said, and bolted.
You tucked your phone away, felt the shape of the evening settle into place, and let the city air clear your head. There would be time for whiskey and laughter and off-key Springsteen, for photos that would look worse every hour and a rooftop where the skyline made promises it never kept. Your job wasn't to curate a story you wanted but to build a night he would remember for the right reasons.
You lifted a hand to the shuttle driver, called the first round in your head, and walked toward the bus with a plan that could bend without breaking—like the best ones do.
THE NIGHT hit the ground running.
Stop one was the oak-and-orange-peel bar, a private room tucked behind a velvet curtain where the lighting was flattering and the ice clinked like punctuation. The bartenders moved like magicians—big cubes, smoked glass cloches, citrus peels curled into perfect commas. Someone put on a playlist that knew when to lean into Springsteen and when to slide into Otis Redding. Clark did the rounds with a glass of neat rye, shoulders finally down, laughing the kind of laugh that doesn't make it into photographs.
Jimmy's "ethical humiliation" began at The Comet. He'd bribed the sound guy for clean mics and brought a stack of cue cards. The roast was the right kind of mean: anecdotes from the bullpen ("Clark once apologized to a stapler"), college stories from out-of-town friends ("He returned a lost wallet with more cash than it started with"), a lovingly savage slideshow of haircut eras no one needed to relive. You watched Clark take it the way he takes everything—open, head back when it really landed, a hand over his heart when somebody snuck in something tender: you make the room better just by walking in. He sang one song—"Thunder Road," of course—with a warm voice and a little raspy, and the whole place, bartenders included, howled the chorus.
By the time you herded everyone to the bowling alley, the city had slipped into that blue hour, making the neon louder. The place was a time capsule: buzz of old fluorescents, cracked leather benches, a counter that sold curly fries and beer by the pitcher, a dusty disco ball that spun like it had seniority. The night manager clocked your reservation and produced Jimmy's rented shirts with a flourish—chain-stitched names over the pocket. Clark's said "Kent" in looping red. Yours, to your horror and secret delight, said "Coach."
"You're wearing it," Jimmy decreed, half into his.
You said, "Over my dead stylist," and put it on anyway.
Teams were formed using the science of a playground draft. Clark landed on "The Run-Ons" with Jimmy and two newsroom buddies; you anchored "Split Happens" with the best man and a cousin who swore he "used to bowl semi-seriously, which means not seriously at all." Stakes were set with the solemnity of treaty law: losers bought late-night fries; winners got naming rights for the group chat.
In the first frame, you rolled a clean spare—eight, then picked up and tried not to strut. Clark stepped up, pushed his sleeves to mid-forearm (unfair), set his feet like he was lining up a headline, and sent the ball gliding down the lane in a slow, confident curve that kissed the pocket and detonated the pins. Strike. The Run-Ons erupted like he'd just scooped a fumble and run it back to Kansas.
"Beginner's luck," you lied on your way past him.
He leaned in just enough for the others not to notice. "Reporters fact-check," he said, eyes bright.
The match found a heartbeat. You hit your groove—spares stacking into a strike, that sweet clatter of wood a reward you could feel in your chest. Clark answered with a spare-strike combo that made Jimmy try to chest-bump him and nearly fall over the ball return. There was an easy trash-talk current—gentle, ridiculous. The best man offered to "sage the lane" with a mozzarella stick for you; Jimmy told Clark he'd revoke his press pass if he guttered. "You can't revoke what I don't carry," Clark shot back, then buried another pocket hit that sent the seven dancing and tipping at the last second.
Halfway through, the alley smell—lane oil, old carpet, fryer heat—had turned nostalgic instead of grim. Somebody found the switch for the blacklights; the pins glowed; your shirts fluoresced in ways no one consented to but everyone admired. Fries arrived. Beers appeared. You and Clark orbited to opposite ends of the ball returns and met in the middle every time the score tightened.
Ninth frame, you needed a mark. The ball slipped off your fingers just a hair and veered, an ugly flirtation with the ten. It wobbled. It fell. Your team roared like you'd saved a life. Clark's answering smile across the lanes was all pride and no malice, the look that said I like you better when you win—dangerous in its own right.
He stepped up for his ninth, rolled a ball so pure it felt personal, and left a stubborn seven pin blinking at him like an insult. The room ooh'ed. He set his jaw—farm boy meets deadline—and slid the spare ball down the edge with surgical patience. It kissed the seven so gently it looked choreographed. Spare. Your team groaned; his exploded.
The tenth frame turned into a movie. You opened with a strike that made "Coach" feel like less of a joke on your chest—second ball: nine, a rude seven taunting you back. You squared your shoulders, breathed once, and picked it clean. Your bench howled. Clark needed two marks to edge you. He rolled the first ball—strike, true and loud, pins leaping like they were happy to oblige him. Second ball—another pocket kiss, nine this time, the four wobbling. He stood there, palms on his thighs, smiling at the defiant pin like it was a source he needed to charm.
"C'mon, Kent," Jimmy stage-whispered. "Think of the fries."
Clark's eyes cut to you and held for a beat that felt longer than the length of a lane. You tipped your chin—do it. He sent the spare ball skimming up the edge, and time did that elastic thing where it stretches and snaps back. Tap. The four went. The scoreboard chirped and shuffled; your team groaned with theatrical despair; he high-fived like a chorus line. The margin was a handful of pins and a lot of pride.
By the second game, the blacklights were humming, the music had shifted into guilty-pleasure anthems, and everyone had enough beer in them to turn commentary into a sport of its own. You had been throwing decent frames all night, but this greasy, uneven lane was taunting you. You'd left stubborn pins smirking at you three times in a row.
"Alright, Coach," Jimmy called from the bench, grinning at the chain-stitched nickname on your borrowed shirt. "Show us why you earned the title."
You rolled your shoulders, lined up, and sent the ball gliding. It hooked late, too wide, and left the seven pin standing like a raised eyebrow. Groans rose, good-natured, followed by laughter.
"That's mechanics," Clark said from behind you. His tone wasn't mocking—it was instructional, calm, like he was narrating a story he'd already filed. Before you could turn to face him, he stepped closer. Too close.
"Here," he murmured, suddenly, his body was against yours. His chest was pressed to your back, solid and steady, and his hand ghosted over your forearm until it wrapped gently around your wrist. He adjusted the angle just so. His breath grazed the shell of your ear, warm and low, and you swore the air around you shifted.
"Relax your stance," he said softly so that the others couldn't hear over the music. His other hand came to rest lightly on your hip, a point of balance. You shifted without thinking, and that's when you felt him—hard muscle and heat where his pelvis met the curve of your ass. Your breath hitched. He did, too.
The alley blurred. The cheers, the shouts, the clatter of pins thinned to nothing but the echo of another night, another press of bodies, another forbidden moment. The memory of the kitchen flared like a struck match: you bent forward, his chest at your back, his grip on your hips, his voice rough in your ear as he moved inside you. The parallels weren't subtle. They were a cruel, intoxicating déjà vu.
He steadied your arm, aligning your elbow. "Smooth," he whispered, his lips close enough that the word shivered down your spine.
You closed your eyes for half a second too long, fighting back the rush of heat curling low in your belly. The noise of the bachelor party came crashing back as someone hollered for fries, and another shouted at Jimmy to stop heckling. Still, Clark didn't move right away, and neither did you.
It was just a bowling lesson. Just a hand on your wrist. Just a body behind yours.
But in your minds, it was the kitchen all over again. And both of you knew it.
While the others drifted back to their lanes—trash talk, high-fives, the thunder of pins—you ducked toward the Polaroid booth at the far end of the alley. It was a retro thing with a flickering marquee and a curtain the color of theater velvet. The sign over the coin slot promised "4 photos in 9 seconds," which felt generous and like a dare. Inside, the vinyl seat squeaked; the air smelled faintly of lane oil and hairspray; a box fan in the casing hummed like a nervous heartbeat.
You fed in a few quarters and straightened the strip of paper with the instructions: LOOK HERE →, NO FLASH REFUNDS. The light above the lens warmed to life.
"Room for one more?" came from outside the curtain—polite, a little tentative. Clark.
You slid the curtain aside. Neon washed the hallway behind him, painting his shirt a bruised blue. "Always," you said, and he folded himself into the narrow space with you, shoulders angled, knees knocking yours. It was comically small for a man built like an apology and a promise.
"Thank you," he said, low enough that the fan almost stole it. "For tonight. All of it."
You shrugged, suddenly aware of how loud your breath sounded inside the booth. "You made it easy."
"Not true," he said, smiling, and the little red light blinked. The lens of the eye widened. You both faced forward like school pictures.
The first flash popped, bleaching everything to bone white. You threw a quick grin and a thumbs-up; he crossed his eyes, and you barked a laugh you could feel in your ribs. The second flash found you both doing an over-earnest bowling pose. Third: you leaned shoulder to shoulder, the friendly lean that says we're fine to anyone wandering by. Fourth: a clean, usual smile, the image that could go on a fridge without raising questions.
The machine rumbled. A strip chattered and hung like a tongue, developing to life in soft gray squares. You reached to take it at the same time he did; your fingers touched, and he let go first, careful as always.
"Another?" you asked, to buy yourself one more minute where the world had four vinyl walls and a camera without context.
He didn't answer right away. The booth was warm; your knees were still touching; the fan shivered in the metal shell. His voice came out careful and wrecked in equal measure when he spoke. "I've been trying to be good," he said. "To give you space. To give myself space. And then tonight I watched you laugh with your friends and help Jimmy and... sit with him. And every reasonable thing I've told myself didn't change my feelings." He swallowed. "I can't seem to put you down. I don't know what that says about me. I just know I can't stand the part where you belong to someone else."
The lens light blinked red again—impatient—like the booth was bored with confession. You should have said something measured. You should have said anything at all. Instead, you looked at him and he looked at you, and the proximity did what proximity does.
"Okay," you breathed, and the booth caught the first kiss in a burst of white.
It wasn't dramatic—there was no room for dramatic. It was a soft collision, a surprised inhale, the brush and then press of mouths in a space where you had to fit or not. The second flash popped on a blur of noses and smiles you couldn't quite suppress. The third found you closer, his hand framing your jaw, your palm at his collarbone like you were pinning him to the moment. Between the third and fourth you shifted without thinking, your knee sliding over until you were in his lap, braced on his thighs because there was nowhere else to put yourself, because the booth was small and your want had always been larger than its container.
"Last one," the little ready light seemed to say, and you didn't waste it. You kissed him like you'd meant not to, like you'd practiced not kissing him for months and the muscle memory had finally mutinied. His breath caught; yours matched it; the flash went off and burned the outline of two people who had run out of reasonable arguments.
The machine hummed, thinking it over, and spit the second strip into your hand. The squares ghosted into being: a shy lean, a surprised laugh, a blurred almost, and then a frame that would look like a secret even to a stranger—your hands in his hair, his thumb at your cheek, curtain pulled tight against the rest of the world.
Outside, the alley soundtrack kept going—strikes, cheers, Jimmy's voice punching a hole in the ceiling. Inside, you eased back just enough to see him. The light was kind; the space wasn't. You could feel his heart through the thin V of his shirt. He rested his forehead against yours like a man catching the last rung on a ladder.
"Come with me," he said, almost a whisper. "Tonight. Just... be with me. My last night before all of this becomes paper and photos and a line we can't uncross."
The booth seemed smaller for the words. They pressed at the edges of your chest with the same relentless logic as the camera's countdown: four frames, no do-overs. You felt the weight of the weekend—the rehearsal, the vows, the ring that already knew where it belonged—offset by the gravity that had been pulling at you since a hand shake in a steakhouse and a basement lit by string lights.
You looked down at the two Polaroid strips cooling in your hand, the ink settling into memory in real time, and you looked back up at him.
The curtain shifted in a gust as someone ran past outside. Jimmy whooped on a lane. Somewhere, a fryer dinged. Inside the booth, the fan kept humming, steady and small, like a timer you hadn't set but couldn't ignore.
THE HOTEL swallowed the night in soft carpet and lamp-glow, the kind of quiet that makes you speak in low voices even when you're laughing. After the neon and crash of pins, the lobby felt almost reverent—marble polished to a sheen, a vase of white lilies perfuming the air, the concierge's smile practiced and kind. The shuttle doors sighed shut behind you, and the groomsmen bled away in twos and threes with shoulder squeezes and "see you at call time."
You and Clark ended up at the elevators together without trying to. He pressed the button; the brass circle lit like a small promise. Neither of you said much—just that shallow, breathy talk people do when the real conversation is happening in the space between their ribs.
The doors opened on an empty space. You stepped in. He followed. The mirror on the back wall caught the two of you in charcoal and blue, borrowed bowling shirts stuffed under arms, ties loosened into question marks. The elevator started up with a low hum. You reached for him at the same time he reached for you.
It was instant and uncareful, the kind of kiss that tastes like everything you've been holding back for months. He bracketed you with one hand on the railing, the other at your jaw; you fisted your fingers in the front of his jacket and pulled him closer until the line of him was a fact, not a theory. The elevator climbed; the floor numbers pinged; you broke only when the doors threatened to open on the wrong floor and both of you laughed—wrecked, quiet, a little wild.
The hallway was a tunnel of carpet and hush, wall sconces throwing warm ovals along the runner. You walked side by side because running would have been obvious, because walking was all you could manage. Your shoulders touched once, twice, a brush that felt louder than voices. He held the keycard; you watched the way his hand shook just enough to make the little green light feel like a miracle.
The door swung open on cool air and city glow. A pane of glass framed Metropolis, the skyline stitched in sodium orange and distant blues, the river black and patient below. The room smelled like crisp linen and something citrus. He tossed the keycard to the dresser; you dropped the ridiculous "Coach" shirt on the chair. For a beat you both just stood there, taking in the ordinary furniture and how impossible it suddenly felt.
He closed the distance in three slow steps and kissed you again, not the elevator's rush but a deep, grounding sweep that said you had time now. Your hands found his shoulders, the back of his neck, the place you'd thought about a hundred times when you'd sworn you wouldn't. His mouth softened; his breath caught; the city flickered behind him like a heartbeat.
When you finally came up for air, foreheads touching, he smiled—small, disbelieving, a little wrecked—and said, voice rough at the edges, "We don't have fifteen minutes tonight."
Your laugh was a whisper against his mouth. "No?"
He shook his head once, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "We have all night."
The words loosened something in both of you.
Clark's mouth found yours while his arms slid beneath you, strong and certain, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. The world tilted—curtains and city lights blurring past—until you felt the give of the mattress under his knees. He carried you with a steadiness that made your breath hitch, then lowered himself onto the bed, keeping you balanced in his lap. You straddled him instinctively, thighs bracketing his hips, your chest pressed to his as if there had never been an alternative.
The kiss deepened immediately, no hesitation—just a rush of months of restraint burning up in the friction of lips and tongue. It was hot, hungry, edged with something dangerous but so deliberate it made you shiver. His hands cupped your jaw, then slid down your throat, mapping the slope of your shoulders before dragging lower, pulling you tighter against him until there was no space left to steal. You could taste the whiskey he'd had earlier, mingling with the heat of his breath, intoxicating in a way no glass ever could be.
Your own fingers found the back of his neck, combing through his dark hair, tugging just enough to draw a low sound from him—a sound that only made you kiss him harder, deeper, the kind that blurred the line between wanting and needing. You shifted in his lap and felt him, hard beneath the fabric, the truth of his desire pressed firmly against you.
That was when his hands finally dropped lower, settling on your ass with a firm, possessive grasp. He squeezed, pulling you flush against him, grinding your hips down so you couldn't mistake how badly he wanted you. The friction tore a moan from you, swallowed immediately into the heat of his mouth as he kissed you like a man unraveling.
Clark broke the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. His thumbs kneaded into the curve of you, holding you close as if he never intended to let go. The way his body strained against yours left no question—he was past the point of restraint. And with every grind of your hips, every desperate kiss, you knew you were too.
Your hands moved with deliberate slowness, as though savoring the ritual. Between heated kisses you let your fingers trail down the line of Clark's chest, finding the first button of his bowling shirt. The fabric was still warm from his body. You worked it free, then the next, each one an excuse to drag your knuckles over the solid planes hidden beneath.
Clark groaned into your mouth when he realized what you were doing, but he didn't stop you—if anything, he leaned in harder, kissing you with that desperate hunger that left no doubt he'd been holding this back for far too long.
One button gave way to the next until the spread of charcoal blue cotton parted over him, frame by frame revealing the kind of body Greek statues were carved after. Broad chest, smooth and strong, the kind of physique he usually tucked behind modest shirts and tailored suits. His skin gleamed faintly in the hotel's muted light, every line of muscle etched and defined from years of strength hidden in plain sight.
You pulled the shirt open wider, dragging your palms over the ridges of his abdomen, marveling at the warmth and firmness beneath your hands. He caught your lower lip between his teeth as your touch explored him, and in that moment the contrast nearly unraveled you—the restraint of Clark Kent, glasses and all, paired with the raw, unguarded body that told a truer story.
"God," you breathed against his mouth, half dazed by the sight. "You've been hiding this from the world."
Clark's smile was quick, almost wicked, before it dissolved back into another kiss—hotter, deeper—his hands finding your waist before sliding his palms up your chest, catching the hem of your shirt between his fingers. His touch was unhurried, reverent, as he peeled the fabric upward, baring inch by inch of your skin. The cotton brushed your arms before he tugged it free completely and tossed it aside without looking—his focus entirely on you.
He guided you gently backward until the mattress caught your spine, lowering you down into the cool sheets. The contrast—his heat above you, the chill of the linen beneath—sent a shiver racing through you. Clark followed you down, his weight settling over you but never crushing, his body a steady cage that made you feel both trapped and safe.
For a moment, he didn't move. He simply held himself there, staring into your eyes, his breath mixing with yours. His thumb brushed over your cheek, soft and deliberate, as though committing your face to memory. Then he leaned in and kissed you, slow at first, savoring every press and pull of your lips. His mouth lingered like he was tasting something he'd been starved of, each kiss deeper, hungrier, building until you were both breathless.
When he finally broke away, it wasn't far—just enough to let his lips trace a path down. The line of your jaw. The curve of your throat. The sensitive spot at the base of your neck where he lingered, teeth grazing lightly, pulling a low sound from you that made him smile against your skin. His kisses trailed lower still, across the plane of your collarbone, then over your chest, each one hotter than the last, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
His hand, broad and sure, had already found its way lower. It pressed against the front of your pants, rubbing slowly over your dick still straining beneath the fabric. The friction was maddening—deliberate and controlled, just enough to make you arch into his touch, needing more. He swallowed your ragged gasp with another kiss, his tongue brushing yours as his palm rubbed again, firmer this time, the weight of it a clear promise of what was coming next.
Clark's kisses had worked you into a haze by the time his fingers trailed lower, teasing at the button of your pants. The sound of it popping open was impossibly loud in the quiet room, followed by the low rasp of the zipper being tugged down. He shifted, bracing himself over you with one arm as the other slipped inside, pushing fabric aside until his hand found you.
Your breath hitched when he freed you, the cool air of the room hitting your heated skin, followed instantly by the warmth of his palm wrapping around your dick. Precum already slicked your tip, and Clark used it without hesitation, his thumb smearing it over your head before dragging it down your shaft in a slow, deliberate stroke. The glide was smooth, teasing, purposeful.
He broke the kiss just enough to watch your reaction, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, the way your chest arched slightly off the bed under his touch. "God..." he murmured, almost to himself, as his hand pumped you again, steady, controlled, his thumb circling just beneath the ridge of your head before sliding back down.
Every movement was unhurried, as though he wanted to wring every sound, every shiver, out of you. His grip tightened fractionally, his strokes gaining rhythm, and you groaned, bucking up into his hand. Clark caught your mouth with his again, swallowing your moans, his tongue sweeping against yours in sync with the motions of his hand.
It was intoxicating—the contrast of his gentle, reverent kisses with the firm, practiced rhythm of his hand working you, your arousal slicking each pass, making the friction unbearable in the best way. He lathered every inch of you, each stroke both a gift and a torment, dragging you to the edge while savoring the control of holding you there.
At some point, neither of you really knew when, your pants had joined the growing pile on the floor—shirt, belt, even Clark's button-down crumpled together in careless abandon. The room was warm with the smell of linen and the faint tang of sweat, every sound amplified: your ragged moans, the rustle of sheets beneath you, Clark's breath breaking uneven as he worked you with relentless precision.
You were a mess under his touch—hips arching, fists twisting the sheets, every nerve ending screaming for more. Clark's eyes never left you, even as he leaned back just slightly, his dark hair mussed, his chest broad and cut like stone under the low hotel lamp. He paused, and with a deliberate slowness, reached up to remove his glasses.
The gesture was simple, but in the moment, it unraveled you. The Clark Kent everyone knew—the polished, modest man behind frames—slipped away with that motion. What was left staring down at you was raw, unguarded, almost otherworldly in his beauty. If you hadn't been blinded by the sheer rush of pleasure flooding your body, you'd have sworn he didn't just look like Superman—he was.
Then his mouth replaced his hand, and thought disintegrated into sensation.
The first drag of his lips over your tip had your head snapping back into the pillow, a hoarse cry spilling out of you before you could stop it. His tongue followed, slow, teasing, swirling the precum he'd already spread with his hand, making you twitch beneath the heat of his mouth. He took you deeper, the wet suction overwhelming, his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked skillfully, maddeningly, dragging up and down your dick.
The sight of him—bare, broad, hair falling into his face, eyes glinting with hunger as he went down on you—was seared into your brain. He looked devastating, flawless, impossibly strong. You reached down instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair, and his muffled groan against you vibrated straight through your core, making you gasp his name.
Clark Kent had never looked finer in his life—glasses off, shirt gone, body chiseled and mouth worshiping you like he'd been waiting a lifetime for it. And God help you, he made it impossible to believe he wasn't something more than human.
Every nerve in your body was begging him not to stop. You were so close—every stroke of his mouth, every curl of his tongue had you hovering on the edge, your thighs trembling against his broad shoulders. But Clark, with maddening restraint, pulled back just before you tipped over, letting your length slip from his lips with one final, deliberate drag that left you gasping.
Your protest caught in your throat when you saw his expression. He wasn't teasing—he was determined, hungry, a man pacing himself for something bigger. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward to press a kiss to your hip, grounding you even as he pulled away.
"We're just getting started," he said, voice low and rough, full of promise.
He slid off the bed in one smooth motion, his frame towering in the dim light, the city skyline still glowing through the hotel curtains behind him. His gaze never left yours—not once—as his fingers moved to his belt. The metallic click of the buckle echoed in the quiet, sharp and deliberate, followed by the slow rasp of his zipper. The sound alone sent a shiver racing through you.
With a practiced flick, he shoved both his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion. They pooled around his ankles, forgotten, as he stepped free of them.
And there he was.
Your breath stuttered as your eyes fell to the sight of him—thick, long, already flushed and straining with need. Nine solid inches, hard and proud, framed by the powerful muscles of his thighs and abdomen. The head glistened faintly in the low light, evidence of just how worked up he already was. He didn't try to hide it. He didn't need to. He simply stood there, watching you watch him, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his cock curving upward and ready—ready for you.
The heat that flared in your stomach was almost unbearable.
Clark's movements carried a weight of anticipation, every step deliberate as he closed the space between the foot of the bed and where you lay. His tall frame seemed impossibly large in the low lamplight, casting long shadows across the room. He paused just at the edge, his eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment it felt like the world had gone utterly still—only the sound of your breaths filling the silence.
Then he climbed onto the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he crawled forward, slow, predatory, each shift of his body bringing him closer until he loomed above you. His broad shoulders framed you, muscles moving beneath skin as he prowled his way into your space. His size made you feel caged and claimed all at once, but there was tenderness in the way his gaze lingered, checking that you wanted this as badly as he did.
Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him, your body opening to him as if it had always belonged there. Clark lowered himself until his chest brushed yours, his heat seeping into you, his breath ghosting over your lips.
He dipped his head, his mouth so close you could feel the shape of every word.
"You're mine tonight," he whispered, the syllables low, rough, dripping with possession and need.
A shiver coursed through you, your fingers clutching at his arms as his hand slid down, large and firm, until it curved around your thigh. He grasped it tightly, spreading you wider beneath him, grounding you with a touch that was both commanding and reverent.
Then his lips descended—not to your mouth this time, but lower. He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, his stubble scratching faintly against your sensitive skin. The sound that tore from you was helpless, a ragged gasp that made his own breath hitch.
Clark stayed there for a beat, his mouth pressed to the tender flesh of your thigh, his grip steady on you, before he trailed another kiss just above it—then another—each one closer, hungrier, as though savoring the privilege of exploring you inch by inch.
Time dissolved the moment Clark finally pushed into you.
You gasped as his thick dick stretched you open, every inch of him filling you until you could do nothing but cling to him. Nine inches of solid heat buried deep inside, and yet he didn't rush—he stilled, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath rough as he gave you the chance to adjust, to feel every part of him seated fully within you.
The weight of him inside was overwhelming, nearly too much, but the tenderness in the way he cupped your cheek anchored you. His thumb brushed over your skin, soft and reverent, as though reminding you that despite the raw hunger between you, this wasn't about taking—it was about giving, about connection.
Then he moved.
The first thrust was slow, measured, dragging his length through you so deliberately that sparks raced up your spine. He pulled almost all the way out before sinking back in, the motion smooth, unhurried, sensual in its precision. His hips rolled into yours with a rhythm that felt less like fucking and more like worship, like he was writing a love letter with every stroke.
You lost track of everything else—time, place, reason—dissolving into the cadence of his body pressing into yours. The mattress creaked beneath the slow grind of his movements, your moans muffled against his mouth when he kissed you, swallowing every sound you made. His lips tasted of want and restraint breaking, of months of denied touches now pouring out in one endless moment.
Each thrust was drawn out, sensual to the point of torment, his pace saying clearly he wasn't chasing release yet. He was savoring you—every clench around him, every gasp you made, every arch of your back under his touch. His body spoke devotion in the way his chest pressed to yours, in the way his hands never stopped caressing—sliding down your ribs, gripping your thigh to pull you closer, cradling the back of your head as if you were fragile even while he stretched you full.
Clark wasn't simply taking his pleasure. He was making love to you, in every sense of the word—each thrust a confession, every kiss a vow, every long, drawn-out motion a reminder that he wanted this to last, that he wanted you.
Your body felt like it had been set adrift in pure, unrelenting bliss. Every nerve sparked alive under Clark's touch, every slow thrust sending waves of heat curling deep through you until you could barely remember your own name—only his. Clark. It spilled from your lips in ragged, broken moans, the sound raw, desperate, like a prayer you couldn't stop repeating.
He was on his knees between your spread legs, his tall frame looming powerfully above you, his rhythm steady and intoxicating. His strong hands gripped and caressed your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin, grounding you even as he pushed you higher and higher. The weight of his palms, the way he held you open for him, made you feel claimed—his focus locked entirely on you, like there was nothing else in the world worth looking at.
You couldn't keep your own hands still. They roamed across the solid breadth of his chest, fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle, sliding over the heat of his skin as though trying to memorize every inch. The rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms mirrored his control, the way he held back just enough to savor the moment, to make every movement mean something.
Your back pressed into the mattress as you let yourself go, legs trembling under the relentless devotion of his body. But you never broke the connection of his gaze. His eyes—stormy blue, full of want and something deeper—stayed locked on yours the entire time. It wasn't just lust in them, though lust burned bright; there was emotion, unspoken but heavy, pouring into you with every look.
That eye contact rooted you, bound you together, making every thrust, every caress feel not just physical but profoundly intimate. You weren't just being touched—you were being seen. And it left you undone, whispering his name again and again as if it belonged to you as much as you belonged to him.
The move from the bed to the couch felt almost instinctive, a silent agreement written in the way your bodies clung together. Clark lifted you effortlessly, his strength making the transition seamless, and the next thing you knew the two of you were tangled against the cool leather of the hotel couch. The cushions dipped under his weight as he sank into them, his tall frame sprawling wide, shoulders pressing back until he looked both completely relaxed and impossibly commanding.
You followed him down, your lips finding his again in a heated kiss before breaking away to begin a slower exploration. Your mouth trailed across his jawline, then down the thick column of his throat, tasting the salt of his skin as his Adam's apple bobbed under your kisses. Your hands glided over the broad expanse of his chest, fingers dragging lightly across each muscle as if mapping them, until your mouth followed the same path. You kissed down over his collarbone, then his pecs, pausing to drag your tongue across a nipple just to hear the low groan that rumbled from his chest.
Clark's breathing grew heavier as you descended lower. His abs tightened beneath your lips with every kiss, every nip, your tongue tracing the ridges of muscle that carved his torso like marble. He shifted slightly, legs spreading wider, his body offering itself to you while his arms stretched out to either side of the couch. He rested them there casually, hands draped over the edges, but the tension in his grip betrayed how much restraint it took not to reach for you.
By the time you reached his hips, his cock was already hard, thick, flushed, standing tall against his stomach. Precum glistened at the tip, catching the dim hotel light. You looked up at him once, pausing with your lips a breath away, and met his gaze.
His blue eyes burned into yours, unwavering, a mix of hunger and something far more dangerous—trust, devotion, possession. He didn't look away for even a second. His chest rose and fell heavily, but his arms stayed stretched out wide against the couch, like a king settling into his throne, watching you worship him.
That gaze alone left you trembling with anticipation. You'd never felt more powerful—or more undone—than in that moment, kneeling between his legs with his eyes locked on yours and his cock waiting for your mouth.
You lowered your head slowly, deliberately, letting your lips ghost along the underside of Clark's thick length before even giving him what he wanted. The heat of him pulsed against your mouth, hard and heavy, and you pressed soft kisses up his shaft, teasing, dragging your tongue along a vein that made him twitch under the touch.
Clark's jaw clenched, his head tipping back against the couch, but his eyes never left you. His hands flexed against the cushions at either side, the muscles in his arms straining as he held himself in check. When you swirled your tongue around the tip, catching the salty-sweet taste of precum, his breath came out sharp, chest heaving.
But you didn't take him in fully—not yet. Instead, you let your lips dance around the head, tongue flicking across it, circling, pulling back again with maddening slowness. You heard the low growl in his throat, saw the tension in his neck, the flicker in his eyes as he fought the urge to grab your head and push.
"You're testing me," he muttered, voice thick, almost warning.
That was your cue.
You parted your lips wider and finally sank down, stretching your mouth around his girth. Inch by inch, you worked him deeper, the thick heat of him filling you until your throat ached and your eyes watered, but you didn't stop. Your tongue flattened along the underside, savoring the weight of him, the taste that was entirely Clark—raw, masculine, intoxicating.
The smell of his skin, clean sweat and musk, filled your senses as much as the taste did. You moaned around him, the vibrations pulling another sound from his chest—a ragged gasp that told you exactly how close to the edge your teasing had pushed him.
You pulled back slowly, letting your lips drag up the entire length, glistening and wet, before sliding him back in again, deeper this time. Each bob of your head was met with his unblinking gaze, those storm-blue eyes locked on yours with such intensity it nearly undid you.
Every second, every inch, every taste of him was overwhelming. You weren't just pleasuring him—you were savoring him. The sight of Clark—head tipped back, mouth parted, body trembling with restraint while his cock disappeared into your mouth—was something you knew would be burned into your memory forever.
Clark let you take control. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, the cords of muscle in his neck taut as he held himself still and let you work him with your mouth. Every glide of your lips down his shaft, every swirl of your tongue around his head, drew a low sound from his chest that bordered between a groan and a gasp.
It was different—you were different. He knew love, real love, with Lois, and nothing could ever diminish that. But this... this raw, unfiltered intensity was something he had never experienced before. The way you looked at him with fire in your eyes while your mouth stretched around him, the way you devoured him like he was something to be worshipped—it pulled him into a place he didn't know he could go. He felt consumed by it, undone, and the truth of it terrified and thrilled him at once. Each wet pull of your mouth, each muffled moan, chipped away at his restraint, and with every second, he could feel himself falling deeper—not just into desire, but into you.
A growl rumbled from his throat before his hand finally gave in to what he'd been resisting. His fingers slid into your hair, threading through the strands, and he grasped the back of your head firmly but not without care. He guided you down, his hips lifting at the same time, pushing himself deeper into the heat of your throat.
The control shifted in that moment. His hips began to roll, slow at first, testing your limits, watching your eyes water as he fed himself into your mouth. The sight made his chest quake with a groan he couldn't contain. His other hand dropped from the back of the couch to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin as though to soothe even while he held you in place.
He fucked your mouth with deliberate strokes, deep and rhythmic, his length sliding wetly between your lips. The sound of it—slick, raw, obscene—filled the quiet of the hotel room, broken only by your muffled moans and the ragged curses he let slip under his breath. His eyes never left yours, locked tight, every thrust of his hips telling you without words how badly he wanted you, how much you were unraveling him.
And for Clark Kent, who lived his life controlled, measured, careful—that loss of control was everything.
Clark's grip tightened in your hair one last time before he finally pulled you off him, his cock slipping wetly from your mouth with a slick pop. Strings of saliva clung between your lips and the head of his length, glistening in the low hotel light, a raw, messy evidence of what he'd just done to you. Your chest heaved, mouth swollen, breaths ragged.
Before you could wipe your face, his hands were under your arms, lifting you effortlessly from the ground as though you weighed nothing. His strength was overwhelming, but the tenderness in the way he handled you made your stomach twist. He brought you up to him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your chest pressed to his as he kissed you hard.
The kiss was hot, almost violent in its intensity, his tongue plunging into your mouth like he couldn't get enough. He tasted himself on you, mingling with the slick saliva coating your lips, and rather than shy away from the mess, he devoured it—devoured you. His tongue swept across your mouth, tasting everything, cleaning you in a way that was both filthy and unbearably intimate. It made your head spin.
He turned and lowered himself back onto the couch, keeping you straddled over him, your knees braced against the cushions on either side of his thighs. His large hands slid down to your ass, gripping firmly, kneading your flesh as he guided your body against his. He pulled you flush against him, grinding you down until the hard press of your length slid against his, both of you throbbing, both slick with precum.
The sensation was electric—your cocks rubbing together, trapped between the heat of your bodies and the rough friction of skin. Each rock of your hips sent sparks shooting through you, your breath breaking in moans against his lips. Clark's own groan vibrated into your mouth, low and guttural, as he matched your movements, pushing up against you so the friction doubled.
His eyes never left yours—dark, stormy blue, wide open with hunger and something deeper, something dangerously close to adoration. His hands tightened on your ass, pulling you harder against him, making you grind until every nerve screamed with sensation. The wet sounds of your bodies sliding together mixed with the desperate kiss, your names swallowed between moans.
Every thrust, every grind, was a tease of what was coming, your lengths straining against each other, aching, as though daring you both to see who would lose control first.
Clark slid one strong arm around your back, the other cupping beneath your thigh as he lifted you up. Your body rose effortlessly under his strength, your legs spread wide around his waist, your chest pressed to his. For a brief moment you hovered above him, the swollen head of his cock dragging slickly against your entrance, coated in your arousal and his precum.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered you back down. His length pushed into you with an intoxicating ease, stretching you full, sliding into the heat of your body until he was seated entirely inside. The sound you made—a broken moan, helpless and raw—pulled a guttural groan from him, his lips brushing your temple as though grounding you both in that perfect connection.
His hands steadied you at your waist, guiding the rhythm as you began to ride him. "That's it," he murmured, voice deep and rough, his words vibrating against your ear. "Just like that. Take me. You feel so damn good around me."
Every rise and fall of your body was met with his encouragement, his praises spilling out between heavy breaths and low groans. "Look at you... riding me so beautifully. God, you were made for this—for me." His eyes never left yours, stormy blue locked in as if memorizing every shiver, every twitch, every gasp that escaped you.
You rocked your hips down harder, chasing the delicious friction, and his praise deepened into something darker, more seductive. "Yeah... grind on me, baby. Show me how much you want it. How much you need me inside you." His hands gripped tighter at your ass, pulling you down harder with each thrust, making you gasp out his name.
But then his tone softened, layered with affection that made your chest ache. "So perfect... every inch of you. You don't even know what you do to me." He kissed your lips, then your jaw, then whispered directly into your ear: "You're mine tonight. All mine."
The words—equal parts worship and possession—fused with the rhythm of his body beneath you. His length filled you over and over as you rode him, his hips bucking up to meet your every motion, his praises guiding you, seducing you, breaking you down until the only thing left was him, his voice, and the unbearable ecstasy building between you.
The night had blurred into a haze of sweat, kisses, and tangled sheets, time unraveling with every thrust and gasp. At some point you'd caught a glimpse of the clock in the mirror across the room—red digital numbers glowing faintly in the dark. 4:02 AM. The sight had startled you for half a second, a reminder of how much of the night had already slipped away, before Clark's mouth found yours again and pulled you right back under.
By then, you'd both come undone more than once. Your bodies had climbed that peak and fallen into release together, only to find yourselves tangled back up in each other, hungry all over again. Two times, then three, and still it wasn't enough. Each climax left you trembling, spent... and yet the moment Clark's lips brushed your skin, or his cock pressed into you again, your body was ready, desperate for more.
You couldn't explain how you were still moving with him, how your thighs still gripped his hips, how your back still arched for every deep thrust. Maybe it was Clark's impossible stamina, the way his body seemed built to endure without faltering. Maybe it was his energy, infectious, radiating through you every time his mouth spilled another moan or your name. Or maybe it was the simple truth that the pleasure he gave you was inexhaustible, addictive in a way that made your body refuse to quit.
Every part of you was hypersensitive now—your skin slick and hot, your chest rising and falling in shallow pants, your throat hoarse from the sounds he wrung out of you. And still, when his hands gripped your hips and he whispered one more, you found yourself nodding, moaning, moving with him like your body belonged to him entirely.
You didn't know how you had anything left to give. But as long as Clark looked at you like that—eyes stormy, lips swollen, his entire body devoted to wringing pleasure out of yours—you knew you weren't stopping. Not until the sun itself demanded it.
Your body was slick with sweat, every muscle burning with pleasure, but you held onto Clark like he was the only thing tethering you to the world. Your forehead pressed against his, your breaths mingling in ragged gasps, the air between you hot and damp. His hands clamped down firmly on your waist, guiding your movements as you rode him with desperate, unrelenting rhythm.
Your back arched, chest pressed forward, and your ass bounced hard against his thighs with each downward slam. The sound of your bodies colliding—wet, raw, obscene—echoed in the quiet of the hotel room, mixing with your moans and his low, guttural grunts. Every thrust he drove upward into you was deep, precise, his cock stretching you perfectly, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
Clark's jaw was tight, his teeth gritted as he met every bounce with powerful thrusts of his hips. His eyes locked with yours, stormy blue and burning, refusing to look anywhere else as if he needed to see every flicker of ecstasy cross your face. "That's it," he growled, voice breaking as his pace grew rougher. "Ride me... take it all."
Your thighs trembled, your body rocking against him with everything you had left, chasing that final high. Clark's hands slipped lower, one gripping your ass firmly, helping you rise and crash back down onto his thick cock, the other sliding up your back to keep you steady. You could feel his cock swelling inside you, the rhythm faltering as his control finally snapped.
Then it hit—Clark buried himself to the hilt and held you down tight against him, his head tipping back with a guttural cry as hot pulses of his seed spilled deep into your hole. The warmth flooded you, filling you in thick waves that made you shudder and moan his name into his open mouth.
Your body clenched around him instinctively, milking every last drop as he groaned through it, his chest heaving against yours, his breath stuttering in uneven gasps. You stayed locked together like that, forehead to forehead, your ass still pressed flush against his lap, both of you shaking, both of you utterly undone, his release searing inside you as proof of just how completely he'd claimed you.
You stayed there for what felt like forever, still straddling Clark's lap, your chests pressed together, sweat cooling against skin. His cock remained buried inside you even as the urgency bled into something softer, slower—just the warmth of being joined, the comfort of refusing to let go.
Your head rested against his shoulder, your lips brushing the damp skin of his neck as you tried to steady your breathing. Clark's arms circled you completely, holding you close as if the world might try to pry you away. His body was broad and steady beneath yours, his heartbeat still pounding hard enough that you could feel it against your chest.
Eventually, you felt the tension in him ease. His release had run its course, and his length, once thick and unyielding inside you, softened. With a gentle shift of his hips, Clark pulled out of you, careful not to break the closeness of your embrace. The absence left you aching and empty, but before the thought could even settle, his palm smoothed across your back.
He stroked you slowly, reverently, his large hand gliding from the nape of your neck down to the small of your spine, tracing lazy circles over your damp skin. His touch wasn't lustful now—it was grounding, tender, like he was memorizing you with every pass of his hand.
"You're incredible," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear, his voice low and ragged but threaded with awe. His thumb brushed along your shoulder blade, lingering there, as though he couldn't quite stop touching you, couldn't quite let go.
The rhythm of his caress lulled you into a quiet haze, the heat of the night giving way to the intimacy of the aftermath. You melted against him, your body heavy but your heart unbearably light, soothed by the simple act of Clark's hand stroking your back—an intimacy more profound than even the fevered passion you'd shared.
You were the first to find your voice, cheek still resting against his shoulder. "Shower. Then at least a couple hours of sleep—we've gotta be up and out by seven."
Clark huffed a tired laugh against your hair. "Seven," he echoed, like a man bargaining with fate. He tipped your face up with two fingers, studying you in the low light. "Only if you come with me."
"I—"
He softened the insistence with a smile and a question. "May I?" When you nodded, he slid an arm under your knees and another behind your back and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. You yelped once, then laughed, arms looping around his neck as he carried you through the dim room toward the bathroom.
He shouldered the door with a gentle bump. The vanity lights warmed on—soft, hotel-amber—and turned the marble counter into a small stage of neatly arranged amenities: tiny bottles of cedar-and-citrus body wash, a rectangular bar of soap wrapped like a gift, white towels folded with military precision. He set you on the cool counter edge for a moment, thumbs skimming your hips to steady you, and turned on the shower. The rainfall head answered with a hush, steam blooming against the glass like a secret.
Clark tested the water with his wrist, adjusting until it was just shy of hot. "Perfect," he decided, then looked back at you like a question again. You slid off the counter into his orbit, and he took your hand, leading you into the fogging stall.
Heat wrapped around both of you. The spray pounded pleasantly at tight muscles; city grit and the salt of the night bled away in winding rivulets. Clark moved with unhurried care—workmanlike, tender—lathering the cedar wash between his palms before smoothing it across your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. His fingers worked circles into knots at your neck until your head tipped forward on a sigh.
"My turn," you murmured, trading places. You worked shampoo through his hair, the dark curls slicking under your fingertips as he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, that impossible body suddenly all gentle weight and trust. Suds ran in white ropes over the lines of his chest; you chased them with your palms, rinsing, smoothing, letting the water do the talking for both of you.
There were kisses, but they were slow and soft—temples, forehead, the corner of a smile—newly domestic after the wildness of the night. When the water finally lost its bite of heat, he reached for towels, wrapping one around your shoulders and another around his hips. He towel-dried your hair with a careful roughness, then pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.
Back in the bedroom, he thumbed his phone awake and winced. "Alarm for 6:15," he said, the reporter in him slipping back on like a jacket. "Backup at 6:20?"
You set yours, too—double insurance—and dropped the devices face down on the nightstand. Sheets turned cool again when you slid beneath them. Clark followed, fitting himself to your back without a word, one arm banding your waist, the other splayed warm and wide over your sternum like a promise.
"Hey," he whispered into the space behind your ear, voice already thick with sleep. "Thanks for tonight."
"Sleep," you answered, threading your fingers through his where they rested against your chest.
The room fell quiet but for the soft thrum of the HVAC and the city's distant hush. Steam still ghosted the bathroom glass. Two alarms glowed faintly beside two cooling glasses of water. You let your eyes fall shut, the scent of cedar and citrus in the sheets, Clark's breath evening out against your neck, and let morning be someone else's problem for a few hours.
THE ALARMS did their merciless little duet—yours at 6:15, his at 6:20—and the spell broke. Morning had a different weight to it. The room was gray-blue with city light, the skyline a row of cold teeth through the slit in the curtains. Clark's arm was still draped over your waist, heavy and warm, his breath a steady tick at the back of your neck until he stirred, blinked, and reality slid in behind his eyes.
"Seven," he said, voice roughened to velvet.
"Seven," you echoed, and the word felt like a switch.
You disentangled gently, both of you suddenly careful in a way you hadn't been all night. He found his boxers by feel; you found your underwear under the chair where the ridiculous "Coach" shirt still hung like an inside joke. The shower smell—cedar and citrus—still clung to your skin.
You checked the mirror: mouth a shade too flushed, a faint scrape of stubble burn along your throat, the kind of glow that didn't read as "slept eight hours." You splashed cold water until your face remembered how to be plausible. Clark watched you from the edge of the bed, shoulders squared, tie draped around his neck like a question. He didn't say anything like stay. You didn't say anything like I can't. You both nodded once, an agreement you hadn't scripted.
"I'll see you downstairs," he said softly, and that was both too much and exactly right.
The hallway made a point of being ordinary—patterned carpet, warm sconces, a housekeeping cart parked like a thought halfway formed. You walked it with your heartbeat lodged too high and your keycard a talisman against panic. At your door, you took one breath, then another, smoothed your collar, and slid the card.
You expected empty.
Noah was sitting on the edge of the bed in jeans and a soft sweater, hands clasped loose between his knees, a hotel mug steaming on the nightstand. He looked up the second the lock clicked, relief surfacing and then rearranging itself into something more complicated.
"There you are," he said, standing. "I... came up early. Wanted to surprise you. You weren't in bed."
The room tilted a degree. You set your keycard on the console like it weighed more than plastic. "I—" Your mouth chose a lane before your brain could vote. "Clark's room. I crashed there after we wrapped. We were sorting final groomsmen stuff and I just... passed out."
The lie sounded neat and laminated in the air. It also sounded like a lie to you because you knew it was.
Noah's face shifted through three expressions fast enough to blur—concern, a flash of hurt he tamped down, then the careful neutrality of a man who chooses his words. He stepped closer, eyes scanning you the way you'd seen him read people he cared about: the damp at your hairline, the faint pink bloom along your throat, the undone top button you'd missed. He took in the cedar scent that wasn't his, that was, maddeningly, the hotel's too, and you saw him file that mercy away.
"Long night," he said finally, not a question.
"Long," you agreed, already moving—garment bag onto the hook, shoes out of their trees, tux spread across the back of the chair like a shield. You let the bustle cover you, stepping out of the angle of his gaze, into the small refuge of the closet mirror. "I'm running late. Call time's unforgiving. Can I—?"
"Yeah," he said quickly, stepping aside, granting you the bathroom like it could solve something. "Do what you need."
You crossed the room in three practiced motions, grateful for movement. In the mirror, the version of you that looked back was composed enough to pass inspection; only the eyes gave anything away, and you dropped your gaze before you had to decipher what they were telling on you.
You turned the water on too fast, let the taps hiss, set your watch and cufflinks by the sink with the precision of a ritual. Behind you, Noah stood in the doorway's wash of light, shoulders broad, hands back in his pockets like he didn't know what to do with them.
"I grabbed coffee," he said, softer. "It's on the nightstand. I can steam your tux if you want."
"Thanks," you said, throat tight around the single syllable. "You're a lifesaver."
He nodded, that generous, maddening patience of his settling over the room. You slipped out of his line of sight, into steam and the white noise of the shower, and pressed your palms flat to the cool porcelain edge of the sink for a count of five.
Seven o'clock had arrived. So had everything it required of you.
THE ELEVATOR doors parted on a lobby already humming with wedding-day nerves—polished marble, oversized lilies, a concierge moving like a metronome. You and Noah stepped out in charcoal and dove, the two of you a clean line in a room full of tuxedoed motion. Clark and the groomsmen were clustered near the revolving door: Jimmy in a bow tie he'd clearly YouTubed at dawn, the best man comparing pocket squares, two cousins arguing about whether brown shoes were a moral failing.
"Roll call," you said, slipping into the current. You did a quick sweep—the headcount first, then the details: ties straight, boutonnieres still bagged and cool, cufflinks matched, no one with a mysterious lint halo. You tapped the group chat—🚌 shuttle here in 2, grab your garment bags, let's move—and felt your shoulders drop a fraction when replies came back as thumbs and check marks instead of chaos.
Outside, the hotel's shuttle idled at the curb, diesel purring like a big cat. You stowed a stack of spare umbrellas by the door, handed Noah your list, and started funneling Kent's army through the airlock: "Jimmy, last; you're the wrangler. Donovan, lose the sunglasses unless you're a bassist. Boutonnières at the venue—no one pokes themselves in a moving vehicle."
In the middle of the flow, Clark stepped in front of you—hair neatly coerced, tie set in that soft blue that made the world too bright. He didn't touch you. He just lifted his hand between you—palm closed, then open.
A pair of Polaroid strips lay across his skin, developing dyes now dark and sure. The first set was harmless: you shoulder to shoulder, laughing mid-blink, an exaggerated bowling pose. The second set wasn't. In two squares your faces were too close; in the third, your hand was in his hair; in the fourth... lips and blur and a curtain pulled tight against the world.
"You left these," he said, low enough to be swallowed by the lobby. No accusation, no plea—just the fact of it.
Heat climbed the back of your neck. You slid the strips into the inside pocket of your jacket without looking at them, feeling the glossy edges catch against the lining like a secret trying to snag. "Thanks," you said, voice even by force.
Noah's reflection ghosted past in the brass of the revolving door, shepherding a cousin toward the shuttle with an easy clap on the shoulder. He caught your eye, gave you the smallest nod—we're on schedule—and turned back to the task at hand. The knot in your chest eased, then tightened again when Clark's gaze flicked—brief, unreadable—from you to Noah and back.
"Alright, gentlemen," you called, stepping backward into the herder's lane. "If you're not in the shuttle in sixty seconds, the shuttle leaves without you and I tell Lois your boutonnière wilted because you were busy taking selfies."
That did it. Jackets settled, shoes scuffed forward, bodies found seats. Noah slid in near the front and reached back to squeeze your hand as you swung the folding door shut. Clark took the second row aisle, Jimmy across from him, both of them turning just enough to watch you hop up the last step.
You gave the driver the address, checked your watch, and took the jump seat by the door. The Polaroids pressed warm against your ribs like a heartbeat as the shuttle eased into traffic—Metropolis bright and blank-faced beyond the glass, the venue waiting, the clock now your ally and your judge.
THE SHUTTLE rolled up to the venue just as the morning light found the building's bones—an old art-deco hall with brass doors and a terrace that looked out over the river. Inside, it smelled like peonies and furniture polish. Café lights slept along the ceiling; a florist in black skated past with a cloud of white ranunculus; the coordinator pointed with a headset and a clipboard like a benevolent air-traffic controller.
"Groomsmen with me," you called, flicking into handler mode. You funneled Clark and the guys into the spare suite off the main ballroom—a handsome little parlor with a three-way mirror, a garment rack, and a heroically humming steamer. Your emergency kit hit the console: lint roller, safety pins, collar stays, mints, a sewing kit the size of a deck of cards, and a Tide pen you prayed you wouldn't need.
You worked down the line like a tailor with a deadline. Cuffs straightened. Bow ties corrected (Jimmy's, twice). Pocket squares puffed and then, at Clark's lapel, folded into a crisp presidential square because he wore precision like a second skin. Boutonnières had arrived cool and perfect; you placed Clark's yourself—stem at eleven o'clock, pin catching backing and cloth so it wouldn't sag. He held your gaze a heartbeat longer than necessary; you stepped away before the ground could tilt.
"Shoes," you said, and an obedient shuffle of leather answered. "Phones on silent. Hydrate. No one faints on my watch."
A final sweep—everyone accounted for, no mysteries, no missing cufflinks—and you handed the squad off to Jimmy with a two-finger salute. Then you slipped into the corridor toward the bridal side of the world.
Your father intercepted you first, already in place like the building's head of security. Tie razor-straight, hands behind his back, he surveyed the lobby with proprietary calm. "Punctual," he said, which in his language was high praise.
"Punctual is respect," you returned, and he allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Then: the dressing suite, a hush that felt like church. Lois stood on a small dais while the seamstress fastened the last pearl buttons. The dress was simple and lethal—silk crepe that skimmed and then pooled, a square neckline that made her collarbones look like sculpture, a line of covered buttons down the spine that Lucy swore she would not let anyone rush. Her veil spilled like water. The bouquet—white ranunculus, garden roses, a whisper of jasmine—waited in a vase by the window.
Lucy, hair up and eyes wicked, turned first. "Well? Are the penguins presentable?"
"The penguins are devastating," you said, and then Lois swivelled and the rest of the room fell away. She looked happy in a way that made your chest hurt—sister and comet and all the light in one place. You kissed her cheek carefully, mindful of makeup.
"Okay," she said, hands on your lapels like she might straighten you by osmosis. "Report. Bachelor party. Damage. Did he behave?"
You gave her the cleaned-up cut. "Stop one: oak and orange peel. Ethical roast at The Comet—gentle mean, excellent crowd work. Bowling under blacklights. Polaroids. Everyone home before curfew. Your fiancé sang Springsteen like a man who pays his taxes early."
Lucy snorted. "Translation: he behaved."
"He had fun," you said, and that was the honest answer. "A lot of it."
Lois's shoulders loosened; her smile went soft. "Good. He deserves it."
She stepped off the dais and took your hands, her veil whispering as it settled. "Thank you," she added, voice low enough that it wasn't for the room. "For making it easy. For making it him."
You squeezed back. "Always."
Behind you, your father cleared his throat delicately and announced he was going to "inspect the aisle." Lucy rolled her eyes and followed to supervise the supervising. The florist swept in with the finished bouquets; the coordinator murmured places; the room shifted from getting ready to getting real.
You slipped one more look at Lois—buttons, veil, the grin she couldn't quite suppress—and felt something settle. Outside, the groomsmen were buttoned, polished, accounted for. Inside, your sisters were luminous and armed with bobby pins. You were exactly where you were supposed to be.
On your way back toward the parlor, you felt the small, stiff rectangles inside your jacket—two Polaroid strips tucked safe against your ribs. You pressed a palm lightly to the pocket, exhaled once, and went to collect your line. It was time.
THE SPARE room had emptied around him. You could hear the distant swell of strings warming up in the ballroom, the coordinator's voice counting down in a headset, the florist's cart squeaking across marble—wedding sounds rolling toward an inevitable hour. The other groomsmen had already been siphoned off to line up. Only Clark remained, a tall, composed shape in soft blue and charcoal, checking his cuff with a concentration that looked like prayer.
You slipped in and closed the door behind you. The room held that pre-ceremony hush: peonies breathing perfume in a vase, the steamer's metal still warm, your emergency kit open like a surgeon's tray. The window framed the river in winter steel.
"Final check," you said, because logistics was safer than truth. You touched the edge of his pocket square—one neat tap—smoothed a nearly imaginary ripple in his lapel, set the boutonnière a hair truer. Up close, he smelled like cedar and clean linen. Up close, he was impossible.
"Everything's..." He glanced past you toward the corridor where laughter spilled and stilled. "Beautiful," he finished, and the word tangled in his throat like it had grown barbs. "You did all of this."
"Lois did," you said. "I just wrangled."
"Then you wrangled perfect."
Silence opened. Not awkward—heavy. You heard the clock in the hallway click to the next minute. You looked at the neat line of his tie and then at your hands and then, finally, at him.
"This is the last time," you said. No ramp-up, no preamble. "After today, you don't get to see me anymore. Not like this. Not... near. We can't be in a room together without setting something on fire. We tried distance. We failed. So I'm making it simple."
His face didn't crumple. It didn't do anything as dramatic as that. It tightened—like a man holding a load he wasn't allowed to put down. "Don't," he said, softly. "Don't make it sound tidy. It isn't."
"I know." Your mouth went dry. "And that's the point."
He took one careful breath, then another, and when he spoke the words were stripped of varnish. "I love Lois. That doesn't have a hinge. It doesn't swing. But I can't pretend that loving her changed what happened to me when I met you. I have tried to file you as a mistake, a moment, a storm. It's not that." His voice dropped. "I have never wanted anyone the way I want you. I have never looked for someone in a room the way my head looks for you. I hear a laugh and I think it's yours. I taste lemon and it's your mouth. I don't know how to be the man I promised to be and carry this, and I hate that the answer seems to be... losing you."
You had braced for a hundred versions of goodbye. Not this. Your chest burned the way it does when you've run too hard in cold air. "You can't say that to me right now."
"When am I allowed?" His eyes were clear and wrecked at once. "After? When it's unforgivable? I want one thing I'm allowed to say before I put it all away: I do not want to let you go."
The strings in the ballroom slid toward something like a processional. Someone in the corridor laughed, then shushed, the sound of a veil being adjusted. You could feel Lois's happiness like heat in the next room. You could feel Clark's pulse under your palm where your hand had found his chest without permission. Everything you had promised yourself knocked on your ribs and asked to be let back in.
"Lois first," you said, and it came out a rasp.
"I know," he said, and something in his face accepted a sentence you wished you could reprieve. "I'm not asking you to wreck her joy. I'm asking for a last thing."
"What?"
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Goodbye that feels like a goodbye."
You should have said no. You should have stepped back and let the head usher find him and the vows take him and the afternoon fold him into a life he chose. Instead you let him step forward, and then you were both moving, meeting in the middle like you always did, that gravitational click swallowing every rule.
The kiss wasn't wild. It was ruinously tender. He cupped your jaw like it was the last time his hands would be allowed to know your face; you caught his lapels like you were steadying both of you. Months of restraint spilled through it—heat, apology, something like thank you. You breathed him in, and the room narrowed to cedar and salt and the impossible truth of two people prying themselves apart in order to do the right thing.
The door opened.
"Noah—" His name broke out of you like a dropped glass.
He stood just inside the threshold, one hand still on the knob. Confusion hit first—eyes flicking from your mouth to Clark's hands to the too-small distance between your bodies. Shock followed so quickly it looked like the same expression. Anger came last, hot and clean, rising up his throat into a flush that sat high on his cheeks. A paper triangle—place card, boutonnière label, something meaningless a second ago—crumpled in his fist without him noticing.
"What," he said, flat as concrete, "am I looking at?"
You stepped back from Clark like the floor had moved. The room did that elastic trick where distance stretches and snaps. Words crowded at the back of your tongue and none of them were the right ones.
Noah's gaze cut to Clark, then returned to you, and the hurt in it was a blade. Outside in the corridor, the coordinator called for places. The strings in the ballroom shifted to the first bright notes of a processional. Somewhere, your father's voice said something about doors.
"I need an answer," Noah said, softer now, which was worse. "Right now."
You opened your mouth.
The world on the other side of the door surged—laughter, shuffling, someone saying Lois's name with awe. In here, three people stood in a room that had just stopped pretending to be safe.
SUMMARY —You promised yourself you were done with impossible men—especially the kind already promised to someone else. Especially when that someone else was your sister.
Metropolis makes a habit of testing promises. The night you meet Clark Kent—black hair tamed into obedience, blue eyes that see too much, shoulders filling a navy suit like it was built around him—you feel the rulebook in your chest loosen a stitch.
WARNING! 18+MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Sexual Themes.
WORDS! 13.1k
AUTHOR'S NOTE! here we are with another Clarkie fic, this idea was stuck in my head and I had to get it out. The excitement of Clark sneaking around with his brother in law was something I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to see.✨🥹
YOU HIT the revolving door at a jog, breath fogging the glass as you shoulder through into the old Metropolis steakhouse your father loves—dark wood, brass lamps, and the low murmur of a hundred important conversations. The maître d' recognizes the family name and tips his head toward the back. You're late, and you can already hear your father's voice in your head: punctuality is respect.
They're at a corner booth beneath a framed Daily Planet front page. Lois spots you first and lifts a hand, relief and annoyance sharing the same look. Lucy grins over a half-empty champagne flute. Your father checks his watch with the slow, theatrical disapproval he's perfected over decades.
"Nice of you to join us," he says as you slide in, smoothing the front of your spring-break sweater like it's armor. "Punctuality—"
"—is respect," you finish, dropping a kiss on Lois's cheek and tapping Lucy's glass with a knuckle. "Which is why I respectfully fought downtown traffic."
Lois elbows your father under the table. "He's here, Dad. That's what matters."
And then you see him.
Black hair, neatly combed but with a stubborn wave that refuses to obey. Blue eyes behind simple, square frames. He's big—built like a Greek statue in a navy suit that fits like it was tailored yesterday and somehow still looks modest on him. There's a softness to the mouth, a steadiness to the jaw, and something careful in the way he sits—like he's learned to take up less space than his body wants to claim.
He stands as you approach, napkin folded in one hand, the other extended. "Clark Kent," he says, voice warm as the lamplight. Kansas with a polish—farm dirt washed off but never forgotten.
Your palm meets his, and something snaps—a tiny, private current that runs from your hand to your elbow, sparks along your shoulder, and settles somewhere beneath your ribs. His grip is firm without proving anything, but he feels... immovable. Like if you leaned, he would hold.
"Finally," Lois says, bright, almost proud. Her engagement ring winks when she rests her hand on his sleeve. "This is my fiancé, Clark."
"Fiancé," Lucy sings, waggling her brows. "Say it again, I like the sound."
"Fiancé," Lois repeats, laughing as if she can't help it, as if the word tugs a smile out of her every time.
You pull free of Clark's hand slower than you should, your heartbeat a touch out of rhythm. "Good to meet you," you tell him, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "I've heard... a lot."
"All lies, I hope," he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. He looks at you for a beat too long, not intrusive, just attentive, as if he's cataloging you the way reporters do—facts first, judgement later.
Dinner starts with the clink of glasses. Your father orders for the table without asking—old habit—and resumes his natural habitat: interrogations disguised as conversation. "Metropolis U treating you well?" he asks, carving the question like a command.
"It is," you say. "Midterms survived, somehow."
"Don't 'somehow' through midterms," he replies. "The only boy in this family ought to—"
"—be better?" you finish again, because it's easier to defuse a mine you've stepped on a hundred times. "Working on it."
Clark's eyes flick from your father to you and back, measuring the air pressure. "Midterms are brutal," he says gently, like he's tossing you a rope. "I almost flunked out of a journalism ethics seminar because I couldn't stop rewriting my final. Perfection's a habit you have to break on deadline."
Lois beams. "See? He's human. Mostly."
"Questionable," Lucy murmurs into her glass, and you smother a smile.
The waiter arrives with bread and butter and blessed interruption. Under the table, you flex the hand that shook his, trying to dispel the phantom charge. Across from you, Clark sits like a man who knows exactly how strong he is and refuses to prove it—quiet, patient, listening. When he laughs, it's genuine; when he speaks, he turns his shoulders to whoever he's addressing, as if that person is, for that moment, the center of the room.
"So, Metropolis U," he says, tilting toward you once the plates are down. "What's your focus?"
"Criminal psychology," you say, trying not to notice the way his eyes sharpen—interested, not interrogating. "And a minor in mythology, because I like stories where monsters aren't always what they seem."
"Those are the best ones," he says, and you could swear the light catches a hint of something in his expression—recognition, maybe. "Besides, most heroes don't know they are until someone asks them to be."
Your father clears his throat, hauling the conversation back to his end of the table. "Clark, Lois says you're a reporter. That a real job now, or just tweets and selfies?"
Clark smiles, unbothered. "I still use a notepad, sir."
"Good answer," your father says, and for him, that's almost affection.
Lois nudges Clark's knee with hers, and he glances down at her hand, at the ring, and then up at you. It should be nothing. It isn't. There's a frequency you both seem to hear, a low, private hum under the restaurant noise. You take a breath and look away first, focusing on your water glass.
Lucy catches you doing it and arches one perfectly judgmental brow. Later, she'll tease you. Right now she just smirks like she's stolen the last page of a book you haven't finished.
The food arrives. Your father tells a story from a posting years ago. Lois corrects the details in ways only she can. Lucy breaks the tension with a joke that makes two tables glance over. You contribute when pulled, deflect when pressed, and try not to steal glances at the man across from you.
You fail.
Halfway through your steak, Clark asks, "You get any time to yourself over break?"
"A little," you say. "Lois said tonight wasn't optional."
"She's persuasive," he agrees, the smile doing dangerous things to the corners of his eyes.
"Stop flirting with my fiancé," Lois says lightly, squeezing his arm.
"I'm not—" you begin.
"He's not—" Clark says at the same time, and Lucy outright cackles.
Your father sighs, long-suffering, but he's watching you again, measuring you against the invisible mark he set the day you were born. You straighten without meaning to. Clark notices. Of course he does.
By dessert, your pulse has learned the rhythm of that hum and accepted it: this is complicated. Not because he's charming (he is) or handsome (he really, really is), but because something in you recognizes something in him—an anchor you didn't know you needed.
After coffee, coats go on. Outside, Metropolis is crisp and busy and too bright. Lois laces her fingers with Clark's and rises on her toes to kiss his cheek. "You're coming to Sunday dinner," she tells you, which is not a question.
"Wouldn't miss it," you say, even though part of you very much would.
Clark offers his hand again when you say goodnight, and you take it because refusing would be louder. The spark is softer this time, less lightning, more a promise of weather. His thumb presses once, barely there, like a punctuation mark.
"Good to meet you," he says again.
"You too," you reply, and the words feel thin compared to everything unsaid between them.
Lois tugs him toward the curb, Lucy loops her arm through yours, and your father is already checking his calendar aloud. You stand at the edge of the city's noise with the taste of steak and secrets in your mouth and know, with the certainty of a headline, that tonight is not an ending. It's the lede. And you've just met the complication you'll be writing around for a long, long time.
YOU WEREN'T going to do this to yourself. Not again. Not for a man who belonged to your sister, and definitely not for a man who—by every available data point—was straight.
So you made a plan.
The morning after the dinner, you woke early and treated the feeling like an exam you refused to fail. Coffee. Shower. Shoes. Out the door before your brain could argue. Metropolis in spring smelled like wet concrete and newspaper ink, the kind of clean that only comes after a night of rain. You ran the river path until your lungs burned and your legs went static, until the hum under your ribs quieted to something manageable.
Back home, you set up on the tiny kitchen table with a highlighter army and your Criminal Psych notes. You built a fortress out of case studies and flash cards. When the impulse to replay Clark's smile crept in, you filed it like evidence and moved on.
You even wrote it down, because putting ink on it made it smaller:
CASE FILE: KENT, CLARK.
Conflict: Unwanted attraction to sister's fiancé.
Hypotheses: 1) Proximity + novelty + dim lighting = brain soup. 2) You're tired. 3) He's objectively attractive and kind; you're not a robot.
Action Plan:
• Limit exposure (especially the kind with soft lamplight).
• Keep hands busy at Sunday dinner (bring dessert, volunteer for dishes).
• Boundaries: No lingering eye contact, no "you're so interesting" follow-up questions, no kitchen tête-à-têtes.
• Remember: Lois comes first. Always.
You pinned the page to the fridge with a crooked magnet shaped like the Daily Planet globe and pretended that made you bulletproof.
Lucy FaceTimed just before noon, because of course she did. She angled the camera up under her chin to be as annoying as possible. "Morning, tragic hero."
"Afternoon," you corrected, clicking a pen like it was a detonator. "And I'm not tragic."
"You're late for brunch gossip," she said, then narrowed her eyes. "You went running. Gross. So, did you sleep at all or did you lie awake composing sonnets to Clark's jawline?"
"Lucy."
"Relax, I'm not the morality police. That's Dad." She softened. "You okay, though?"
You shrugged. Honesty won by a nose. "I'm... managing it."
"Good. Manage it far away from his mouth," she said, then added, quieter, "You know I've got you, right? If Sunday dinner is too much, I can fake food poisoning. Big dramatic exit. Maybe faint into the clam dip."
"Absolutely not," you said, surprised by the immediate warmth her offer sparked anyway. "I'll be fine."
She blew you a kiss and hung up with a threat to text you outfit options you would ignore.
You hit the university library next, where myth was safer than men. You pulled a stack of books on heroes who didn't want to be heroes and monsters who weren't monsters at all. You took notes that had nothing to do with blue eyes or steady hands. You let your brain gnaw on something older than your problems.
Lois texted around three: Cake tasting was a triumph. Clark says hi. Sunday 6 p.m.—don't you dare be late.
You stared at the words Clark says hi longer than necessary, then responded with a thumbs-up to the group chat and muted the conversation before your phone could become a live wire.
In the late afternoon, you detoured to a bakery two neighborhoods over—the kind with glass cases like jewelry boxes and a line of people willing to pay rent for a lemon tart. You sampled nothing, because you didn't trust your judgement, and ordered a box of miniature desserts that looked like they'd been crafted with tweezers. If you were going to keep your hands busy, you might as well arm yourself with sugar.
Back at your place, you ironed a shirt you didn't hate and practiced your boundaries like they were flash cards. No lingering, no listening too hard when he talks, no cataloging the way his laugh fits into a room. You were not going to be the person who complicated your sister's joy. You'd been that person once in a different story, and it had taken months to scrape the guilt off.
As the sun slid down behind the skyline, Metropolis turned gold at the edges. You packed your notes, slid the dessert box into a tote like contraband, and stood in the doorway for a heartbeat. You found your reflection in the hall mirror—eyes clearer than this morning, jaw set like a decision.
"Lois first," you told yourself. "Always."
Then you locked up and headed out, grateful for the few remaining hours between you and Sunday dinner, grateful for the city noise that drowned out the last of the hum, and grateful—most of all—that you had a plan.
YOU SHOW up early—on purpose—and the house greets you with that particular Sunday hush: blinds half-open, afternoon light in long stripes across the dining room, the distant tick of the grandfather clock. The kitchen smells like onions sweating in butter and the kind of optimism you only get before company arrives.
Your father has left a list the way generals leave battle plans, underlined twice: roast at 180°, potatoes parboiled, green beans blanch-and-shock, salad last. Beside it, a sticky note you'll pretend isn't an olive branch: Good. Early is respect.
You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and put your plan into motion. Desserts—your tiny jewel-box pastries—go straight into the fridge so you can "busy hands, busy mind" later. You queue up the most innocuous playlist you own, tie on an apron, and set to work. Knife, board, rhythm. Chop, sweep, sizzle. The pan answers with a friendly hiss. You taste the pan sauce, decide it needs brightness, grate in lemon zest. You are absolutely not thinking about blue eyes or broad shoulders or—
The back door opens. Voices. Lois's laugh, bright and familiar. Another voice—low, warm—slips under it like harmony.
You keep chopping, because you didn't hear anything, you're very busy, and if you just keep moving—
"Need a hand?"
You look up and he's there, framed in the doorway in a soft gray button-down with the sleeves rolled past his forearms, tie loosened to a suggestion. Clark. He's already shrugged out of his jacket, already reading the room, already making himself smaller in a way that somehow makes him feel even larger.
Rule #1: No lingering eye contact.
"Sure," you say to the cutting board. "You can—uh—drain the potatoes? Colander's in the lower cabinet."
He moves with careful confidence, like this isn't a foreign kitchen at all. The cabinet opens, colander up, steam blooms when he pours. He doesn't flinch at the heat. Of course he doesn't.
Rule #2: Keep hands busy.
"You want them roughed up for roasting?" he asks, shaking the pot just enough to give the edges texture.
"Yeah," you say, impressed against your will. "Nice. How do you—"
"Kansas," he says, smiling without looking up. "I've peeled more potatoes than I've written articles."
"That's... a lot of potatoes."
"Whole fields' worth." He sets the pot gently beside you and reaches for the pepper mill at the exact same moment you do. Knuckles meet, both of you freeze, and the pepper mill clatters once before you snag it.
"Sorry," you say too quickly, stepping back.
"My fault," he says, stepping back the same direction, which results in both of you stepping forward again at once. You both half-laugh, abort, and reset like two polite robots trying not to collide.
Rule #3: No kitchen tête-à-têtes. This is a hallway, not a tête-à-tête. You're fine.
Lois breezes in, hair up, lipstick perfect, a bottle of red in hand. She kisses Clark's cheek in passing, steals a green bean from the ice bath with the sleight of hand of a woman who's been stealing kitchen snacks since childhood, and drops a kiss on your forehead too. "Look at my favorite overachiever being on time," she sings, then to Clark, "See? Miracles."
"Miracles," he agrees, eyes kind. "What can I do next?"
"Salad," you say, because it's safe and far away. "Spin it dry. Dressing's there." You point to a jar you prepped to avoid improvisation near him.
He nods, washes his hands, and gets to work at the opposite counter. He spins the salad like a man who respects centrifugal force, then reaches for the jar. "Homemade?"
"Lemon, Dijon, honey," you say before you can stop yourself. "And—okay, two anchovies, but don't tell Lucy."
"My lips are sealed," he says, deadpan solemn, and you accidentally meet his eyes for a second. They're bluer in this light, and softer, and focused entirely on you.
Rule #1, you remind yourself, and pivot to the stove like it just called your name.
You build a rhythm. He plates. You seasons. He tastes, defers. You hand him a tasting spoon; he takes it like it's protocol, brushes your fingers once, and then makes a point not to again. When you haul the roasting pan to the oven, he's there without asking, taking the heavier end so you don't have to. Heat rolls out when you open the door—rosemary, garlic, meat—and the whole house smells like Sunday.
"That smells incredible," he says.
"Don't jinx it," you say, which makes him grin.
Lois floats by again, tucks herself under his arm for a heartbeat like it's her natural orbit, and checks your timer. "Dad just texted: 'On my way. Traffic is not respect.' He's mellowing in his old age."
"Miracle two," Clark murmurs, and Lois elbows him with affection.
While she's gone, Clark rinses the salad spinner and sets it to drip in the rack. He glances at your list on the counter, takes it in the way a journalist reads a source—quiet, thorough, respectful of the margins. "Want me to set the table?"
"Drawer by your knee for linens, top cabinet left for plates," you say, grateful to be assigned tasks that put him in another room, even if it's only ten feet away.
He moves through the dining room with that same careful economy, laying out plates, aligning forks with the kind of precision your father will pretend not to notice and appreciate anyway. You follow with glasses, and the two of you pass in the doorway like ships, polite, efficient, absolutely normal.
"Timer?" he asks, nodding toward the stove when you return to the kitchen.
"Six minutes," you say. "Then rest for ten."
"Got it." He leans a hip against the counter, not quite facing you, making sure the angle is open, nonthreatening—giving you space while still... here. "Any new class updates?"
You stir the pan sauce like it holds all the answers. "Criminal psych is a bloodbath."
He huffs a laugh. "Sounds right."
"Journalism ethics treat you better this time?" you ask before you can stop yourself.
"Treated me fine once I learned to let go of perfect." He pauses, searching your face—not in a way that pins you, in a way that invites you to set the distance. "You don't have to make small talk with me, by the way. I can be the silent cabbage-chopper."
"I don't do small talk," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended. "I'm... not avoiding you."
One brow ticks up behind his frames. "Noted."
You cough, completely normal. "Okay, yes, maybe a little. But I'm not—"
"—going to make this weird," he finishes gently. "Me neither."
You nod, grateful, and something in your shoulders loosens.
Front door: opening. Your father's footsteps—measured, authoritative. "Smells like a kitchen that knows the value of a clock," he declares, appearing in the doorway. He clocks Clark laying the last napkin and you at the stove, and for once his approval is simple. "Good job."
"Miracle number three," Lois stage-whispers from the hall, making Lucy snort as she arrives behind him with a gust of perfume and a bottle of sparkling water.
The room fills—voices, coats, the bustle of family—and the small, suspended charged moment dissolves into the harmless static of a house at dinnertime. You pull the roast to rest; Clark takes the carving knife without assumption and waits for your nod. You give it. He carves with steady hands and zero theater. You plate the greens; he passes them like a relay baton. It's a machine, and you're two gears, meshed cleanly.
Rule #4 (you just made it up): Teamwork is not intimacy.
You believe it. Mostly.
As you slide the miniature desserts into the far corner of the fridge, you steal one last look at the table you've both set—the symmetry, the effort, the care. Lois presses a grateful kiss to your cheek as she whirls past. Clark catches your eye across the room and gives you the smallest, most ordinary nod.
You then carried the platter in to your family and take your seat, the clatter and comfort of Sunday dinner rising around you like a tide.
DINNER HUMS along—good stories, easy laughter, the wine Lois brought doing its job on everyone but your father, who swirls his glass, grimaces like a disappointed judge, and taps the stem with two fingers.
“Basement,” he declares. “Top shelf, back wall. The rye. Not the one your uncle ruined with cinnamon sticks.”
Lois wags a corkscrew. “Clark, go help him before Dad sends a search party.”
“I’ve got it,” you say, already pushing back your chair.
“I’ll still help,” Clark answers, easy—already half standing, already reading your father’s face for the brand name behind the request.
You tell yourself it’s logistics, not longing, as the two of you cut through the hall and down the creaking steps to the basement. The air changes—cooler, quieter, smelling of wood polish, old paper, and the faint sweetness of cork. Your father’s bar sits under a string of warm bulbs, amber bottles lined like a stained-glass choir.
“Rye,” you announce, scanning labels. “No cinnamon crimes.”
Clark laughs under his breath and steps to the other side of the shelves, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a domestic kind of handsome that makes your rules flutter like loose Post-its.
He finds a bottle of bourbon and sets it aside. You pass over a rye you know your father hates. Your hands move efficiently, your throat tight.
Clark breaks the quiet first, not unkind. “Why are you avoiding me?”
You grip a bottle a little too hard. There’s no point in lying; you’ve been practicing honesty with yourself all day. “Because this is… complicated. And because I love my sister.”
“I love her too,” he says, steady, like that truth belongs in the room with all the others. “And I’m not trying to make anything harder.”
“But you notice it,” you say, eyes on the labels. “The… whatever-it-is, between us.”
There’s a brief pause, soft as a breath. “I do.”
Silence, except for the tick of the basement pipes. You slide another bottle out, set it down, line it up with the others like a defense line. “We should keep it polite. Plates and napkins. Carving and salad.”
His mouth tilts. “I’m very good at polite.”
“And yet,” you say, glancing up before you can stop yourself.
“And yet,” he echoes, eyes meeting yours—blue, open, maddeningly gentle. He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t touch you. He just looks at you like you’re a question he’s been trying not to answer.
“Found it,” you say too loudly, plucking the correct rye from the top shelf. The victory clangs hollow. You hold the bottle between you like a truce flag. He takes it—fingers brushing yours for a half-second, a harmless spark that doesn’t feel harmless at all.
“This is a terrible idea,” you say.
“The worst,” he agrees, voice low and honest.
You kiss him anyway.
It starts like a mistake and lands like gravity. He tastes like the wine you both pretended not to need, like mint and something warm, and you think—just once—before you pull away. You do pull away. “We can’t.”
“No,” he says, breath unsteady. “We can’t.”
You kiss him again.
It’s not careful this time. He sets the bottle down like it’s suddenly made of crystal, hands bracing the counter on either side of your hips without touching you. You hook your fingers in his shirt and he steps in, heat and breadth and restraint coiled tight. When you break for air, you hear your own laugh, wrecked and disbelieving.
“We shouldn’t,” you whisper.
“We shouldn’t,” he returns—and then his hands slide to your waist, asking, not taking, and you nod before you realize you’ve nodded. He lifts you onto the bar, the world tilting a fraction; your knees part to make room for him like a reflex you didn’t know you had. He fits there like he was always meant to, his forehead resting against yours for a beat that feels like mercy.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
You open your mouth to say it and something truer comes out. “I don’t want to.”
His answer is a sound more than a word, and then his mouth is on yours again—slow, then not, your hands in his hair, his thumbs pressing lightly at your hips, everything edged with the bright wire of wrong and the impossible relief of right. The string lights hum. Dust motes turn in the warm glow like snow that forgot how to fall.
“Hey!” Lois’s voice, distant but unmistakable, sails down the stairwell. “You two eloped with the whiskey or what?”
You both freeze, foreheads still touching, chests rising in the same rhythm. The call slices through the spell, but it doesn’t extinguish it; it just lays the heat bare.
CLARK, you think, say it out loud without meaning to, “We—”
“We’re going,” he says, already stepping back, hands leaving you with exquisite care. He swallows, collects the rye with a steadiness you envy, and offers you his palm to help you down. You take it. The contact is brief, grounding, electric.
You straighten your shirt. He smooths his tie. You both breathe like you just outran something and haven’t decided if you won.
Lois calls again, laugh tucked into your name this time. “Hurry up! Dad’s giving a lecture on Prohibition!”
“Coming!” you shout, voice almost normal.
Clark looks at you one last time—no promises, no plans, just the truth of what just passed between you. The fire doesn’t fade; it banks. You can feel it, glowing under your ribs, patient and dangerous.
“Lois first,” you whisper, because you need to hear it out loud.
He nods once. “Always.”
Then you climb the stairs side by side, carrying a bottle and the kindling of a problem you can’t drink away.
You don't plan the way your mouth remembers him.
It just happens—in the lull between toasts and the clink of cutlery—your brain flashes back to the basement: the warm hum of the string lights, the rye bottle sweating on the counter, Clark's breath hitching against your lips, the careful way his hands found your waist like you were something he didn't want to bruise. You swallow hard and spear a green bean. It tastes like nothing.
Across the table, Clark is doing an Oscar-worthy impression of a man listening to your father's anecdote about Prohibition raids. He nods in the right places, smiles at the punchline, but his thumb worries the seam of his napkin, a silent tell you can't unsee. When his gaze flickers up—just once—it catches on yours like a coat on a nail, and both of you look away so fast Lucy nearly laughs into her wine.
Guilt rolls in first—cold, clean, undeniable. It sits in your chest next to something hotter, lazier, impossible to tamp down now that you know the shape of his mouth. Desire comes with its entourage: curiosity, ache, that warm, heavy hunger that makes dinner drag like a lecture you didn't sign up for. You fixate on the clock over the hutch and measure time in crimes: three minutes since the last eye contact; five more until you can stand without making a scene; maybe twenty until you can get out into the air and walk this off.
Lois saves the table from your father's second pour by clapping once and announcing, "Emergency. The bakery messed up our order and I refuse to end this glorious dinner on store-bought cookies. Lucy, come with me. The little place on Third still has the lemon chiffon if we hurry."
Lucy is already halfway out of her chair, dramatic as ever. "I've trained for this."
You're on your feet too before you've decided to be—keys in hand, jacket over your arm, the promise of cold night air like a lifeline. "I'll drive," you offer, too eager.
Lois points a manicured finger at you without missing a beat. "Absolutely not. You"—she tosses her wallet to Lucy and kisses Clark's cheek in a practiced glide—"are staying here and keeping my fiancé company so Dad doesn't put him through the 'So You Want To Marry My Daughter' gauntlet while I'm gone."
Your mouth opens. A thousand reasonable objections sprint for the exit and crash into each other. "I can keep Dad busy," you try. "He loves when I—"
"—agree with him?" Lucy supplies sweetly, already shrugging into her coat. "Tempting, but no. Clark needs a buffer. Be a dear. We'll be twenty minutes."
You glance at your father, who is polishing his glass and clearing his throat like a firing squad. You picture Clark trapped in that cross-examination—résumé, finances, intentions—while you skulk off to chase sugar. The image feels like shoving him back into a burning building and closing the door.
"Fine," you tell Lois, because you do love her and because, apparently, you hate yourself. "We'll... hang out."
Lois squeezes your shoulder, quick and grateful. "Knew I could count on you." To Clark, she adds, "Back soon. Don't let Dad draft you into the Prohibition Bureau."
"Scout's honor," Clark says, smile easy but eyes—when they flick to you and back—anything but.
The door snaps shut behind the sisters, and the house exhales. Your father rises with his glass and his sermon and, mercifully, announces, "I'll be in the study. Ten minutes," as if the room is his to subpoena. He disappears down the hall, leaving the comfortable clutter of dinner debris and the two of you marooned in the soft aftermath of a meal you barely tasted.
Silence blooms. Not awkward, exactly. Charged. The kind of quiet that remembers things.
You gather plates because hands need jobs. Clark stacks them without being asked, sleeves still rolled, tie a little looser than before. The kitchen light is warmer than the dining room's, and it draws the edge off both of you, turns you into people instead of problems.
"I wasn't avoiding you," you say, which is technically true in this exact moment and wildly untrue for the last thirty minutes. "I was avoiding my father's third toast."
Clark huffs, grateful for the joke. "It was a strong one. Might've knocked me out."
"You did just survive a basement," you say before you can stop yourself, and there it is—no euphemism, no strategic silence. The word hangs, bare and bright.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Not cornered, not pleading—just honest, the way he was when he asked if you were avoiding him and you said yes. "I've been thinking about it," he admits, voice low so it doesn't rattle the glassware. "About... that. About you."
Heat climbs your neck. "Me too."
Another breath. Another second marked on the clock. The fridge hums. Somewhere down the hall, your father shuffles papers in the study, a metronome for good behavior.
"This is a terrible idea," you say, because one of you should say it and you're not sure you can stop if he does.
"The worst," he agrees softly, with that small, rueful smile that started everything. "But I couldn't stop replaying it. And I don't know what to do with that except tell the truth."
You set the plates down like they're suddenly too precious to risk. "The truth is I can't stop replaying it either. And I hate that. And I don't."
His laugh is a quiet, helpless thing. "Exactly."
The distance between you is not much—three floor tiles, the length of a secret. You don't close it. He doesn't either. Instead you both lean into the same safe fiction: chores. He reaches for the faucet; you hand him the sponge. Your knuckles brush. The contact is nothing. It is also everything.
From the foyer, a gust of night air sneaks in under the door as a car passes outside. You catch the scent of Lois's perfume lingering on Clark's collar and—under it—something clean and cool and him. Your pulse goes out of step. You step back. He doesn't follow. It feels like both of you are holding a line with both hands.
"Lois did asked me to keep you company," you say, half to remind yourself which story you're in.
"She trusts you," he says, and there's no accusation in it, only the weight of what that trust means.
"I trust me," you answer. It's not entirely true, not tonight, but you want it to be. "And I'm not going to torture you by leaving you alone with my father."
Clark's mouth tilts. "That is a kindness I won't forget."
"Don't thank me yet," you say, flicking water at his wrist, tinny and ridiculous, and he glances at the droplet like it's a lifeline. "He'll call you into the study any minute."
"I can handle it," he says, and you know he can—interviews and press scrums and city disasters—he's built for weight. But the way he says it makes you want to take some of it anyway.
YOU STEER Clark away from the dining room on the pretense of a tour, letting the low thrum of your father's monologue fade behind you. The house is quieter down the hall—family photos in mismatched frames, the runner soft underfoot, that clean lemon polish smell your father insists on. You point things out because it gives your mouth something to do besides confess: the nick on the banister from when Lucy tried to surf it on a pillowcase; the narrow coat closet that still sticks in the winter; the tiny half bath where Lois once cut her own bangs and swore you to secrecy.
Clark listens like a reporter—attentive, smiling at the right beats, asking small questions that feel bigger than they are. You keep a respectful measure of space between you, professional, like you're the docent of a small museum and he's the only visitor.
"And this," you say, nudging a door with your shoulder, "is where I hid from everyone for four years."
Your old bedroom opens on a sigh of air, cooler than the hall. The posters are gone, the shelves half-full of textbooks you never reclaimed, but the shape of the room is the same: bed under the window, desk scarred by a hundred late nights, a lamp with a shade that throws warm ellipses on the wall. It smells faintly of clean cotton and old paper—the ghost of a life you outgrew but never quite escaped.
Clark stays at the threshold a heartbeat, then steps in, slow, careful, as if the floor might remember the truth better than either of you. He turns once, taking it in, and when his eyes come back to you they're softer, like the light in here dulled the edges.
"You had a good view," he says, nodding at the window. "City without the noise."
"Best place to think," you say, and immediately regret the invitation of the word.
The house creaks. Distantly, a cabinet door closes, a reminder that civilization is only two rooms away. You should walk him back. You should point at the desk and make some harmless joke about bad poetry and worse haircut choices. You should—
He kisses you.
Not the wrecked, electrified tumble of the basement. This is slower, deliberate. He leaves you room to refuse, and you use it for a second—hands braced to his chest, breath caught, the rulebook flapping open in your head. Then something unclenches. You tip forward into him like you've stepped into the exact shape of your want.
His mouth is warm and patient, the kind that coaxes rather than takes. The kiss unfurls—one, two, three beats—and the room tilts toward it. Your fingers catch the line of his jaw; his palm finds the back of your neck, steady heat and a promise he's not allowed to make.
"We shouldn't," you manage against his lips.
"I know," he whispers, and kisses you again.
It goes from careful to hungry like a tide change. You stumble backward a step and the backs of your knees meet the mattress. He breaks only long enough to search your face—asking—before you nod, a small, helpless consent, and sit. He follows, and in the awkward choreography of elbows and breath you end up where gravity wants you: straddling his lap, knees sinking into the familiar give of your old comforter, his hands braced at your hips like he's afraid of both holding on and letting go.
The lamp throws its quiet gold across his cheekbones. Up this close, the frames of his glasses are too much barrier; he slides them off and sets them blindly on the nightstand without looking away from you. You feel the impulse to memorize the moment the way you used to memorize exam answers—focus, clarity, a desire to keep.
You kiss him deeper, and the restraint in him frays. He exhales a sound you feel in your bones and tips his head, finding the line of your jaw with his mouth. You tilt instinctively, granting access before your conscience catches up. His lips find that place just below your ear and then lower, to the hinge of your jaw, the column of your throat. Each touch is slow, reverent, a mapping he'll pretend he never drew.
Your hands clutch at his shoulders. He is heat and steadiness beneath you, every breath a steadying hand on your spine. When his mouth settles at the base of your neck, your whole body answers—back arching, a soft sound pulled out of a part of you that doesn't care about rules. He hums against your skin, the vibration spilling through you like a secret.
You shift, trying to get closer to a man you're already wrapped around, and that's when you feel him—hard, undeniable, pressed against the inside of your thigh through the polite barrier of fabric. The knowledge lands like a match in dry grass. Your hands tighten where they're splayed across his chest; his fingers flex at your hips, not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just anchoring, as if he knows either choice would undo the little control you both have left.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs into your skin, voice rougher now, the question honest and heavy.
You hover in the space between sense and heat, the house and its noises reminding you that your life is ten steps away and this is a fault line running straight under it. You draw a breath that shakes. You taste guilt and want and something terrifyingly like relief.
"I can't," you whisper, because for once you can't make your mouth lie for you.
His arms tighten—not possessive, just present—and he returns to your mouth like a man choosing a storm. You meet him there, every rule you wrote this afternoon scattering like paper in a fan. The bed creaks its small objection and you both laugh quietly against each other's lips, breathless, reckless, aware and uncaring.
Down the hall, a door clicks. The house reminds you you're not alone. The reminder doesn't cool the fire so much as bank it, focusing it into something hotter and more concentrated. You rest your forehead to his, both of you catching the same breath, suspended.
"This is impossible," you say, but your hands don't leave him.
"I know," he says, and his thumbs sweep once over your hips, apology and confession, before he lifts his head to kiss you again, slow enough to pretend this is a choice you've thought through, deep enough to admit you haven't.
Your father’s voice cut down the hall like a gavel. “You two—kitchen.”
You and Clark stepped out of your old room composed to the point of parody—hair smoothed, shirts straight, your pulse doing its best impression of calm. Your dad stood by the dining table with his keys in one hand and his phone in the other, reading off a text.
“Your sisters caught a flat on Riverside. I’m going to meet them, swap the tire, and convoy them back. One man job, not three.” He pinned you both with a look when you opened your mouths. “I said one.”
“We can—” you and Clark started in the same breath.
“No.” He jerked his chin toward the sink. “Dishes. And make to-go trays for Lois and Lucy. Dessert too. I’ll text when we’re on the way.”
The front door swung wide; cool night air slid across the floor. A moment later the engine turned over, gravel rattled under the tires, and the house swallowed the sound as your father backed down the drive. The porch light clicked off, and quiet rushed in.
You and Clark stood in the kitchen doorway a beat longer than necessary, the stillness between you loud as a drum roll. Somewhere at the edge of your hearing, a neighbor’s dog barked. The clock over the stove ticked.
“How far is Riverside from here?” Clark asked, voice low, not trusting the room.
“Ten minutes there, five to swap if he’s feeling heroic.” Your eyes flicked to the clock. “Fifteen.”
He looked at you like a man who’d been holding a breath since the basement and finally found air. “Fifteen.”
You crossed the kitchen at the same time, meeting at the lip of the counter. The first kiss wasn’t cautious. It was the kind you fall into—like stepping off a curb you thought was there and finding only air. His hand came up to your jaw, steady, reverent; yours hooked in his loosened tie and drew him down. The faucet squeaked as you bumped it; a thin ribbon of water ran, a plausible soundtrack for two people who were supposed to be doing dishes.
You broke just long enough to hit your phone’s timer and slide it facedown on the counter. “Five-minute warning,” you breathed.
He smiled against your mouth, wrecked and grateful. “Smart.”
The kitchen lights were softer than usual, a warm hush that painted the edges of everything in honey. You felt him smile melt into a sound when your fingers slipped the top button of his shirt; he answered by sliding his palm over your lower back, drawing you in until your hips met the line of his. Heat rolled through you with dizzying clarity. The counter shifted under your hands; he lifted you up easily, like he’d been built for this specific lift, this specific kitchen, this precise gravity.
You settled on the counter, knees parting to bracket his hips without conscious choice. He fit there as if the space had been waiting for him. His mouth found the slope of your throat, mapping slower than your pulse could stand, pressing kisses that felt like the simple, impossible luxury of being chosen. You tipped your head back and let the ceiling blur. The low, helpless sound that left you made his fingers tighten at your waist.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, a rough echo of your old restraint, though neither of you moved away.
You answered with your hands—one at the base of his neck, the other sliding under cotton to warm skin, dragging a shiver out of him that you felt everywhere. “I don’t want to.”
He exhaled like confession and came back to your mouth. The world narrowed to heat and breath and the rhythm of the clock. His thumbs swept slow circles through your shirt; you answered with the same motion over his pulse, memorizing the beat. When you shifted, you felt him—undeniable, insistent—through the polite barrier of fabric, and the knowledge landed like a struck match. He groaned into the kiss; you swallowed the sound and gave him one of your own.
Dishes clinked faintly as your heel nudged a stack; the faucet’s trickle covered the noise. You laughed, breathless, and he did too, forehead dropping to yours in a moment of mercy before hunger pulled you both under again. Buttons gave way under impatient fingers; the neat knot of his tie loosened to a question mark. His hands skimmed your sides like he was learning a language he already knew.
You had meant to be good. Kissing had been the line you’d sworn to redraw. But fifteen minutes is not a lot of time, and the ache that had been coiled under your ribs all evening unfurled with a mind of its own. You didn’t stop at kissing. You couldn’t.
You leaned into him, your knees hooked on either side of his hips from your perch on the counter, pulling him closer until there was no space left to steal. His kiss was deeper now, a slow burn that tasted of wine and restraint fraying apart.
Your hands roamed up his chest, feeling the solid plane of muscle under his shirt, the steady pound of his heart against your palm. He shivered when your fingers found the base of his neck, thumbs tracing the tendons there. The sound he made—a low, muffled groan into your mouth—only spurred you on.
One of your hands drifted lower, skimming over his belt, the flat of his stomach tightening beneath your touch. You felt the faint tremor in him when you let your fingers slip down, undoing the button of his slacks in one slow, deliberate motion. The zipper came next, the faint rasp impossibly loud in the hush of the kitchen.
He broke the kiss just enough to glance at you, his breath rough and uneven, as if to ask if you knew exactly what you were doing. The way your hand slid past the waistband was answer enough. You traced the hard outline of him through the heat of the fabric, slow at first, just letting your palm explore the shape, the weight, the sheer size of him.
Clark’s jaw tightened; his hands gripped the counter on either side of your thighs as though grounding himself. You could feel him pulse under your hand, his body betraying exactly how much he wanted this despite every rule you’d both recited in your heads.
You teased him deliberately, letting your fingertips trace along his dick before curling your hand around him properly, the friction making his breath hitch sharply. The moment you began to stroke, measured and lazy, his head dropped forward until his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His lips brushed the side of your neck, not kissing, just breathing you in, as though he needed the scent of you to stay anchored.
“God…” he murmured, barely audible, the word carried on a breath that trembled against your skin.
You smiled faintly, emboldened, letting your hand explore him more fully, your thumb brushing over the ridge at his tip through the thin barrier of fabric. The way his hips flexed forward into your touch told you exactly how close he already was to losing whatever control he still had.
You both knew—down to the exact minute—that there wasn't enough time for everything you wanted.
Fifteen minutes wasn't nearly enough for the kind of hunger simmering between you since the basement. But knowing that didn't make you stop. It only made every touch sharper, every kiss more urgent, like two people cramming a lifetime of want into whatever time you could steal.
Clark's mouth was still warm on yours when his hands found your waist and turned you, guiding you toward the counter. The edge met your hips as his body pressed in behind you, his chest firm against your back, his breath hot against the curve of your neck. You braced yourself with both palms flat on the cool countertop, the polished wood biting into your skin just enough to make you aware of how exposed you were becoming.
One of his hands slid forward, splaying across your stomach, holding you against him while the other found the waistband of your pants. The contact was both deliberate and unhurried—his fingers curling just inside the band, tugging at the button, testing your restraint. Your breathing hitched when the metal popped open, the faint sound swallowed by the low hum he gave in your ear.
The zipper came next, its slow descent impossibly loud in the stillness of the kitchen. His knuckles brushed the top of your hips, sending heat straight down your spine. You could feel him, hard and ready against you, even through the layers still between you, the solid press of him leaving no doubt about exactly how badly he wanted this.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your ear, though his fingers were already working at the fabric, easing it lower over your hips. The question sounded more like a test than a request.
You didn't answer—not with words. Instead, you shifted just enough to give him room to keep going. The movement earned you a soft, unsteady laugh against your shoulder, as if he knew you were both standing at the edge of something dangerous and you'd just stepped closer.
He hooked his thumbs under your waistband and tugged, just enough for cool air to kiss the curve of you—skin bared in the soft spill of the kitchen light. The quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed suddenly loud; the clock ticked like a metronome for your breathing. Behind you, Clark's breath grew rougher, the careful man from dinner slipping out of his own restraint with every second you let pass.
You heard the soft rasp of a zipper and felt the shift of his body as he freed himself—no theater, just urgency. One hand settled at your hip, the other hovered for a heartbeat in indecision before he gave in to something uncharacteristically reckless. He wet his palm—quick, instinctive—and slicked himself with a single, deliberate stroke, a move so improvised it surprised even him. He wasn't the type to be careless, but whatever lived between you had rewritten his rules in the span of a breath.
Clark then positioned himself carefully, one steady hand at your hip, the other guiding himself with deliberate control. The first press of him made your breath catch—not from surprise, but from the sheer stretch of it, the slow push that had your fingers gripping the counter until your knuckles whitened.
A low moan broke free from your throat before you could hold it back, the sound muffled against the hum of the kitchen around you. Clark froze for a beat at the noise, his own breathing uneven, then eased forward again in measured increments. There was no rush in the way he moved—just enough to sink deeper, to let you feel every inch without overwhelming you.
You tilted your head, eyes shut, taking in the deliberate pace, the way his body felt like it was fitting into a space carved just for him. He held still once he was fully seated inside you, giving you time to adjust, his fingers tracing idle circles against your hip like he was checking in without words.
Somewhere in the back of your mind—blurry from the heat—you couldn't help the silent, fleeting thought: Lois must never complain. Because with the way he filled you now, the firm weight and length of him—easily nine, maybe ten inches—you understood just how much control he had to keep from driving in harder.
When your breath steadied and you rolled your hips back in subtle invitation, his low, throaty sound of approval washed warm against your neck. Then, with care and that same maddening precision, he began to move.
The clock over the stove ticked like a dare, and both of you answered it.
What began as careful, measured movement shifted—first to a steadier cadence, then to something urgent and unguarded. Clark's hands tightened at your hips, guiding you, finding a rhythm that matched the drag of your breath and the stuttering beat of your pulse. The edge of the counter bit pleasantly into your palms; each soft knock of your thigh against the cabinet reminded you how little time you had and how recklessly you meant to spend it.
He started controlled—every motion deliberate, every breath checked—then you felt the change when restraint slipped. A low sound rolled out of his chest, close to your ear, and he pressed in harder, deeper, the tempo climbing from patient to needy. Your name broke from him like a secret, half-whispered against your shoulder; you answered with a quiet gasp that made him shudder and chase it again.
Heat built fast—coil tightening, breath shortening, the two of you moving as if the room had narrowed to just this line of contact, just this rhythm. He adjusted the angle with a careful shift of his hips and the world snapped into sharper focus; you rocked back to meet him, wordless encouragement in the way your body yielded and asked for more. His mouth found your neck, teeth barely grazing, a kiss that landed more like a promise, and the next drive of his body turned the promise into a plea.
"Don't stop," you breathed, and felt him give in to the request like surrender.
The faucet's thin ribbon of water masked the soft, frantic sounds you couldn't quite swallow.
Time, traitorous and finite, kept marching. But for those rushing, breathless moments, it felt like you'd stepped outside of it together—nothing left but heat, the drum of your joined movement, and the rough-edged worship in the way he moved against you, as if he meant to memorize you before the world came back.
Clark then crowded in closer, one arm banded around your waist to keep you tight to him as the other slid up, fingers curling under your jaw to tilt your face. You met him halfway, lips catching his in a heat-drunk kiss that stole what little breath you'd been rationing. He didn't slow—hips driving in a steady, hungry rhythm—so the kiss broke and reformed in shards: teeth grazing, mouths parting, the soft, helpless sounds you made swallowed against his tongue.
He kept talking between kisses, each thrust punctuating a word, praise roughened into a growl. "That's it... look at me... good—God, you feel—so perfect." The cadence of it went straight through you. You answered with a ragged, "Don't stop," and his laugh came low and wrecked against your mouth, followed by a deeper roll of his hips that had your fingers clawing at the countertop for purchase.
He chased your lips like a man starved, then trailed to your cheek, the hinge of your jaw, back to your mouth—every return a reward for the way you yielded to him. "You take me so well," he murmured, voice frayed silk, "been thinking about this—about you—since the second I tasted you." You gasped; he caught it with another kiss and fed you more: "So sweet... mine for these minutes... say my name." When you did, it unraveled him; his pace hit a deeper, truer rhythm, the kind that said he'd found exactly how to undo you and had no intention of stopping.
Your replies slipped into the heat with his—please and yes and more—threaded with shameless little praises of your own that made his breath hitch: how strong he felt, how deep he was, how good he was making you feel. He answered every admission with a new kind of worship: a thumb circling your hipbone, a kiss pressed hard to the corner of your mouth, a whispered, "That's my good boy," that sent your knees threatening to give.
The kitchen was thick with heat, the air carrying that charged, heady mix of sweat, breath, and something deeper—need sharpened to a fine point. Each movement sent the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin ricocheting off the walls, sharp and rhythmic, a pulse you could feel as much as hear.
The counter under your palms was cool in contrast to the fever of your skin, every push from Clark driving you forward just enough to make the wood creak beneath your grip. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the space, quickening with the urgency in him, in you, a raw soundtrack that drowned out the soft hiss of the faucet and the quiet tick of the clock.
Your breath came in uneven bursts, mingling with his—low groans from him, helpless gasps from you—layering over that relentless rhythm. The slap of skin was hypnotic, a metronome for the way you moved together, chasing something you both knew time would cut short but neither could stop reaching for.
Clark's pace stayed hungry, almost primal now, the sound of each thrust a physical reminder of how completely you'd both abandoned restraint. Every sharp connection of your bodies echoed in the small room, filling it with a sound that was all heat, all want, all the proof of just how lost you both were in the pleasure flooding every nerve.
You could feel the tension coiling in Clark—his hips driving forward with that sharpened precision that came only when the end was near. His fingers dug into your hips like he needed the anchor just as much as you did.
You were right there with him, your body tightening, clenching around him with each movement, dragging a low, guttural sound from his chest. The kitchen seemed smaller, quieter, like the rest of the world had faded out to just this rhythm, this heat, this chase toward release.
Then, his voice broke through the haze, deep and strained, each word riding the edge of a groan.
"You want me—" a thrust punctuated it, "—to finish inside? Keep things from... getting messy?"
The question was almost a plea, thick with lust and the barest thread of control he had left. His pace stuttered for half a beat, like he was holding himself back for your answer, his body ready to give in but waiting for your word. You could feel every bit of his need in the way he trembled against you, the urgency in his voice matching the fever in your own pulse.
You managed to nod, breathless, even as another deep thrust made your knees threaten to give. "Yeah," you rasped, your voice almost lost under the sharp slap of skin and the ragged sound of your breathing. You knew exactly what he meant—things could get messy fast if you didn't control it—but you also trusted that he'd thought it through.
Clark's hands slid lower on your hips, his grip firm, almost possessive now that he had your answer. You could feel the strain in him, the tension rippling through his body as he held himself right on the edge. Every push into you was hotter, deeper, more deliberate, like he was carving himself into your memory before time ripped you apart again.
You still had to think about yourself—about keeping your own release in check, making sure it didn't spill everywhere and give away what the two of you had just done in this kitchen. That thought flickered across your mind, but it was drowned out by the intensity of him behind you, by the heat of him driving into you like this was the only moment either of you had.
Clark's voice came low and uneven in your ear, his chest pressed to your back as he rocked into you. "Don't worry," he murmured, the words tight, like it took effort to get them out. "I've got a way to handle that too... but first—" His hips snapped forward, making you gasp, "—I need to finish inside you."
The promise in his tone sent a shiver straight down your spine. You could feel him chasing that final peak, every movement a little more desperate, a little less controlled, as if the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling was the thought of you letting him go exactly how he wanted.
Clark's rhythm faltered, his breath breaking into a low, guttural sound that rumbled against your back. His grip on your hips tightened as he buried himself deep one final time, holding you there as the heat of his release spilled into you. The sensation pulled a sharp moan from your lips, the sudden fullness making your muscles tense and flutter around him.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved—just the sound of your uneven breathing filling the kitchen, your hearts pounding like they were trying to sync. You felt him press his forehead briefly to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling against your back as he steadied himself.
Then, without pulling fully away, his hand slid forward, fingers wrapping around your dick with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. The first stroke was slow, deliberate, his palm warm and slick enough to make your hips jerk forward into his touch.
"You've been holding back," he murmured, his voice low and rough, still catching on the aftershocks of his own climax. His lips found the side of your neck, brushing soft, almost teasing kisses there before trailing up toward your jaw. The contrast between the intimacy of his mouth and the firm, purposeful rhythm of his hand had you trembling.
Each tug was perfectly timed, his thumb dragging over your most sensitive spot until the tension in your core began to coil dangerously tight. Clark kept kissing you—at first on your jaw, then finally turning your head just enough for his mouth to meet yours. The kiss was deep and messy, filled with heat and possession, his tongue sweeping against yours in perfect sync with the motions of his hand.
The combination was too much. You broke the kiss with a ragged moan, your release hitting hard, spilling into his grip as your body shuddered through it. He kept stroking you through the pulses, swallowing your sounds with more slow, lingering kisses until you had nothing left but the feel of his mouth and the faint hum of pleasure still dancing in your muscles.
When it was over, his hand loosened but didn't let go right away, as if savoring the moment before the reality of the ticking clock returned. He pressed one last kiss to your lips, breathing you in like he didn't want to forget the taste.
Clark finally let go of you, his hand still slick and warm from what he'd just worked out of you. You were still catching your breath, leaning into the counter for support, when you saw him glance down at the mess coating his fingers and palm.
Instead of reaching for a towel, he brought his hand up slowly, deliberately, his eyes locking on yours like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His tongue swept out, dragging over the heel of his palm first, gathering the taste of you with a low hum that sounded almost approving. Then he took his time with his fingers, lips closing around each one in turn, sucking them clean in slow, unhurried pulls.
The sight punched the air right out of you. His mouth glistened faintly in the kitchen light, every movement calculated but unpretentious, like this wasn't some show—like he genuinely wanted every drop. By the time he reached his thumb, your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
He finished with one last slow lick along the side of his finger, eyes never leaving yours, and then smirked just enough to let you know he'd caught every ounce of your reaction. Jesus, you thought, your whole body buzzing. Clark Kent—buttoned-up, composed, maddeningly self-controlled Clark—had somehow just become the hottest man you'd ever seen, and you weren't sure how you were going to survive the rest of the night knowing it.
For a long, suspended beat, neither of you moved. You stayed folded over the counter with Clark warm against your back, both of you breathing hard, hearts trying to find the same rhythm again. The kitchen light felt softer somehow, turning the sheen on your skin to gold; the only sounds were the thin hiss of the faucet you'd left barely open and the faint tick of the stove clock counting you back toward reality.
Your phone buzzed against the wood—once, insistent. Five-minute warning.
Clark pressed his forehead to your shoulder and exhaled, a low, reluctant sound that vibrated through you. Then he eased out of you with careful patience, one hand steadying your hip as if to apologize for the loss. You felt the sudden cool of air and the ghost of where he'd been, then the practical rustle of clothes: his zipper's quick rasp, the soft snap of a button, the slide of fabric as he tucked himself away and smoothed his shirt. You tugged your own boxers and pants back into place, fingers a little clumsy, belt tongue finding the buckle on the second try.
You turned at the same time. For a breath, you just looked—his hair a little mussed, tie loosened into a lazy knot, his mouth flushed; your reflection of that same ruin in his eyes. The pull between you sparked all over again. He cupped your jaw with a thumb that still trembled faintly, and you leaned in. The kiss you shared was slower than any you'd managed all night—no rush, just gratitude and heat, a seal on something neither of you knew how to name.
The timer in your head clicked over another minute. You both stepped back like you'd rehearsed it. Armor on.
"Okay," you said, voice huskier than you meant. "Trays."
"Trays," he echoed, already rolling his sleeves back to his forearms like a promise to be useful.
You killed the faucet and set the sink to fill with suds. Clark stacked plates into neat towers and ferried them over; you scrubbed, rinsed, and handed off to the rack with the efficiency of two people covering a secret with motion. He portioned leftovers into containers—roast, potatoes, green beans—labeling lids with a wax pencil he found in the drawer. You slid the jewel-box desserts into smaller clamshells, tucked napkins and forks alongside, and wiped down the counter where your hips had kissed the edge, the cloth making a clean, unremarkable path through the faint heat of memory.
By the time headlights feathered across the dining room wall and tires whispered back up the drive, the kitchen looked exactly as your father had left it in your charge—dishes stacked to dry, to-go bags lined by the back door, everything in its place.
The front door swung open on a gust of cool air and familiar voices. Your father stepped in first, coat half buttoned, the set of his shoulders loosening when his eyes swept the kitchen.
"Good," he said, approval plain as he took in the stacked drying rack, the gleaming counters, and the neat line of to-go boxes by the back door. "Efficient."
Lois breezed in behind him, cheeks pink from the night air, hand still looped through Lucy's elbow. "You're a lifesaver," she said, brushing a kiss against your cheek as she passed. To Clark, another kiss, a squeeze of his arm. "And thank you for keeping him company."
"Anytime," Clark answered, easy as a Sunday smile. His tie was straight again, sleeves rolled just so—every inch the composed fiancé. Only you could see the faint rose left at the edge of his mouth.
Lucy, triumphant, hoisted a white bakery box to shoulder height. "Stand back, mortals. The lemon chiffon has landed." She thunked it onto the table, flicked the twine loose, and lifted the lid with a magician's flourish. A halo of sugar rose when she peeled back the paper, lemon glaze shining under the pendant light.
Plates appeared. Knives flashed. The first slice sighed as it left the round. You served your father, then Lois; Clark slid your plate across without looking at you, the corner of his mouth quirking like he knew exactly what your hands felt like a few minutes ago and wasn't going to think about it. You weren't either. Not with cake this pretty.
For a while, it was simple: forks tapping porcelain, low commentary about crumb and balance and which bakery deserved a handwritten thank-you note. Your father declared the icing "the only proper way to end a meal." Lucy stole a bite from Lois's plate with the shameless precision of a jewel thief. Clark hummed his approval at the first taste, eyes closing for a blink longer than necessary, a sound you felt lower than was reasonable.
"So," Lois said, refilling your father's coffee and settling back with a cat-curious glint. "While we were rescuing dessert, did my brother tell any embarrassing stories about me to scare you off? Because if he brought up the seventh-grade bangs, I will sue."
Clark didn't miss a beat. He leaned back, draped an elbow on the chair, and put on his best earnest-reporter face. "Not a one. He gave me the grand tour, spoke highly of you, and"—he lifted his fork in salute—"made sure the kitchen was squared away like a pro."
"Suspiciously wholesome," Lucy muttered, squinting between the two of you like a detective who knows there's a clue she hasn't spotted yet.
"Some of us can manage wholesomeness," you said, studiously focused on cutting a perfect bite. The lemon glaze pooled at the edge of your slice; a strand of icing clung to your fork, then to your lip when you tasted it. You swept it away with the tip of your tongue on instinct.
You didn't look at him. You didn't have to. Clark saw—of course he did—and the reaction was immediate and subtle: a sharp inhale he hid behind a sip of water, the barest tilt of his head, and then, under the table, the gentle nudge of his shoe against your ankle. Behave.
Heat flickered up your neck. You shifted your foot back, the ghost of his touch lingering like a secret handshake. Across the table, he'd already gone back to nodding at something your father was saying about tire irons and proper torque, picture of composure.
Lois, satisfied—for now—launched into a rapid-fire recap of the bakery's closing-time drama. Lucy embellished shamelessly, claiming she performed "emergency pastry diplomacy." Your father declared that an art form the city should subsidize. Laughter spilled easy and warm; plates emptied; crumbs collected on thumbs.
When the last fork scraped the last ribbon of lemon from porcelain, you stood to pack the to-go boxes you'd prepared earlier. Clark rose at the same time, moving in sync with you without discussion: lids snapped on, napkins tucked, names scrawled across tops in quick, neat letters. Your fingers brushed once—brief, harmless, everything—and then fell away.
"Successful rescue," Lois pronounced, snapping the bakery box closed. She leaned into Clark's shoulder, content. Your father clapped a hand to your back, approval heavy and warm. Lucy winked like she knew all your tells and was keeping them for later leverage.
You smiled, mouth sweet with lemon, heart steadying into the ordinary music of family around a table—while under it, the soft memory of a nudge on your ankle thrummed like a private chord only the two of you could hear.
YOU VOLUNTEERED to walk Clark out, grabbing your coat from the hook as he balanced two neatly labeled clamshells—Lois and Clark—stacked in his arms. The night air had that clean, late-evening bite; your breath lifted white in the porch light as the door clicked shut behind you. Gravel whispered under your shoes. Out by the curb, Lois’s car sat beneath the streetlamp, flecked with a fine dusting of road salt that turned the paint a shade paler.
Behind you, the front hall was a tangle of familiar noise—your sisters scolding your father as only daughters can: “Text when you’re home.” “You promise you’ll make the cardiology appointment, right?” “Dad, it’s winter—wear the good coat.” He harrumphed and agreed in that way of his that meant he’d do most of it and pretend it was his idea.
Out on the walk, you angled closer so your shoulder could help with the weight of the door while Clark freed a hand to fish for keys. “Thanks,” he said quietly, that warm Kansas note in his voice turning the word into something softer.
“You did most of the heavy lifting,” you murmured, nodding at the containers. “I just provided moral support and, uh, cutlery.”
He smiled at that—small, tired, devastating. The porch light trimmed his profile in gold; the loosened knot of his tie made him look a little undone in a way only you would notice. “You kept me from the gauntlet,” he said. “I owe you.”
“You owe me exactly nothing,” you said, and the truth of it trembled in the space between you.
At the car, he opened the back door and set the boxes carefully on the seat like they were more fragile than pastry. When he straightened, the two of you fell into that gravity again—close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, far enough to call it coincidence if anyone looked out the window. The neighborhood was quiet: the soft electric buzz of the streetlight, a radio murmuring from somewhere down the block, a taxi rolling past with its heater whistling.
“Tonight was…” He searched for the word and didn’t find it. “A lot.”
You huffed a breath that ghosted between you. “Understatement of the year. And it’s only—” You checked your phone as a distraction. “—still the same day.”
Silence settled, not awkward, just full. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets so you wouldn’t do something stupid like touch his lapel just to see if it was as soft as it looked.
“We can’t do it again,” you said finally, because someone had to pick the line back up. Your voice was quiet but sure. “Whatever that was. We can’t.”
His agreement came immediately, like a reflex he’d already rehearsed. “We can’t.” A beat. He swallowed. “Lois first.”
“Always,” you said, and meant it. The words landed between you like a posted sign.
And still—neither of you moved. Your eyes held and held, the kind of looking that catalogues, not to memorize for later, but because you couldn’t not. All the things you weren’t saying threaded through those seconds: I felt you everywhere, I’m already missing a moment we’re still standing in, I don’t know how to be in the same room as you and pretend it didn’t happen.
You forced a crooked smile. “So… next time I keep you company, we actually… keep company.”
He answered with one of his own, exhausted and warm. “I’ll bring cards. Something very wholesome.”
“Gin rummy,” you said, deadpan.
“Dangerous,” he murmured, and it shouldn’t have made your pulse jump, but it did.
From the porch, Lucy’s laugh rang out, followed by Lois’s voice telling your dad she’d bring soup later in the week. You both flinched back into the world.
“Drive safe,” you said, stepping aside so he could close the door. It clicked with a mild, final sound that felt anything but.
His hand found your sleeve—just the cuff, just a graze—and then, before either of you could talk yourselves out of it, you leaned in at the same time. The kiss was fast and quiet and precise, the kind of thing you could deny if you had to, except you wouldn’t, not to yourselves. He tasted like lemon and coffee and the last five minutes you’d stolen in a kitchen that already looked innocent again.
You parted on a shared breath. His forehead hovered a fraction from yours, then he stepped back like it cost him something.
“Goodnight,” he said, eyes still on your mouth for one treacherous second before he dragged them up where they belonged.
“Goodnight,” you echoed, softer than you meant to.
He circled to the driver’s side just as the front door opened and your sisters spilled onto the porch, coats on, your father framed behind them with his arms crossed in satisfied inspection. Lois waved at you both like she’d choreographed the goodbye. Lucy clutched her cake with the reverence of a relic.
“Text us when you’re home,” Lucy called.
“We will,” Clark answered, voice steady, that easy fiancé smile on, the picture of a man ending a normal Sunday night.
He climbed in. You shut the back door and rapped your knuckles twice on the roof—habit from a hundred family departures. The engine turned over; warm air fogged the inside of the windshield for a second before the defroster battled it clear. He glanced at you once more through the glass. The look was quick, gone as soon as it came, but you felt it like a hand closing around a promise.
As the car pulled away, you stood in the streetlight glow with a bakery box under your arm and the taste of him brief and bright on your lips. You told yourself you’d just closed the door on a mistake.
But as the taillights stitched red down the block and your phone buzzed with the group chat lighting up—cake secured; dad scolded; mission accomplished—you knew better. Whatever lived between you hadn’t burned out. It had learned to live in the margins—glances, almost-touches, borrowed minutes—and it wasn’t done with either of you.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. when unexpected changes test them, clark and you find new strength in each other.
𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [6.8k].
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳top!clark 〳 bottom!reader 〳 m!preg (reader) 〳 morning sickness 〳 pregnancy symptoms 〳 rough sex 〳 size kink 〳 breeding 〳 cumplay 〳 rimming (r!receiving) 〳 blowjob (r!giving and r!receiving) 〳 gagging 〳 spit 〳 body worshiping 〳 body marking 〳 impregnation
The tension in Clark’s broad shoulders hadn’t fully left, the residue of a long day spent balancing deadlines and world-saving lingering beneath his skin. But now, as he stood close to you in the dim light of your bedroom, the weight shifted, replaced by a raw, urgent need that pulsed through every muscle.
His chest was a perfect landscape of muscle; hard ridges beneath his shirt, the steady rise and fall with each breath like the ebb of some mighty tide. Thick arms wrapped around you, the power in his grip undeniable but tempered by tenderness. When his hands closed around your wrists and pinned them above your head, it was a command whispered in silk and steel; you felt the immense strength holding you effortlessly, the sheer force he could wield without breaking you.
You barely moved beneath him, a mixture of desire and awe flooding you as his steady gaze locked onto yours. His clothed cock pressed heavily against your thigh, rock hard and thick, aching from the long day without release. Just the thought of finally having you beneath him, your body open and vulnerable, made his pulse race faster.
He traced his fingertips along your jawline, eyes darkening with want and something softer,something like worship. “God, you look so good for me,” Clark growled quietly, voice rough with need. His tongue flicked out, wet and warm, licking the shell of your ear as his hands slid under your shirt, palms flattening against your back.
Your breath hitched when his mouth found the sensitive hollow of your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. The scent of your skin—your sweat, your natural musk—flooded his senses, fueling the fire growing between his legs. His bulge twitched insistently, aching to be buried deep inside you, to feel your tight heat clenching around him.
He kissed down your collarbone, lips lingering over the delicate skin, before lowering himself until his mouth hovered just above your chest. His tongue circled a nipple, sucking it hard, the sharp sting mixing with the pleasure like electricity racing through your veins. Your hips lifted without thought, grinding up against his mouth as he teased you mercilessly.
“Clark…” you gasped, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, full of dark promise and a deep, unwavering love. “Not yet,” he whispered, voice rough but patient. “I want to taste every inch of you.”
His hands roamed lower, sliding beneath your pants and underwear, palms warm and sure as they wrapped around your cock after he stripped the undergarments off. His thumb circled the sensitive head, slick with precum, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. Clark’s mouth descended slowly, lips parting to take you in, the heat of his breath making you moan deep in your chest.
His tongue worked expertly along your shaft, flicking over the frenulum with teasing flicks, then taking more of you in, his throat flexing as he swallowed your length. His hands squeezed your hips, anchoring you as he bobbed his head, the wet, hollow sounds of his mouth working you filling the quiet room.
Your body trembled, heat pooling deep in your belly, your fingers clutching the sheets as pleasure built to a desperate crescendo. Clark pulled back with a gasp, lips swollen and glistening. “You’re so beautiful,” he growled, voice thick with lust.
He stripped off his own shirt, revealing his broad, chiseled chest slick with sweat. His skin gleamed under the low light, muscles rippling as he shifted his weight in continuing to undress himself from top to bottom.
Clark’s mouth lingered against your skin a moment longer before he slowly pulled away, leaving your entrance slick and burning with need. You shifted, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger, reaching eagerly for the thick length already standing proud and heavy against his lower abdomen.
Clark knelt on the bed, his muscular thighs spread just enough to balance the heavy weight pressing between them. His cock was impossibly large, long and thick, veins pulsing like rivers of raw electricity beneath the taut skin. The swollen, glistening head oozed with precum, slick and shining in the soft light. It wasn’t just the size that demanded attention; there was a primal urgency in its heavy swell, a heat that radiated off his skin in waves.
Beneath it, his balls hung low and full, swollen with need and thick with the promise of release. The skin was taut but velvety, the weight pulling slightly at his thighs as they shifted with every breath he took. You watched as the heavy sacks swung slowly, brushing against the smooth planes of his legs, the slightest movement sending them teasingly bouncing—so full they looked like they could burst.
Each subtle motion made his cock sway, a pendulum of desire that your eyes couldn’t leave. When he shifted forward, you could see the thick length stretching, pressing insistently toward you, begging for your mouth. The warmth from his skin was intoxicating, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and musk that clung to him after a long day.
Your own breath caught as you reached out, fingers trembling, the anticipation knotting in your stomach. Your mouth watered as you leaned closer, lips parting slowly like a soft invitation, your tongue already aching to taste that immense hardness. The weight of him pressed into your senses, too much, and yet not nearly enough.
Around you, the quiet of the room seemed to shrink, the only sounds were your quickening breath and the subtle slick noises of his arousal. The bed creaked faintly beneath him, the shifting of muscles taut with desire drawing you in deeper.
You could feel the heat of his body before your lips even touched him, that heavy weight of his cock and balls swinging just enough to brush teasingly against your chin. It was a promise; the promise of all the fire and strength and tenderness that Clark held inside, and the unspoken invitation to take it all.
At first, you managed only the head, your lips stretched impossibly wide around the thick crown, tongue swirling at the sensitive ridge beneath the rim. The heat radiating from him was fierce, almost overwhelming, and you could taste the salty musk, the rawness of him that made your heart pound.
You tried to slide farther down, to take more of him, but his girth was relentless, so thick it stretched your jaw beyond comfort. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, escaping and trailing wet streaks down your chin. Your jaw ached fiercely from the stretch, muscles tight and trembling, but you refused to stop.
Clark groaned, his hands threading through your hair, holding your head steady and encouraging you wordlessly. His cock throbbed against your tongue, the length so heavy it brushed the back of your throat when you tried to take him deeper. Gagging softly, you pulled back a fraction, breath hitching, but your lips never lost contact.
You swallowed hard, working your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes; lips sliding down, tongue flicking over the swollen veins, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to send shivers through both of you. Every inch of him filled your senses, the overwhelming size a delicious challenge you were determined to meet.
Clark’s hips jerked lightly with need, his breath ragged as he moaned low in your ear. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he gasped, fingers tightening in your hair.
You pushed through the ache in your jaw, eyes locked on his face, watching the raw desire flicker in his gaze. You wanted to show him how much you needed him, how much you worshiped every inch.
Your jaw stretched, aching deliciously as you tried to take more, but the sheer girth was relentless, too thick to fit comfortably, yet you didn’t want to stop. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, slick and warm, dripping down your chin in slow rivulets. You swallowed hard, your tongue working tirelessly, tracing the swollen veins that throbbed beneath the sensitive skin.
Your hands wrapped around the base, stroking slow and sure as your mouth continued its relentless worship. Clark’s cock throbbed and twitched in your mouth, each pulse sending jolts through your lips and tongue.
Clark groaned low and deep, hips pressing forward, cock throbbing against your tongue. “Driving me crazy,” he murmured, voice thick with need. His hands tightened in your hair, anchoring you close even as his body trembled with effort. He had been at work all day, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now—here, in this moment—he was yours entirely.
You gave him a teasing smile, a low hum to send vibrations to his cock, pulling back just enough to catch your breath before diving back in, lips stretched impossibly wide around his cock, swallowing every inch you could manage, utterly lost in the sweet, overwhelming sensation of taking him in.
You pulled back just enough to gasp for breath, lips swollen and slick, eyes locked on his face where raw desire flickered. The sight of his flushed cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the dark glint in his eyes; it all made your pulse race.
“You’re killing me,” Clark groaned, voice rough. “Nearly came right then and there...”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, y’know.” You laughed, wiping some drool off with the back of your hand.
Before you could say another word, Clark’s hands slid up your sides, steadying you as he pulled you closer. His lips brushed over yours, then dipped down to your chin, his tongue flicking out to lick the stray drool from your skin with a slow, teasing lick.
The warmth of his mouth followed, soft and hungry, as he captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. His breath mingled with yours, rough and sweet, as he held your bare body tightly, an unspoken promise that this night was only just beginning.
Clark broke the kiss reluctantly, his eyes dark and molten with need as he cupped your jaw, slowly easing you down onto your stomach. His hands slid to your hips, pressing firmly to lift your ass, angling it up just right. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your chest into the mattress as you spread yourself open for him.
The soft curve of your spine, the smooth swell of your ass elevated and exposed; it was a perfect invitation. Clark’s cock throbbed heavily against your thigh, veins pulsing with urgent heat as his breath ghosted over your slick entrance.
Then, with slow reverence, he lowered his mouth to your entrance. His tongue flicked out tentatively at first, teasing the rim with gentle, deliberate strokes; each movement setting your nerves ablaze and pulling a soft moan from your lips.
The wet heat of his mouth pressed against your sensitive walls made you gasp, hips twitching as his tongue traced deep inside your tight hole, exploring with careful insistence.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” Clark murmured against your skin, voice thick and husky with need. Licking again, flattening his tongue, slower with deliberate tease, over your crack. “So good…”
You shivered beneath him, fingers digging into the sheets as his tongue traced slow circles over the crown, inching deeper with exquisite patience. “God, Clark…” you breathed, the sound barely more than a whisper, desperate and raw.
Your muscles clenched and released, responding to the thick, curling pressure of his fingers slipping inside alongside his tongue. The combination of wet heat and firm touch sent waves of sharp pleasure shooting through you. Your body arched higher, pressing into his touch as your breath hitched with each slick, pulsing stroke.
“You feel so good like this,” Clark whispered against your skin, lips brushing over the curve of your ass, “all open for me.”
Your fingers clenched the sheets beneath you, body trembling with every slow curl of his three thick fingers digging deep, stretching you gently while his tongue danced in delicious, maddening patterns. The slick friction mixed with the steady push of his fingers made your vision blur with heat.
“I want to taste all of you,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “I want to feel you shudder around me.”
Your hips gave a desperate, involuntary push against him, needing more, craving that relentless worship. Clark’s cock twitched hard, pressing heavier against your thigh as the slick warmth of your body wrapped him, and his breath grew ragged with the mounting ache.
“You’re mine,” he breathed, voice rough as he swallowed the low moan you let slip. “Every inch.”
Catching your breath, you muffled into the pillow as you felt Clark pull his fingers out of you, “Stole my line, asshole.”
You both chuckled as Clark’s hands slid from your hips to the curve of your waist, fingers curling gently but possessively. With a slow, deliberate motion, he shifted his weight and pressed into the bed beside you, the heat of his muscular body warming your skin. He carefully flipped you over, easing you back until your spine met the mattress and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.
The sudden shift sent a delicious flush of vulnerability and excitement coursing through you. Your raised thighs framed him perfectly, hips tilting up as your breath caught at the sight of him: his broad chest rising and falling, muscles taut from the day’s stress now softened in the quiet intimacy between you.
Clark’s eyes darkened as he looked down at you, admiration and hunger burning in their depths. He brushed a damp lock of hair from your forehead, his touch tender despite the fire building inside him.
He paused a moment, savoring the connection, the slick heat pooling between your bodies. His cock twitched, heavy and aching, the thick length pressed against your wet entrance. Clark let out a low groan, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
His hands settled firmly on your hips, anchoring you, steadying both of you as he traced slow, teasing circles with the tip of his cock over your tight, slick rim. You arched your back, pressing into him, silently begging.
Clark’s breath hitched, and he looked down at you with a softness that made your heart ache. “You know,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “no matter how long my day is… coming home to you like this… it makes everything better.”
You smiled, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for this all day too.”
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss. His mouth was warm and gentle, full of promise and reassurance, grounding you amidst the heat and longing.
When he pulled back just enough to whisper against your skin, his voice was thick with affection and need: “I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”
You nodded, your voice a soft whisper. “I do. With you, I’m home.”
Clark’s eyes held yours, shimmering with something deeper than desire; a fierce, unwavering love. He pressed one last lingering kiss to your forehead before lowering himself again, ready to join you fully.
“Ready for me?” His voice was low and thick, laced with longing and care.
You nodded, breath hitching, legs tightening around his waist as you lifted your hips to meet him.
Clark’s cock pressed heavy against your slick entrance, the swollen head teasing the delicate rim with agonizing patience. The tight heat of your muscles contracted around him, a delicious, fiery grip that made every nerve scream. Your body quivered, hips instinctively pressing up to meet him, welcoming the impossible stretch.
The slickness coated him like silk, but the tension of your tight, unyielding flesh was a slow-burning fire. Clark’s hands dug into your hips, steady and sure, as he fought the urge to slam in hard and fast. Instead, he pushed forward with slow, excruciating care—his cockhead pressing past your tight ring, stretching you wide, inch by agonizing inch.
The room was thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. Clark’s muscles flexed visibly beneath his skin, veins pulsing along his thick arms and broad shoulders as he anchored himself above you. The primal power of his body coiled like a spring, every movement deliberate, restrained, fueled by pure need.
Your breath hitched with the exquisite burn of being filled so completely, your back arching as the stretch deepened, cock buried to the hilt inside you. The overwhelming fullness was at once breathtaking and overwhelming. Every inch a delicious ache that left you trembling, skin slick and flushed.
Clark’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his strong jaw clenched tight as he slowly sank deeper, the thick length of him filling you with a punishing, agonizing stretch. The hot friction of your tight walls clenching around his shaft sent shivers of raw, unfiltered pleasure straight to his cock, making it pulse and throb with urgent need.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Clark growled, voice low and ragged, a dark hunger flickering in his eyes. “Damn, you take me so well. You’re perfect.”
Your fingers dug into the sheets, nails scraping the fabric as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensation. Your hole stretched impossibly wide, every muscle trembling around his cock like a vice. The heat pooling between your bodies was unbearable, sweat slicking your skin, mixing with the taste of each other.
Clark’s hands gripped your hips harder, flexing his powerful arms as he slowly began to move, the slow, steady push of his cock sliding in and out of your tight, burning heat creating a relentless rhythm that stole your breath and stole your mind.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice thick with desperation and awe, veins pulsing beneath the surface as his thrusts gained strength. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
You gasped, voice breaking under the pressure and pleasure. “Clark—oh, fuck—don’t stop. It hurts so fucking—fuck!”
The wet slap of skin meeting skin filled the room as he set a brutal, punishing pace, muscles pumping, cock throbbing, the stretch still aching but melting into searing, overwhelming bliss.
Every inch of you was alive, every nerve firing, every breath stolen by the relentless pounding of his thick cock driving deep inside you. You clung to him, breathless and shaking, utterly consumed by the raw, carnal heat between you.
Clark’s cock drove deeper with every brutal thrust. Thick, swollen, hot; stretching your hole beyond its limits, past the line between pain and pleasure until they were indistinguishable. Your rim clung to him desperately, spit-slick and flushed raw, the edges fluttering helplessly as his girth dragged through your tender channel, ruining you. Every withdrawal left your hole gaping open around air for a split second, flushed and twitching, before his cock forced it wide again with a slick, wet pop of resistance giving way.
“Christ,” Clark groaned, one hand sliding from your hip to your bare chest, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he adjusted the angle. “You’re gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”
His voice was hoarse, dripping with reverence and restraint, but his body was anything but. His cock was a steel-thick monster inside you, heat-flushed and veined, every inch slick with your wetness and the precum he kept spilling into you. You could feel it pulse, twitch, throb with need inside your stretched heat like it was alive. His heavy balls slammed against your taint with each thrust, the wet smack echoing through the thick, humid air, overlaid with your own ragged cries and the low, guttural sounds he made as he fucked you deeper.
Clark’s body radiated heat. Not just from the exertion of moving that massive frame, but because he willed it hotter. His sweat poured in rivulets down the ridges of his chest, beading between his pecs, running down the sharp cut of his abs. His skin burned where it pressed against yours—feverish, slick—and the air around you shimmered with it, suffocating and intimate. It clung to you like a second skin.
Your fingers scrambled blindly for purchase, first clawing at the sheets, then sliding helplessly over his sweat-slicked back. When you found his skin—his wide, muscular shoulders, the tight flex of his lat as he rocked into you—you clung. Digging your nails into him like a man drowning, dragging red lines across the bulging muscles that carved his back and arms like sculpted marble.
“Fuck, baby—harder,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your thighs trembled, calves kicking uselessly against the mattress as you were driven down onto his cock again and again. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—”
“I’m not gonna,” he growled, voice gravel and smoke. “You’re gonna take it. All of me. Gonna keep taking this cock until I make you forget your own name.”
He punctuated it with a thrust so deep it punched a cry from your lungs, your whole body seizing beneath him. Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming out for a moment except the choked hitch of breath and the obscene gluck-gluck of his cock pistoning into your soaked hole.
Clark withdrew all at once, your hole clenching around emptiness, fluttering, desperate. Before you could beg, he was already manhandling you into a new position; hands strong, but never cruel. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades as his hands gripped your hips and lifted your ass. You barely had time to brace yourself. Cheek pressed to the damp sheets, arms trembling; before he lined himself back up and fed his cock into you again, slow and brutal, like he wanted you to feel every inch of it burrow back inside. The new angle drove him deeper, thicker, his cockhead now punching right into the soft bundle of nerves inside you with surgical precision.
He reached up, palmed the back of your neck, pushing your face into the mattress as he angled his hips again, thrusting with a brutal precision, tip grinding up against your prostate with every pass.
You were sobbing now, not from pain but from being so full, so utterly destroyed. Your rim burned, stretched around him wide and red, swollen and shiny from the unrelenting assault. You felt him everywhere: inside your guts, in your stomach, in your chest. It was like he’d moved your organs just to make space for his cock.
“Look at you,” Clark panted, bending over you now, chest dragging over your slick back. His voice came hot against your ear, laced with something wicked. “Look how pretty you stretch around me. You love this, don’t you?”
You could barely nod. Your hands came up again, reaching back and straining your back and shoulders muscles to slide over his sweat-drenched chest this time—touching the thick, solid wall of his pecs, then scratching down as you moaned through clenched teeth.
His body tensed as you clawed. “Shit—keep doing that. Fuck—mark me, baby.”
And you did. Scratches bloomed down the curves of his chest, over the bulge of his biceps as he bore down harder. His thrusts turned ragged, pace violent, wet slaps echoing as his balls smacked your taint again and again, your ass clapping back against his hips with each bounce.
The slick mess between your thighs grew worse. Your cock leaking untouched against the sheets, Clark’s precum pouring into you, squelching with every plunge.
The room was drenched in noise. Moaning, panting, slapping, the squelch of ruined slick, the guttural growl of a man on the edge.
Then:
“Mine,” Clark said, voice thick and trembling. “Every inch of this sweet hole—mine.”
Your hole spasmed around him in reply.
You didn’t know how long he kept you like that: face pressed into the mattress, arms sprawled and limp, ass in the air like an offering. Time warped under the weight of him, his cock sawing in and out with a relentless, punishing rhythm that left your hole raw and weeping around him. The squelch of it, the obscene slap of his hips against your ass, the slick drag of your walls failing to close around his girth—it all melted into one deafening symphony of filth.
Clark’s body trembled above you now. You could feel it—his breath faltering, rhythm stuttering, muscles twitching like he was holding back a goddamn earthquake. He was drenched in sweat, drops falling from his brow onto your back, his grip on your hips bruising.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice unraveling. “You’re so—tight, baby. Taking all of me—gonna fill you up, I’m gonna—shit, I’m gonna cum.”
You cried out, voice wrecked. “Please. Do it. Give it to me. Fill me up, Clark—please, please—”
That broke him.
With a final, punishing thrust that drove his cockhead flush against the deepest part of you, Clark buried himself to the hilt and held. His whole body locked up—thighs flexed, ass clenched, chest rising in a trembling gasp—before he let out a guttural, almost wounded moan.
“Damn—”
Then you felt it.
His cock twitched violently inside you as the first rope of cum shot deep into your guts—hot, thick, and seemingly endless. It hit you like a brand, flooding your already ruined hole, filling you so fast it pushed a wave of his seed back out around the seal of your rim. He didn’t pull out. He couldn’t. He just stayed there, cock throbbing inside you, releasing in heavy, wet spurts that made your stomach cramp from how full you were getting.
You were moaning incoherently, clenching down on him with every pulse, your own cock untouched and leaking against the sheets. Your body was shaking now, pushed over the edge just from the pressure and the sheer, brutal warmth of being used like that. You didn’t need to be touched.
You came without warning. Your whole body lurching forward, ass still high, cock spurting messily beneath you in helpless spurts. You moaned his name into the mattress, eyes rolling back as your hole squeezed around him, milking the last of his orgasm right out of his still-hard cock. It was too much. You felt overstuffed, the creamy slick of both your cum and his pouring down your thighs, pooling beneath you.
Clark collapsed over your back, chest heaving, still twitching inside you. He didn’t pull out. Not yet. His arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline, mouth pressed to your spine.
“I got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “You did so good for me. So fucking perfect.”
You could only whimper in reply, your body limp, hole leaking, still stretched wide and stuffed full of him. You didn’t want him to move. You wanted to stay plugged, branded, marked.
And Clark—he stayed.
Clark’s breath was ragged as he stayed buried inside you, hips still twitching with soft aftershocks of his release. His heavy cock, still thick and slick, pulsed deep in your wrecked hole, hot seed dripping freely inside you, pooling in the depths where only he could reach.
He rolled onto his side, but didn’t pull out; deliberately keeping you full, his swollen cockhead coated in his own warmth, nestled in your tight, stretched channel. Every slight move sent waves of his cum splashing deeper into you, a heavy, slick flood that made your guts clench and pulse in response.
I’m so full. So fucking full of him, your mind spun, hazy with pleasure and exhaustion. Like I could burst, but I don’t want to. I want this—want all of him buried inside me, filling me completely.
“You’re mine like this,” Clark whispered against the back of your neck, voice low and possessive, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns down your spine. “I’m breeding you, filling you up—making sure every drop stays where it belongs.”
You shivered, heat blooming beneath his touch, breath catching. “I… I don’t wanna lose it,” you admitted, voice cracked and small, fingertips curling into the sheets. “I want it all. I want to feel it inside me.”
Clark’s lips curved against your skin, his chest warm and heavy over your back. “Then you’ll have it,” he promised, voice rough with want and satisfaction. His hips nudged imperceptibly, spreading his hot seed in deep, glutinous waves inside you. “Every last drop. Nobody else gets this. Nobody else touches you like I do.”
Your body trembled, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so utterly taken, so thoroughly marked by him. His cum was a heavy, delicious weight inside you; proof of possession, intimacy too raw and fierce for words. Your cock twitched helplessly, slick and leaking, but Clark’s presence grounded you, steady and relentless.
“I’m yours,” you whispered back, breath hitching, “all of me. Always.”
Clark groaned softly, fingers digging lightly into your skin, marking you like the prize you were. The air hung thick with sweat and heat and the scent of your mingled arousal—a heady, suffocating mix.
You couldn’t do anything but let your breath catch and fall with his, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, filled to the brim with him.
The first time you felt it, a faint flutter of nausea, you shrugged it off. Maybe it was something you ate, or just exhaustion from the long days filled with too much to do and too little rest. You told yourself it was nothing—just a passing thing that would fade away with a good night’s sleep.
But the mornings came harder than expected, the sour twist in your stomach growing sharper, more persistent. Coffee, once a comfort, now turned bitter and burned your throat. You found yourself clutching the bathroom sink, trying to ward away the wave of dizziness that made your knees weak.
Clark noticed. Always attentive, but cautious not to push too hard. He brushed your hair back one morning as you sat pale and quiet on the edge of the bed.
“You look off,” he said softly. “Maybe you’re just worn down.”
You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Probably just stress.”
But stress didn’t explain the way your muscles ached without cause, or how fatigue seeped into your bones no matter how much you rested. Some nights you woke drenched in sweat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free from your chest. You’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to pin down the strange heaviness pressing low in your belly.
Clark had his own theories, quiet and tentative. “Maybe some weird reaction to that alien virus I fought last month,” he offered one evening, watching you pick at your dinner without appetite. “It’s been raining a lot too…maybe allergies?”
You appreciated his effort to find answers, even if they didn’t feel quite right. The idea of your body betraying you like this unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.
Days stretched into weeks, and the symptoms deepened. The nausea became a fixture in your mornings, sneaking into afternoons and sometimes evenings. Your clothes started to fit tighter around your waist, and the occasional sharp pang left you gasping for breath. You found yourself hesitating before movement, afraid of what might come next.
Clark’s watchfulness never wavered, but the questions remained unspoken. You both seemed to dance around the truth neither wanted to voice—not yet. Instead, you talked in fragments, theories swirling but never landing on the impossible.
“Maybe it’s something we haven’t seen before,” Clark mused quietly one night, the weight of the unknown pressing between you. “Something new, something… strange.”
You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice. “Yeah. Strange.”
In the quiet spaces between, your mind wrestled with the mounting evidence your body couldn’t hide. You knew something was happening. Something beyond sickness or stress, but the answer was still out of reach.
Mornings grew heavier, the nausea settling in like an uninvited guest who refused to leave. You caught yourself laughing quietly at your own grimace while stirring the coffee you barely drank. You skimped out on the half-and-half today; no bueno.
“I swear, if this is some cosmic joke, I’m sending a strongly worded letter,” you joked, though your voice lacked its usual spark.
Clark watched you from the doorway, concern etched in his features. “You really don’t look well,” he said, voice low. “Maybe you should take it easy today. Call off work?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you said, waving him off with a weak grin. “Just auditioning for a new role: ‘The Human Barf Machine.’ Think I’ll nail it. But—I’ll be fine. Took a pill.”
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush your temple with the gentlest touch, then flattened the back of his hand over your forehead, testing your body temperature. “This isn’t like you. You’re not fine.”
You shrugged, trying to keep the mood light even as your stomach twisted again. “Maybe I’m turning into a toddler. You know, like a baby with tantrums. Just missing the diapers.”
Clark’s brow furrowed deeper, and he hesitated before speaking. “You’re not tired like this because you’re just ‘turning into a toddler.’ Something’s wrong. Have you been keeping track? The nausea, the dizziness, the sweating…”
You sighed, the humor fading for a moment. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You’re the expert on alien physiology, right? Got any theories?”
He shook his head, voice careful. “Nothing that fits. It’s like your body’s fighting something, but I can’t tell what.”
That night, you both sat on the couch, the air heavy with things unsaid. You toyed with the hem of your shirt, trying to find distraction in the fabric. “Maybe I’m just allergic to adulting,” you quipped, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes.
Clark reached out, fingers curling around yours. “I want to help, but I don’t know how. Just tell me if it gets worse, okay?”
You nodded, biting back the growing worry that was slowly replacing the humor. “I’ll try.”
The days that followed brought sharper waves of exhaustion, your body moving slower despite your best efforts. You caught Clark’s glance more often; that mixture of helplessness and determination to find answers.
One afternoon, after you nearly toppled trying to stand, Clark was quick to steady you. “Okay, that’s new,” he said, voice firm but worried. “You’re not just tired. We need to figure this out.”
You forced a laugh, leaning into him for support. “At least I’m consistent,” you murmured.
He shook his head, the joke falling flat. “This isn’t just fatigue. Something’s happening. I’m going to do some tests, run some scans.”
You hesitated, not wanting to admit how scared you were. “Fine. But only if you promise not to tell me I’m dying every five minutes.”
Clark smiled faintly, squeezing your hand. “Deal. But seriously, we’ll figure this out. Together.”
The days blurred, each morning greeting you with a fresh wave of nausea that tightened your throat and made your limbs feel leaden. You caught yourself rubbing your belly absently, a strange weight pressing there—not just physical, but something intangible that set your nerves on edge. You hated how little control you had over your own body lately.
Clark noticed every change, even the ones you tried to hide. One evening, after you had sunk onto the couch, drained and pale, he knelt before you, his eyes searching for clues.
“You’re barely eating,” he said softly, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “You’re losing weight. This isn’t just stress…or-or a flu!”
You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “I don’t know what it is. None of it makes sense.” The words tasted bitter. “Maybe… maybe it’s something to do with your biology. I mean, you’re Kryptonian! Maybe I’m… affected by that somehow?”
Clark gave you a small, tired smile. “That’s the best guess I have too. But nothing I’ve seen before explains this.” His hand lingered on your shoulder, firm and grounding.
Nights were the hardest. Your body betrayed you with sudden chills and sweats, and the heaviness in your belly pulsed like a silent drumbeat. You avoided mirrors; your reflection showed tired eyes shadowed with worry, a body subtly changing in ways you couldn’t name.
You’d try to joke about it sometimes, masking your fear. “Maybe I’m turning into one of those aliens you always fight,” you said once, voice cracking. “You know, with weird powers and random health problems.”
Clark laughed softly but didn’t press. “If that were true, I’d have figured it out by now.”
As the weeks wore on, you found yourself avoiding physical activity altogether, drained after even the smallest exertion. The occasional sharp pain caught you off guard, stealing your breath. Clark’s concern grew more visible, the usual confident protector replaced by a quiet worry.
One afternoon, you were halfway through a light workout when your legs buckled. Clark caught you easily but the alarm in his eyes was unmistakable.
“This can’t keep happening,” he said, voice low but firm. “We need answers. I’ll run more scans tomorrow.”
You nodded, too tired to argue. “Thanks,” you whispered.
Clark’s support was steady, but you could tell he was holding back his own fears. Neither of you spoke of pregnancy. It felt impossible, a fantasy that didn’t belong in your reality. Yet the symptoms kept mounting, pressing on your sanity, forcing both of you to question what you thought you knew.
The dull ache in your belly had deepened into something more insistent, a pressure you could no longer ignore. The nausea wasn’t just morning’s visitor anymore; it lingered, a constant hum beneath your skin. Your clothes strained against a slowly rounding waistline, and you caught yourself tracing the curve with trembling fingers, unsure what to make of it.
Clark noticed first. One evening, as you sat quietly, absentmindedly rubbing your stomach, he cleared his throat, eyes searching yours for permission to say the thing neither of you wanted to say.
“This is going to sound crazy,” he began, voice low, “but… have you thought about the possibility that you might be… pregnant?”
You blinked, the words hitting like a thunderclap. Your mind scrambled—no, that couldn’t be. It had to be something else. “Clark,” you said slowly, “I don’t have a uterus—that’s… no. I mean… and you’re a man! Kryptonian man, sure, but also—again, I’m a man… with no uterus! How would that even be possible?! AGAIN, you’re a man! I’m—”
He shrugged, looking both embarrassed and serious, but took your hand in his to ground you back to reality. “I don’t know. I’m just saying… maybe your body is doing something we’ve never seen before. Something biological, something… beyond what we understand.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy and full of questions neither could answer.
You swallowed hard, the reality settling in with a strange mixture of fear and awe. “If that’s true,” you whispered, “then what… what happens next?”
Clark reached for your hand, squeezing it firmly. “Then we face it. Together. Whatever comes, we’ll figure it out. Like always.”
Your breath caught as tears pricked your eyes. Not just from fear, but from the weight of sharing this impossible secret. The weeks of sickness, the exhaustion, the pain; it all made sense now, tangled up in this surreal truth.
And despite it all, a fierce, stubborn hope blossomed inside you. Maybe this unexpected journey wasn’t just something to survive. Maybe it was something to cherish.
The days after that conversation carried a new kind of weight—not just the physical heaviness pressing against your body, but the gravity of the truth you now shared. You and Clark moved carefully through the world, an unspoken pact woven between you.
Clark’s presence was a steady comfort, his hand warm around yours as you navigated doctor visits and late-night talks filled with questions neither of you could fully answer. His strength, once so clearly physical, now revealed itself in patience and gentle reassurance.
You leaned against Clark’s chest, the quiet hum of the evening wrapping around you like a soft blanket. The fear and confusion still lingered, but beneath it all was something steadier—a shared resolve, a partnership forged in the unexpected.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath.
Clark’s fingers threaded through your hair, his touch gentle and sure. “Me too. But whatever comes, we face it together.”
You lifted your head to meet his eyes, finding in them that unwavering calm you’d always depended on. “You think we should start thinking about names?”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Already? We haven’t even figured out how this is possible, and you want to name it?”
You grinned, playful despite yourself. “Hey, you said ‘whatever comes,’ so I’m holding you to it.”
Clark gave a small, reluctant smile. “Okay, but let’s keep the names simple. No family names, and definitely nothing too… out there.”
You smirked. “No promises. I’m sure Jimmy would be jumping for joy if we named a boy after him.”
He shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m guessing he’d also want dibs on picking the middle name.”
You rested your forehead against his, the weight of everything between you feeling a little lighter. For the first time in weeks, the future didn’t seem so uncertain.
You grinned. “You know, if we’re really doing this whole ‘parent’ thing, maybe you should think about making it official. You know… marriage and all that.”
Clark’s brow lifted, a slow smile spreading. “Jumping ahead a little, aren’t we?”
“Hey,” you said with mock seriousness, “it’s the logical next step.”
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
Summary: You and Clark had been inseparable since childhood, best friends through thick and thin. He trusted you implicitly, and you him. Yet, he never revealed his biggest secret: he was Superman. But then again, you always figure these things out.
A/N: So excited for James Gunn's Superman to come out, so I figured I'd write some fluff while we wait. 2.7k+ words
TW: Fluff
The strap of your messenger bag dug into your shoulder as you rummaged frantically, a thick manila folder clamped precariously between your teeth. The faint metallic tang of the folder mingled with the dust of old paper as you desperately sought the familiar jingle of the spare keys to Clark's apartment. You pictured him, probably hunched over his keyboard at The Daily Planet, oblivious to your current predicament, meticulously crafting another exposé on Superman. Or at least, that's what he'd claimed when you called about dropping off the stack of vibrant, newly printed photographs he'd requested. The irony wasn't lost on you – he was always so meticulous with his journalistic pursuits.
A guttural groan escaped you as the elusive keys, finally located, slipped from your grasp with a soft clatter against the worn hallway linoleum. You bent swiftly, a fleeting image of Clark's amused smirk flashing in your mind, and snatched them up. The cool metal felt good in your palm as you jammed them into the lock, the tumblers clicking with a satisfying thud. Kicking off your shoes, you nudged your bag aside with a foot, and with a soft sigh, closed the door behind you, the city's distant hum fading into a comfortable silence.
You deposited the manila folder onto the small, perpetually cluttered entryway table, its contents a vibrant reminder of the world outside. Then, your gaze swept across the familiar, yet oddly askew, landscape of Clark’s living room. A faint scent of stale coffee and ink hung in the air, but what truly caught your attention was the subtle disarray. Clark, despite his occasionally absent-minded tendencies, usually maintained a semblance of order. This was different. A stack of books lay toppled on the floor beside a half-eaten box of cereal, and a rumpled throw blanket was precariously draped over a lamp. A flicker of concern, subtle but persistent, began to stir within you. Without a second thought, you pushed up the sleeves of your jacket, the denim rough against your forearms, and strode towards his bedroom, a determined glint in your eye. The sight within confirmed your suspicions: laundry, a kaleidoscope of shirts, socks, and jeans, lay scattered like fallen leaves across the wooden floor, a testament to a recent, inexplicable chaos. You knelt, beginning the familiar ritual of gathering his clothes, a quiet sense of purpose settling over you.
You systematically gathered the scattered garments, sorting them into piles of lights and darks, the mundane task a soothing balm against the lingering unease. Each shirt folded, each sock paired, brought a small sense of order to the chaos. You moved through the apartment, picking up discarded newspapers, stacking books, and wiping down surfaces, a domestic whirlwind aimed at restoring Clark's usual, if slightly skewed, equilibrium.
As you neared the closet, reaching for a stray t-shirt peeking from beneath the door, a flash of vibrant color caught your eye. A faint glimpse of red fabric, impossibly bright against the muted tones of Clark's wardrobe, seemed to hum with an almost magnetic pull. A prickle of unease, cold and sharp, traced its way down your spine. You knew, logically, you shouldn't be prying. This was Clark’s private space, his sanctuary. But something deeper, an insistent whisper in your brain, screamed that this was important, crucial.
With a hesitant push, the closet door creaked open, revealing a neatly hung, yet undeniably familiar, object. It was a cape, a deep, rich crimson, its fabric surprisingly weighty. Your breath hitched. There was no mistaking it. This was the same red cape plastered across every news outlet, emblazoned in bold headlines, the very one you'd seen in countless photographs you’d developed for Clark himself. The cape of Superman.
You reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as you brushed the smooth material. Bringing it closer, you inhaled deeply. The scent was unmistakable: a subtle blend of Clark's familiar laundry detergent and something else, something sharp and electric, like a distant thunderstorm – ozone. "Son of a bitch," you murmured, the words barely a whisper, yet vibrating with a newfound, dizzying understanding.
Driven by a frantic need for confirmation, you delved deeper into the closet, pushing aside sweaters and jackets. And then you saw it, lying neatly folded on a shelf: the familiar blue suit, emblazoned with the iconic 'S'. It was all there. The pieces of a cosmic puzzle clicked into place with a sickeningly clear logic. Clark Kent, your quiet, unassuming childhood best friend, the man who tripped over his own feet and always had ink on his fingers, was Superman. And he hadn't told you.
You clutched the cape and suit, the heavy fabric feeling strangely alien in your hands. With a decisive snap, you shut the closet door, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence of the apartment. Your mind reeled, a whirlwind of disbelief, shock, and a strange surge of awe. Without another thought, you marched into the living room, the superhero ensemble a crumpled testament to your shattered reality, and sank onto the sofa. You knew he'd be home soon. And you were going to be waiting.
The distinct click of the lock jolted you from your daze. Clark was home. You didn't move, holding the crumpled cape and suit loosely in your lap. The door swung open, and Clark stepped in, juggling a stack of newspapers and a takeout bag. He looked up, his eyes, usually so calm and kind, widened to saucers. The newspapers clattered to the floor, and the takeout bag slipped from his grasp, spilling its contents in a greasy stain on the rug.
"Oh my god," he stammered, his face blanching. "I can explain. I swear, I can explain everything." He looked like a deer caught in headlights, a mix of panic and utter despair warring in his expression.
You stared at him, at the frantic flush creeping up his neck, at the genuine terror in his eyes. And then, a small chuckle bubbled up from your chest, quickly blossoming into full-blown laughter. A deep, unrestrained, utterly bewildered laugh that echoed in the suddenly silent apartment.
Clark froze, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You... you're not mad?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He looked genuinely perplexed, as if your reaction was the most illogical thing he'd ever witnessed.
You shook your head, still chuckling, though a tear of mirth pricked the corner of your eye. "Mad? Clark, why would I be mad?" You gestured vaguely at the suit in your lap. "This is... this is incredible!"
He slowly walked over, his movements stiff, and sat beside you on the sofa, a respectable distance between your hips. He was still processing, still speechless. The usual easy banter that flowed between you was replaced by an awkward, almost comical silence. He just sat there, a big, clumsy secret-keeper finally caught.
You couldn't contain it anymore. "Okay, okay, hold on," you said, turning to face him fully, the laughter finally subsiding into a breathless grin. "First things first. What's it like? Like, seriously, what's it like? Can you really fly? Is it like a sensation, or more like just willing yourself to move? And the super-speed! Do things just slow down for you? Can you hear everything? Like, can you hear me thinking right now? Because if you can, you should know I'm thinking about how many times you've probably saved my butt without me even knowing it!"
Clark's jaw, which had been hanging slightly ajar, finally clicked shut. He blinked, his eyes darting between your face and the red and blue bundle still clutched in your hands. The sheer volume of your questions seemed to short-circuit his usual composure. He let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" he managed, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "One question at a time. And no, I can't hear your thoughts, thankfully. That would be… overwhelming." He visibly relaxed a fraction, the initial shock giving way to a more familiar, if still a little stunned, expression.
You leaned closer, your eyes wide with unadulterated curiosity. "Okay, so flying. Is it like swimming through the air? Do you feel the wind resistance, or are you just... there? And is it cold up high? Do you get dizzy?" You wiggled your fingers, mimicking a soaring motion. "Tell me everything, Clark. Every single detail."
He chuckled again, a more genuine sound this time, and picked up the discarded takeout bag, setting it on the table with a sigh. "It's... it's hard to describe. It's less like swimming and more like an extension of myself. Like breathing, but with the entire sky open to you." His gaze drifted upward, as if he were reliving the sensation. "The wind is there, yes, but it doesn't bother me. And no, I don't get dizzy. It’s the most freeing feeling in the world."
"And super-speed?" you pressed, not letting him off the hook. "Is it like the world is moving in slow motion around you? Do you have to actively process all that information, or does your brain just... handle it?" You pictured him a blur, zipping through Metropolis, a silent guardian.
Clark paused, considering. "It's a lot like that. Everything else does slow down. It's not that I consciously process every single detail, but my brain adapts. It's like... a different level of perception." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "Sometimes it's exhilarating, like a jolt of pure energy. Other times, it's just efficient."
You leaned back, taking it all in. The pieces were still settling, forming a new mosaic of your oldest friend. "And how long, Clark? How long have you been... him?" You gestured again to the suit, your voice softening. "All these years, all this time we've known each other... and you never said a word."
He looked down at his hands, a shadow passing over his face. "Since I was a kid, really. My parents, they helped me understand it. And the secret... it's a heavy one to carry. It's for everyone's safety, mostly. To protect the people I care about." His eyes met yours, a silent plea for understanding. "I always wanted to tell you. More than anyone. But..." He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air.
You reached out, gently placing your hand over his. "I get it, Clark. I really do." You squeezed his hand, a sense of quiet awe washing over you. You looked at the red and blue fabric in your lap.
A slow, irrepressible smile began to stretch across your face. It started small, a mere twitch at the corners of your lips, then blossomed into a wide, uninhibited grin. You stood up from the couch, the red and blue fabric still clutched in your hands. Clark, still somewhat shell-shocked, watched you with a curious, almost bewildered expression.
"What are you...?" he started, but you were already moving.
With a mischievous gleam in your eye, you began to wrestle with the suit. The royal blue fabric, tailored for Clark's broad shoulders and towering height, absolutely swamped your comparatively scrawny frame. The 'S' shield, so iconic on him, looked comically large on your chest, drooping almost to your belly button. You struggled to pull the tights up, the material pooling around your ankles. Then came the cape. You draped it over your shoulders, the heavy crimson fabric dragging on the floor, trailing behind you like a majestic, albeit oversized, train.
Clark watched, a blush slowly creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. He tried to suppress a smile, but it was a losing battle. The sight of you, drowning in his superhero attire, was simply too much. He couldn't help but let out a soft, surprised laugh, a genuine, unburdened sound that filled the apartment.
You turned to him, striking a dramatic pose. One hand was on your hip, the other arm outstretched, attempting to mimic Superman's classic flight stance. The cape billowed around your feet, tripped by its own excess length. "So," you declared, puffing out your chest (which did little to fill the suit), "how do I look, Man of Steel?"
Clark dissolved into a fit of laughter, burying his face in his hands. "You look... incredible," he managed between gasps of mirth, the blush on his face deepening. "Definitely a look."
You lowered your arm, the cape rustling around your ankles, a wide grin plastered on your face. "Hey, it's not easy being this heroic," you quipped, attempting to smooth out the bunched-up fabric of the suit. "Needs a little tailoring, perhaps. Or maybe you just have a ridiculously broad chest, Clark."
He chuckled, finally lifting his head, his eyes still sparkling with amusement. "It's probably a bit of both," he admitted, shaking his head. "Though I've never seen anyone look quite so... determined, wearing it." He stood up, slowly approaching you, a relaxed smile on his face. The earlier panic had completely vanished, replaced by a comfortable familiarity that felt right.
"But seriously," you said, letting the cape fall a bit, the playful mood shifting slightly. "All these years. How did you even... manage? The disappearances, the excuses? Did you ever almost get caught?" The questions tumbled out, more serious this time, born from a deeper understanding of the incredible burden he’d been carrying.
Clark ran a hand through his hair, a thoughtful expression replacing his amusement. "It was... challenging. Especially at first. There were definitely close calls." He walked past you, moving towards the kitchen, as if the familiar action would help him organize his thoughts. "A lot of 'urgent' assignments for the Planet, sudden 'flu' outbreaks, even a few strategically timed 'power outages' to explain my absence." He leaned against the counter, looking back at you, a hint of weariness in his eyes. "The biggest fear wasn't getting hurt, it was always the fear of someone finding out. Of endangering the people I cared about." He paused, his gaze lingering on you. "Like you."
A warmth spread through you, a mixture of touched appreciation and a lingering sense of awe. "Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore," you said, pulling off the oversized cape and suit and setting them gently on the sofa. "At least not with me." You walked over to him, leaning against the counter opposite, a comfortable silence settling between you. "So, what's next? Do I get a secret identity now too? Maybe a cool codename? 'The Sidekick Who Knows Too Much'?" you joked, trying to lighten the mood again.
Clark laughed, a genuine, warm sound that filled the apartment. "Let's stick with you just being you for now," he said, pushing himself off the counter and walking towards you. He stopped directly in front of you, his smile softening. "But thank you. For not being mad. For understanding." He hesitated for a moment, then, almost shyly, reached out and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It means more than you know."
You beamed at him, a warmth spreading through you. "Of course, Clark. We're best friends. Always." You paused, then a mischievous glint entered your eye. "Though, I do have one more question about the whole Superman thing."
He braced himself, a small smile playing on his lips. "Hit me."
"So," you began, leaning in conspiratorially, "do you ever get, like, a sudden craving for a really tall glass of milk after flying super fast? Or does all that saving the world make you want to, I don't know, just curl up with a good book and a warm blanket?"
Clark's eyes crinkled at the corners as he let out a soft, surprised laugh. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the genuine affection in his gaze was unmistakable. "You know what?" he said, a comfortable warmth filling his voice. "Sometimes, after a really long day, all I want is a ridiculously large pepperoni pizza and to just watch a terrible movie."
You laughed, a light, carefree sound. "See? I knew it! Super-saviors are just like us." You poked him playfully in the arm. "Now, come on. Let's get that pizza. You can tell me all about the time you rescued a cat from a tree, from a mile away, in under two seconds."
Clark grinned, a genuine, relaxed smile that reached his eyes. "Deal," he said, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of the world seemed a little lighter, now that he finally had someone to share it with.
▍ there’s nothing wrong about kissing your bestfriend just for fun, right?
content : 1.9k words, male reader, bestfriend! jaehyun, fluff fluff and fluff again, mutual pining, detailed kiss scene.
friday nights were sacred.
no matter how crazy life became — whether jaehyun was juggling back-to-back schedules with his group or you were drowning under a mountain of deadlines — movie night was untouchable.
it wasn’t something either of you had ever needed to discuss about; it was just there, as natural and essential as breathing. a tradition born from years of friendship and countless nights spent sprawled out on your couch.
the setup was always the same: the couch, an oversized blanket big enough to cover both of you, the coffee table crowded with snacks and drinks.
jaehyun always managed to make a mess with the popcorn, and you never failed to call him out for it, only for him to grin sheepishly every time, a sparkle in his eyes that promised he'd absolutely do it again next week.
it was comfortable, dependable. a routine so ingrained that neither of you could imagine life without it.
tonight, like every other friday, the two of you had settled into your usual spots.
jaehyun was stretched out beside you, his long legs taking up more than their fair share of the coffee table. one of his socks was missing (why, you didn't know and didn't care to ask) and the other hung loosely from his foot like it was holding on for dear life.
and you were curled up at the opposite end of the couch, the blanket draped across both of you, your toes brushing his shin beneath its soft folds.
the movie you’d picked — a romcom that netflix had all but begged you to watch — played on the tv. you weren’t paying much attention though, the storyline fading into white noise as you absently picked at the popcorn. jaehyun, on the other hand, seemed more invested, his dark eyes fixed on the screen.
it wasn’t until the movie reached its climactic make-out scene that the atmosphere shifted. the two characters on screen were tangled up in each other, all messy passion and heavy breathing. you glanced at jaehyun out of habit, expecting him to crack a joke or roll his eyes like he always did during these moments.
but he didn't.
instead, he was quiet, his expression thoughtful in a way that set your nerves on edge.
“what if we tried that?”
his voice was so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it took a second for his words to register. you blinked, turning your head to look at him fully.
“what?”
jaehyun didn't look away from the screen, his hand dipping lazily into the popcorn bowl, grabbing a handful as he spoke.
“that,” he nodded toward the tv, his tone so relaxed you almost thought you'd misheard. “kissing. you and me.”
the words hit you like a cold splash of water, and you stared at him, waiting for some sign that he was joking. but his expression didn’t change.
he chewed his popcorn slowly, his face calm, like he’d just asked what you wanted for dinner.
“i… uh…” you stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of the blanket you were sharing and the way his knee was just barely brushing yours. “what are you talking about?”
jaehyun finally looked at you then, his gaze steady and calm, his lips twitching into the faintest smile.
“i’m just asking,” he said with a shrug, like it wasn’t the most absurd thing he’d ever said. “you’ve never thought about it?”
you let out a disbelieving laugh, your heart pounding in your chest. “thought about kissing you?”
“yeah,” he nodded, leaning back against the couch, his expression unreadable. “i mean, why not? we’re best friends. we’ve done everything else together. what’s one more thing?”
“jaehyun…” you trailed off, unsure how to even respond.
he was really serious — or at least, he didn’t seem to be joking at all. and that made it worse. or better. you couldn’t decide.
he turned his head to look at you again, his gaze softer this time. “what? it wouldn’t be weird. i mean, we already know everything about each other. it’s not like it’d change anything.”
“not change anything?” you repeated, incredulous. “you think kissing your best friend wouldn’t change anything?”
“not unless we wanted it to,” he replied simply, his tone so steady it almost calmed the storm raging in your chest. almost.
you stared at him, searching his face for some kind of explanation. but he wasn’t teasing you. he wasn’t laughing or smirking the way he usually did when he was trying to get under your skin.
he was just… waiting.
“you’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?” you asked, your voice quieter now.
jaehyun tilted his head slightly, considering you.
“yeah. i guess i have,” he admitted. “i mean, haven’t you? even a little?”
your brain felt like it was short-circuiting. you wanted to say no, to deny it outright, but the truth was, the idea didn’t seem as far-fetched as it should have.
you’d spent years at each other’s sides, your lives so intertwined that you could barely tell where one ended and the other began. and sure, there were moments — quick, fleeting moments — when you’d looked at him and wondered.
but this? this was real. and it wasn’t a fleeting moment anymore.
“i don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice barely above a whisper.
jaehyun smiled again, a small, patient curve of his lips that sent butterflies swirling through your stomach.
“then let’s find out,” his voice was low, almost hesitant.
you froze the moment he leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, like a question he was silently asking.
it felt like the world had paused, holding its breath along with you. his eyes flicked to yours, searching, giving you all the time in the world to stop him, to pull away, to laugh it off like the best friends you’d always been.
but you didn’t. you couldn’t. your heart hammered against your chest, wild and unrestrained, and you knew he could probably hear it.
when his lips brushed against yours, it was featherlight, tentative, like he was testing the waters, hesitant but hopeful. your breath caught in your throat, and a spark ignited deep in your chest, sending tingles down to your fingertips.
his hand slid up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing an impossibly soft line along your skin. the gentle touch sent shivers cascading down your spine, but it wasn’t unpleasant. your heart thudded against your chest like it was trying to escape, and a warmth you couldn’t explain spread through your entire body.
the kiss was slow at first, unhurried, almost experimental, like neither of you could believe what was happening. but then, instinct took over. you kissed him back before you could think better of it, your body moving on its own, feeling the slight curve of his smile against your lips. warmth bloomed between you, and your heart pounded harder with every second.
his lips were softer than you’d imagined — though you weren’t sure why you were imagining it at all. he tasted faintly of the popcorn you’d shared earlier, and there was something about the familiarity of it that made your chest ache in the best way.
jaehyun tilted his head just enough to fit perfectly, deepening the kiss in a way that felt so natural, it was almost like muscle memory. one of his hands slipping to your hip while the other stayed on your jaw, his fingers curling there gently, and he pressed closer, so close you could feel his breath mingling with yours.
you couldn’t think about anything else. it was just him: the warmth of his body so close, the way his lips moved against yours like they belonged there, the gentle press of his fingertips against your skin.
the world around you just… faded, like it didn’t exist anymore. all that mattered was this moment, the two of you tangled in something unsaid but utterly undeniable.
when the kiss finally ended, the two of you pulled back slowly, your foreheads brushing against the other as you tried to catch your breath. your chest heaved, and you realized he was breathing just as hard as you were, his lips slightly parted as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
before you could speak, before you could even begin to process what had just happened, jaehyun grinned, a soft, lopsided grin that made your heart flip, and leaned in once again. this time, it wasn’t as tentative. he pressed a quick, playful kiss to your lips, a soft 'mwah' sound filling the quiet space between you.
his hand on your jaw tilted your head just slightly, like he didn’t want to give you any room to second-guess this.
it was over almost as soon as it began, but it left you blinking, stunned, your heart beating so loudly it was all you could hear. he chuckled softly, his face still close, his breath fanning over your skin.
“okay,” jaehyun said, leaning back just slightly, though his hand lingered on your hip. “i’m officially adding that to our list of top-tier decisions.”
you let out a shaky laugh, the sound more real than you expected it to be.
your hand, which had somehow ended up tangled in his hair, slipped back into your lap. you glanced at him, taking in the way his lips were slightly swollen, his hair adorably mussed, his cheeks dusted with a faint pink.
“i can’t believe you actually…” you started, your words trailing off as you gestured vaguely between the two of you.
“kissed you?” he finished for you, his lips quirking into that lopsided grin. “yeah, me neither. thought you’d push me off the couch, to be honest.”
you shook your head, the heat in your cheeks spreading like wildfire.
“i thought about it,” you admitted, only half-joking, your voice quieter now.
his grin softened into something gentler, something that made your chest ache all over again.
“but you didn’t,” he said, his tone quieter.
you swallowed, your throat dry, and shook your head again. “no. i didn’t.”
for a moment, the air between you shifted.
the weight of what had just happened settled over you both, heavy but not unwelcome. it felt like standing on the edge of something new, something you couldn’t quite name yet.
jaehyun nudged your knee lightly with his own, breaking the tension just enough.
“so,” he said, leaning back against the couch with a sigh that was almost too casual. “what’s the verdict?”
you raised an eyebrow, the heat still lingering on your face. “the verdict?”
“yep,” he tilted his head, his grin teasing but his tone softer, more earnest. “should we pencil in a round two?”
you rolled your eyes, though your lips betrayed you, curving into a small smile.
“you’re lucky that wasn’t terrible,” you muttered, your voice fond despite yourself. “or we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
jaehyun let out a laugh, deep and warm, and you felt yourself relax into it. the movie playing in the background faded into little more than white noise. the real focus was here, in the space between you two.
after a quiet moment, jaehyun spoke again, his voice softer this time.
“this doesn’t feel weird, does it?”
you shook your head slowly, meeting his gaze. “no. it doesn’t.”
and it didn’t. for all the ways it should’ve felt strange or awkward, it didn’t. it felt…right. comfortable. like something that had been waiting to happen all along.
jaehyun’s lips quirked into another soft smile, his gaze warm and steady on yours.
“good,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “because i think i kind of like kissing my best friend.”
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