alexandritte

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

“That sounds like a you problem”

Dean groaned dramatically like you’d deeply wounded him “Wow. Cold”

You snorted and pulled your plate farther away.

That only encouraged him.

Next thing you knew, Dean was literally leaning across the table trying to snatch a fry while you blocked him with your arm, laughing.

“Stop stealing my food!”

“Sharing is caring, sweetheart”

“I already shared enough. You are robbing me now”

Dean managed to steal another fry and looked at you with a triumphant grin.

You narrow your eyes at him “You’re annoying”

“You love me anyway” He says smugly.

You snort “Questionable choice on my part”

Dean grinned lazily, green eyes bright with amusement. Then, because apparently annoying you was like a hobby to him, he reached for one of your onion rings.

You slapped his hand again “Seriously, why do you always think you’re entitled to my food?”

Dean scoffed dramatically like the answer was obvious.

“‘Cause I’m your boyfriend” He said easily, chewing “It’s literally my right”

Silence.

Dean blinked, and then his eyes widened a bit when realization hit him.

Oh.

Oh, he said it out loud.

You two had never really cared much about labels. You were together. Committed. You both knew exactly what you were to each other, and everyone around you two knew it too. There was never any doubt about that. But neither of you really said words like ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’.

Until now that he said it.

You blinked back at him. Then slowly, your mouth turned into a playful grin.

“Did you just use the b word?”

Dean immediately got flustered. Not dramatically, but enough that the tips of his ears turned red while he grabbed his beer and tried very hard to look casual.

“No”

“You did” You chuckle “Boyfriend”

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically “Yeah, alright” He grumbled “What about it?”

“You’ve never called yourself that before”

“Okay, first of all” He said “You’re enjoying this way too much” He points a finger at you defensively.

“A little” You say with a soft laugh “I mean, you called yourself my boyfriend” You repeat with a grin.

“Because I am” He said back instantly “We’ve been exclusive since forever, you live in my bunker, you ride shotgun in my Baby. I’m just stating facts here. Don't make it weird"

“I’m not making it weird” You laughed “I just think it was cute”

“It’s not cute”

“You said it so naturally too” You grin.

He rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed.

“Look, I’m regularly risking my life for you and driving you around while you criticize my music choices…”

“I do not criticize your music choices”

“…So I think I’ve earned my boyfriend status” He finished.

“Mhm” You laughed again before adding teasingly “So should I start looking for matching outfits now?”

“Shut up” Dean groaned immediately.

“You started this, boyfriend”

He suddenly grabbed your wrist, tugged you closer and kissed you to shut you up.

You let out a muffled laugh against his lips.

“Conversation’s over” He muttered against your mouth.

When he pulled away slightly, you were still grinning.

Dean narrowed his eyes “You’re annoying”

“And you’re my boyfriend” You repeated with a grin yet again.

He groaned dramatically.

“I’m never saying words again”

You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.

“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”

You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.

You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.

Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots. 

There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.

“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.” 

You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.

“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”

He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.

“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”

You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply. 

Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent. 

“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”

His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before. 

“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”

Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!

“Was it cherry?”

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”

You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.

When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.

It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.

Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week three

Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.

Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.

At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.

Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.

Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.

 As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.

He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.

 “Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.

Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.

“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.

He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.

“Can I walk you home?”

What is going on?

“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”

You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.

For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.

The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.

It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.

And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.

What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.

“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.” 

Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?” 

He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed. 

“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.

Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.

“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.

It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”

You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.

You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.

“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”

You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building. 

You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.

“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest. 

“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.” 

When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.

This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week five

The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..

Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late? 

Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.

You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward. 

“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”

“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”

As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.

It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair. 

“You look really nice, honey.” 

That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.

“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.

Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”

“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”

As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not. 

Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question. “Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”

There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.

It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.

“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…” 

You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”

Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary. “You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”

You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.

“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”

The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all. 

“Yeah, right.”

“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.” Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning. 

By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.

It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.

“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”

Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice. “Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.” 

The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.

The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“Thank you.” you say quietly.

Clark shakes his head almost immediately.

“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”

Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.

This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week seven

When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?

The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.

 It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy. 

With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–

There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now. 

You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.

The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.

“...For me?”

The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.

“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”

“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”

Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.

“They made me think of you when I saw them.”

Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.

Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.

You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase. 

When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again. 

“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”

You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.

“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”

Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt. 

“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”

“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie. 

When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.

“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”

His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.

“That is relaxing to me.”

“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.” 

“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”

Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.

“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.” 

“Including you.”

All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.

The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you. 

“Oh no.”

You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand. 

The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.

“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”

Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right. 

“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.” 

“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.” 

It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.

“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.

The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides. 

One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.

It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week ten

Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.

He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.

You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain. 

Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically. 

You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.

Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.

“Whats wrong?” he asks.

It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.

His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”

That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.

Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.

There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.

You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.

“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”

You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.

You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.

Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots. 

There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.

“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.” 

You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.

“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”

He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.

“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”

You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply. 

Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent. 

“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”

His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before. 

“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”

Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!

“Was it cherry?”

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”

You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.

When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.

It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.

Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week three

Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.

Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.

At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.

Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.

Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.

 As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.

He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.

 “Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.

Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.

“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.

He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.

“Can I walk you home?”

What is going on?

“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”

You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.

For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.

The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.

It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.

And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.

What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.

“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.” 

Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?” 

He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed. 

“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.

Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.

“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.

It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”

You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.

You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.

“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”

You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building. 

You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.

“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest. 

“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.” 

When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.

This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week five

The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..

Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late? 

Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.

You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward. 

“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”

“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”

As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.

It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair. 

“You look really nice, honey.” 

That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.

“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.

Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”

“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”

As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not. 

Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question. “Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”

There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.

It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.

“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…” 

You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”

Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary. “You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”

You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.

“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”

The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all. 

“Yeah, right.”

“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.” Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning. 

By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.

It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.

“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”

Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice. “Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.” 

The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.

The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“Thank you.” you say quietly.

Clark shakes his head almost immediately.

“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”

Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.

This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week seven

When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?

The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.

 It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy. 

With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–

There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now. 

You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.

The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.

“...For me?”

The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.

“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”

“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”

Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.

“They made me think of you when I saw them.”

Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.

Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.

You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase. 

When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again. 

“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”

You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.

“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”

Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt. 

“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”

“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie. 

When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.

“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”

His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.

“That is relaxing to me.”

“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.” 

“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”

Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.

“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.” 

“Including you.”

All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.

The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you. 

“Oh no.”

You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand. 

The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.

“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”

Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right. 

“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.” 

“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.” 

It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.

“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.

The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides. 

One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.

It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week ten

Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.

He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.

You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain. 

Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically. 

You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.

Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.

“Whats wrong?” he asks.

It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.

His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”

That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.

Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.

There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.

(you're not ready to pop. actually, you're just carrying more than one and you're ready to kill your husband over it).

your smile is so warm when you look at him. his muscles relax and his mind quietens for the first time in a long while. "can i help you?" you ask him, voice sweet like honey.

johnny clears his throat. he stops looking at your face, instead looking at your carefully painted baby blue nails. for just a moment, he wonders if it's a clue as to what you're carrying.

his tongue darts out to wet his lips. "is simon riley here?" he asks.

your eyes seem to sparkle at that. "oh!" you cry, and johnny dares to look at you. "you must be johnny! wait right here."

you retreat into the house, leaving the door ajar like you know and trust him. but you don't. you have no idea who he is, just what ghost has told you. but still, you left the door open.

johnny wants to push it open some more. to reveal this secret perfect life ghost has been keeping from him, from all of them.

because this, the pregnant wife, the kids running around, the dog barking somewhere in the background, is everything johnny has ever wanted.

johnny hears ghost before he sees him. the lumbering footsteps that sound like they should shake the whole house. "daddy!" a little girl cries, and johnny wants to imagine ghost playing the part, but he just can't.

but ghost doesn't pull open the front door. simon riley did. without the mask, scars on display, blonde hair sticking up in all directions. but the most striking thing is the little girl on his hip, sucking her thumb like she's blanketed in complete safety.

"christ, LT," johnny says before he can stop himself. the little girl gasps and goes to cover her ears. "you got it pretty good here."

simon looks around and nods. "yeah, i do," he answers and tips his head, gesturing for johnny to follow him.

johnny does, pushing the front door shut behind him.

the inside of the house is lovely, too. plants and kids toys everywhere. every sofa has an array of cushions and blankets. there's enough dog beds for johnny to wonder how many dogs you've got.

simon puts the little girl down and she runs through the house, out to the garden. "full of beans at that age," simon says as he leads johnny through the house.

they stop at the kitchen, where you're making enough sandwiches to feed a small army. simon reaches for you, settles his hands on your waist and pulls you into him.

hearing your laugh, standing there as a spectator, feels so wrong to johnny. but what else can he do?

simon whispers something in your ear and you nod. "I'll make up the spare room after lunch," you say and simon kisses your shoulder. "what would you like for dinner, johnny?"

johnny shakes his head. "whatever's fine," he says as simon moves over to the fridge. it's covered in magnets and drawings, not an inch of actual door to be seen. simon pulls it open and grabs two beers from inside the door.

johnny follows Simon outside. the back garden is gorgeous, too. a little swing set, a furniture set surrounding a fire pit. somehow, johnny can imagine you put here with simon, tucked against his side with the fire burning in front of you while the kids are asleep upstairs.

the little girl from before swings on the swing set while a little boy rides his trike around. simon picks him up as he comes zipping past, knocking the trike over and hoisting him up onto his hip.

"papa!" the little boy shrieks. he kicks his legs excitedly and simon presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"say hello to papas friend," he says and nods towards johnny.

the little boy waves his hands. "hello mister!" he says and simon puts him down. he's immediately on his trike and riding away.

"my entire fuckin' world, those two," simon mumbles as he sits on the garden sofa. there's an umbrella, but it's not open.

"got another on the way?" johnny asks, like he didn't notice your swollen belly.

simon chuckles and opens his beer (a corona, the lime forgotten about). "two, actually," he says and stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, leaving a space for you.

johnny takes the seat opposite. "thanks for this, LT," he says quietly, looking around the garden. at the greenhouse, at the flower garden, at the vegetable patch. he looks towards the house, at you in the kitchen window, at the dog guarding the back door. "you've got it good out here."

"I do," simon agrees. he's got it real good. good wife, good kids, good life. "thought you could use a bit of it, johnny."

his throat burns as he nods. "yeah," he answers.

he'd kept himself so guarded, protected those around him from his own mind. and he thought he saw that in ghost. he does see that in ghost.

but ghost isn't in front of him. simon riley is. simon riley has everything.

"you've not got the mask on," johnny says.

simon chuckles. "wife doesn't like it," he says. "don't want the kids to see it, either."

they drink as the kids play, chatting about anything that isn't work (you've got a rule. no work talk while the kids are awake). at some point, you brought over a bowl of cut up fruit. the kids joined the three of you, snatching pieces of fruit and feeding it to the dog at your feet.

it really is a little slice of heaven. the kids asking him questions, pointing at his tattoos, asking how he knows their daddy. your little girl, trinity, stood for a full minute, explaining to concept of twins to him. it's sweet and relaxing and everything johnny needs.

"okay, my munchins," you say as you stand up. you pick up the now empty bowl and head towards the house, the dog at your feet and the children behind you.

simon's got this sickeningly loving look on his face, a look johnny should never get to see. but he does and it's lovely.

"you're gonna get to see bed time," simon says and finishes his beer. "it's always fun with those two."

johnny let's himself smile. "can't wait," he says and looks up at the sky. "your wife is gorgeous, LT," he mumbles.

"yeah," he agrees and looks at him. "she's really something. fucking horny, too. you know, pregnancy and all that. 's been amazin'."

Johnny's eyes widen. "huh," he says, finishing his beer.

"yup." they're both staring at the house, at you in the kitchen. "she'd probably be down to let you fuck her."

johnny nearly chokes. "seriously?!"

Kal-El, the son of Jor-El and Lara, was sent down to Earth to serve and protect the people living there. Naturally, he adapted to human nature, going by Clark Kent. Nobody ever reached the Kryptonian part of him, so when you called him Kal-El, he knew it mattered, and it made his heart melt a little every time—or fear for his life. Either way, it made him feel seen, for every part of him. Not just the part Earth sees.

Clark walks through the door after work, slipping off his shoes, setting his briefcase down. He loosened his tie as he ran a hand through his hair before he heard the undeniable sound of your feet on the hard wood, rounding the corner to tackle him. You crashed into his chest, “Kal-El!” He didn’t stumble, standing solid as his big arms swallowed you whole. He perked up at the name, a smile already spreading across his face. “Hi, sweetheart. You smell like cinnamon…” he comments, wiping a patch of loose cinnamon that was smeared across your cheek. “I made you apple cake, you said you’d wanted to try it,” you said, guiding him to the kitchen and he followed with no complaint. “I don’t recall saying that to anybody,” he mumbles, sitting at the island as you gave him the spatula caked in cream cheese frosting. “You didn’t, you marked it in your little cook book.” You said it so casually, his cheeks warmed, licking the rubber utensil in his hand as he watched you work that little apartment kitchen like a professional.

Clark had invited over his work friends after a long time of you asking, you wanted him to have people around, to have friends other than you. So he invited Jimmy, Steve, Lois and Cat over. He had said, “Let yourselves in!” when inviting them. They were due to come in 30 minutes, so you were helping him cook and get drinks together before getting distracted by the radio, twirling each other in the kitchen before it ended in you kissing his face, leaving little lip gloss stains on his face. The front door swinging open stopped you both, when his friends rounded the corner they all laughed. “Did we interrupt something?” Jimmy asks. Clark looks at the confused, fixing his glasses. He touched his cheek, lip gloss coming off, his ears started to burn at his friends' laughter. You joined in, guiding him to the bathroom to wipe it off for him. Quietly you mumbled, “Don’t tell me you're embarrassed, Kal-El. As if you don’t save the world in bright red underwear on the outside…” The teasing made him get redder and furrow his brows. “You told me you liked it,” Clark said, watching your lips for any sign of the name Kal-El leaving them again. “I do, still a little silly,” you replied, the sound of his friends chatting in the living room stole his attention away, you casually walked out, sitting with them and passing around wine.

Clark had a few quirks that drove you up the wall, he breaks things easily from his strength, or apologizes for everything, even for dropping his spoon—but the thing that annoyed you most? When he got out of the shower and dripped water everywhere. He would step out of the shower, get it all over the floor, water all over the counter when he did his hair, his curls would be sopping wet after a shower. You lay in bed, watching a show on TV, the screen lighting up your bedroom. He climbed in next to you, grabbing his book. “What’re you watching?” he asked, opening to his book marked page. You look over at him, water dripping from his curls. “Gilmore Girls… Do you not dry your hair with a towel?” you asked, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He looks at you confused, tilting his head. “Oh… I mean I do. Not very well, I guess,” Clark shrugged before shaking his head a little, harsh and quick, the cold droplets pelting you, landing on your nose and forehead, even on your shoulder. When he stopped he noticed you staring at him irritably. “Kal-El!” you snap, your brows furrowed. Clark stopped quickly, looking at you wide-eyed, and giving you a guilty grin. You look over at the floor and notice the trail of water from the bathroom. “There’s water all over the house!” you continue, sitting up. He got up quickly, and he could tell you meant it. “I’m sorry, honey…” He froze for only a second at the sound of his Kryptonian name before his eyes darted to the trail of water he’d left behind. 

He always works hard at Daily Planet before putting time in as Superman for days on end without any rest. During this, when he’s home he can get snappy, or he loses that positive attitude that you love so much about him. Clark promised tonight would be the night he takes a break, you made him swear it, but after you went to sleep, he caught himself going out anyway, helping take down a Luther corp robot in minutes. When he landed on that balcony, sliding the slider open, he was greeted with you, arms crossed on the couch waiting. “Kal-El. Where have you been?” You asked, your voice stern but the undertone of worry he didn’t miss. He took his boots off before moving to the bedroom to change back into his pajamas. “I heard something… Lex doesn’t stop at night.” When he turned around you were close, standing solid and intimidating despite him towering over you. You learned that his height wasn’t intimidating because of the little puppy that was underneath it all. “You’re over working yourself, and don’t say you don’t need to sleep. Even if you are an alien with superpowers, you have to, Kal!” you lectured, guiding him to bed. Clark held his head down, and he felt bad immediately. You were just worried, hearing his name made his heart hurt a little, he had let you down and he’d hurt your trust a little. “‘M sorry… Tomorrow I’ll be off, all day. Promise,” he whispered, climbing into bed before pulling you close. The stern tone, “Kal-El.” rang through his head a few times before he drifted off, feeling more comforted in the warmth of your arms around him.

When Mr. Terrific delivered Clark to you, his veins were a deep green, clashing with the sweet ivory of his skin; you were in near shambles. Lex Luthor had poisoned him to the brink of possible death; how he managed, you were unsure, but it was a few days of no contact from Clark, and you were worried. You were in contact with Mr. Terrific immediately. He tracked him for you; he could tell by how worried sick you were. “Oh, thank you so much… Is he going to be okay?” you ask, stroking Clark’s face. He was in a deep sleep; his suit was dirty and smelt of smoke. He was limp in bed, making your head feel like it was going to explode. “He should, just don’t let him go anywhere, get some sun and rest…” he replied, before leaving—leaving you to worry how you worried best. With a struggle, you got his suit off, his body twitching in his sleep. The green veins ran in rivers all over his body, down the muscles of his chest and stomach, his legs, even to his fingertips. “Oh, Clark, come back to me…” You whisper. He was out cold for 2 excruciating days. You kissed his cheeks, tucked him in while he slept, and worried sick. When you heard him shift in bed for the first time, you rushed in, stroking his forehead. “Sweetheart…” you whisper, tears starting to roll down your cheeks in relief. His eyes fluttered open, comforted by your warm voice. He weakly moved his hand to yours and gave you a soft smile. The sunlight shining through the window warms his skin. The green veins were close to gone now. “You scared me, Kal-El. So bad…” You cried, pressing kisses on his face. He took them, his heart kick-starting again. Hearing his Kryptonian name in your voice grounded him. The sound of Kal-El in your voice settled something sweet inside him. It wasn’t Superman you were relieved to see. It was him. “Lex… tricked me. I’m sorry,” he croaked out. You shook your head, “Don’t say sorry…” you whispered.

At work, he had a busy day. Perry had sent him back to rewrite his article three separate times. Lois still landed the front page after all that work, only scoring the third page. Then, while helping a civilian as Superman, he managed to pull a Clark Kent and clipped the corner of a building. He’d taken the hit instead of the civilian, but the embarrassment stung right to the core, more than the impact ever could. He came into the apartment, head down, looking at his shoes, his hair messed up, a few curls flat, and his shirt all ruffled, ink-stained up the white sleeve. “Clark!” You yelled excitedly, and when you rounded the corner to see him with his head down, very upset, you changed, your eyes softening and brows furrowing. “What’s wrong...?” you asked, watching him take off his shoes and carelessly toss his briefcase by the front door. He sighs, looking at you with his big blue eyes filled with guilt and disappointment. “Nothing went right today… I was so clumsy, and I just felt like a big oaf,” he mumbles, walking off to the bedroom without even a kiss to your forehead. You padded behind him and wrapped your arms around him from behind as he unbuttoned his shirt. “You aren’t a big oaf… I’m sorry, honey,” you said quietly, your eyes looking up at the back of his head. You reached up to ruffle and adjust the curls in the back, how he liked it. He walked to the bathroom, using the restroom before coming back out. Clark looked at you, feeling miserable. “Come here, Kal-El,” your tone soft, and you opened your arms for him. He looked down, your arms empty and waiting for him. Without another thought, he crossed the room, melting into your embrace and holding you tight. It was all he needed to hear, that soft tone and feel your arms around him. He knew that at least he had you—and that was all he needed at the end of the day. The world expected Superman to be invincible. The Daily Planet expected Clark Kent to be brilliant. You expected neither. You only asked him to come home in one piece.

Jack had been prepping the grill in the backyard for the little get-together BBQ he was throwing to introduce you to his buddies. He was a little excited, he knows they’ll rib him about how young you are but he just loves showing off his girl. 

“Atta girl, now go change doll and cover up huh?” He plants his hands on your waist and spins you around towards the door back inside, patting you on the ass to get you moving. You had padded outside in nothing but your little tank top, no bra, and flowy sleep shorts. You had woken up without Jack in the bed and immediately went out to look for him, with a sad lost puppy look on your face. 

You squeal lightly at the pat on the ass but head inside to change.

Slipping on a light weight sundress, deciding if you are gonna tan or swim later you’ll run inside to change. You do your hair in the way you like so it’s out of your face and put on light makeup. You’re tempted to go ask Jack to rub your sunscreen on for you but you can hear the door bell ringing meaning his army buddies have arrived. Quickly dosing yourself in sun protection you take a deep breath and hurry outside towards the sounds of men talking to meet everyone. 

“Ahh there’s my girl, c’mere sweetheart” he beckons you over with a slight wave of his hand and  a small smile on his face, you're quick to bounce over to his side. 

Jack’s arm wraps his arm around your back, his hand landing on your hip to nestle you even closer to him. 

You can watch as each of his army friends' eyes widen slightly, looking you up and down briefly  before attempting to school their expression, one after the other introducing himself to you. You shift a little uncomfortably on your feet causing Jack to run soothing circles on your hip as you hold conversation with the three men in front of you. Everything from that moment on runs pretty smoothly, you don’t really know what you were so nervous for, his friends are very pleasant albeit a little forward with their borderline flirty comments and ribbing on Jack. You merely smile and giggle a little at some comments. 

Jack however is a tad irritated with all the flirting, he doesn't care that they make stupid comments on how Jack is probably old enough to be your dad, or how does an old man like him keep up with you, he expected those. He didn’t so much anticipate the comments like how you're so pretty, why are with him, that if Jack isn’t treatin’ you right one of them can, they’d be able to keep up with you. He is slowly losing his patience.

Luckily the teasing dies down a little as the guys lounge by the pool and chat about more mundane things like work and upcoming holidays. That is until you decide it’s really sunny and while starting on the BBQ that you want to tan a little, you stand up from where you were sitting poolside and bounce over to Jack. He looks at you a little questioningly before you peck him on the nose, a big smile on your face. “Gonna head inside to change real quick baby, wanna tan a bit” you tell him, you know you don’t have to but you also know how protective Jack is, he sort of likes keeping tabs on you. He nods but before you can spin and pop inside, he is wrapping one  arm around your waist and pulling you to him. The small surprised squeal that leaves your lips is muffled against his as he kisses you fervently. Your fingers tangle in his curls at the back of his head and pressing yourself closer, easily forgetting about your company and apparent audience. 

“Let the girl breathe a little bit Jack, jeez” “Yeah man she isn’t going anywhere” “Don’t let the food burn now” yells all coming one after the other from the peanut gallery causing you to break away, an embarrassed smile crossing your face but a cocky smirk on Jack’s. Reluctantly pulling away from Jack you head inside to change into a bathing suit.

As you are stripping out of your clothes, you caught sight of your body in the large full length mirror in his bedroom. There were a few hickies that littered your chest as well your inner thighs, you even had a bite mark or two, one being dead square on your ass cheek courtesy of a Mr Jack Abbot who loved marking your body. You debate for a second whether to wear a one piece that would possibly cover them up as best as it could or you can wear the bikini you intended to wear today and flaunt them.

With a sneaky smile on your face as you decide on the ladder.

As you head back outside a barrage of wolf whistles greets you, it causes Jack’s irritation to build once again however it fades a bit when his eyes catch sight of you and the little reminders of last night that decorate your body on display. “Hey Jackie boy, are you sure you know how to handle all that?” being yelled across the way nearly sends Jack's eye twitching, he’s beginning to regret bringing his divorced army friends around you. He’s about to speak up and end their behavior when you beat him to it.

“You guys have watched Jackie boy” you nod at the man who is still stood frozen staring at you and deliberating on the risk of killing his friends currently, you however say the nickname with an affection lacing it that does nothing to help the ache growing under his shorts. “Do surgery in the field right? He has veryyy capable hands” you drag your words in a faux teasing voice. Your comment is met with some “clearly” yells in reference to the marks and more whistles and whoops before they die down into a laughter. You make your way over to Jack, finally his hands finding your waist immediately as if he is magnetized to you. Everything that isn’t the woman in front of him is muted for Jack as he stares into your eyes, a fire light behind them. “Was startin’ to think i should just bend ya’ over the patio table and fuck you in front of em’ maybe then they’d stop flirting with my girl” he whispers as he pulls you closer, his eyes tracing the purple and red splotches on your chest. Jack’s words spend a spark down your spine and an ache that sits in the pit of your stomach, you lightly squeeze your thighs together. His eagle eyes for sure don’t miss it, a bigger smirk growing on his face as his fingers play with the strings of your bikini bottoms. 

Now Jack is definitely not a teenager anymore obviously so giving his girlfriend hickies would probably be considered childish but it seemed to be quite effective. “Think my handiwork speaks for itself, was that your plan doll?” he questions with a certainty in his voice as if he already knows the answer. Growing shy under his gaze you murmur out under your breath — "Maybeee, had to let them know you take very good care of me” 

Ohh does Jack plan to take extra good special care of his girl that night.

A small twisted part of his brain wishes his friends got to hear just how good so they’d never question it again. Your moans and cries fill the bedroom, your back to Jack’s chest as the two of you lay on your sides. His cock repeatedly hitting that spot deep inside you that leaves you a twitching mewling mess arching away from him, “Too much baby- too full! fuck!” you moan and try to reach behind you and push at Jack but he is quick to grab your arm. pinning it down behind your back by pressing his chest even closer to your back, his hips smacking harder against your ass as he speeds up. One hand coming around your body to rub at your throbbing clit and the other sneaking under your body up to grab lightly at your neck. Not choking you hard but putting enough pressure to make your head go cloudy.

“Not done with you yet sweetheart” 

→ a/n: i had an idea how i wanted this to go than i paused writing it, lost the idea and my flow so i dont know how i feel about this wanted it.

(you're not ready to pop. actually, you're just carrying more than one and you're ready to kill your husband over it).

your smile is so warm when you look at him. his muscles relax and his mind quietens for the first time in a long while. "can i help you?" you ask him, voice sweet like honey.

johnny clears his throat. he stops looking at your face, instead looking at your carefully painted baby blue nails. for just a moment, he wonders if it's a clue as to what you're carrying.

his tongue darts out to wet his lips. "is simon riley here?" he asks.

your eyes seem to sparkle at that. "oh!" you cry, and johnny dares to look at you. "you must be johnny! wait right here."

you retreat into the house, leaving the door ajar like you know and trust him. but you don't. you have no idea who he is, just what ghost has told you. but still, you left the door open.

johnny wants to push it open some more. to reveal this secret perfect life ghost has been keeping from him, from all of them.

because this, the pregnant wife, the kids running around, the dog barking somewhere in the background, is everything johnny has ever wanted.

johnny hears ghost before he sees him. the lumbering footsteps that sound like they should shake the whole house. "daddy!" a little girl cries, and johnny wants to imagine ghost playing the part, but he just can't.

but ghost doesn't pull open the front door. simon riley did. without the mask, scars on display, blonde hair sticking up in all directions. but the most striking thing is the little girl on his hip, sucking her thumb like she's blanketed in complete safety.

"christ, LT," johnny says before he can stop himself. the little girl gasps and goes to cover her ears. "you got it pretty good here."

simon looks around and nods. "yeah, i do," he answers and tips his head, gesturing for johnny to follow him.

johnny does, pushing the front door shut behind him.

the inside of the house is lovely, too. plants and kids toys everywhere. every sofa has an array of cushions and blankets. there's enough dog beds for johnny to wonder how many dogs you've got.

simon puts the little girl down and she runs through the house, out to the garden. "full of beans at that age," simon says as he leads johnny through the house.

they stop at the kitchen, where you're making enough sandwiches to feed a small army. simon reaches for you, settles his hands on your waist and pulls you into him.

hearing your laugh, standing there as a spectator, feels so wrong to johnny. but what else can he do?

simon whispers something in your ear and you nod. "I'll make up the spare room after lunch," you say and simon kisses your shoulder. "what would you like for dinner, johnny?"

johnny shakes his head. "whatever's fine," he says as simon moves over to the fridge. it's covered in magnets and drawings, not an inch of actual door to be seen. simon pulls it open and grabs two beers from inside the door.

johnny follows Simon outside. the back garden is gorgeous, too. a little swing set, a furniture set surrounding a fire pit. somehow, johnny can imagine you put here with simon, tucked against his side with the fire burning in front of you while the kids are asleep upstairs.

the little girl from before swings on the swing set while a little boy rides his trike around. simon picks him up as he comes zipping past, knocking the trike over and hoisting him up onto his hip.

"papa!" the little boy shrieks. he kicks his legs excitedly and simon presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"say hello to papas friend," he says and nods towards johnny.

the little boy waves his hands. "hello mister!" he says and simon puts him down. he's immediately on his trike and riding away.

"my entire fuckin' world, those two," simon mumbles as he sits on the garden sofa. there's an umbrella, but it's not open.

"got another on the way?" johnny asks, like he didn't notice your swollen belly.

simon chuckles and opens his beer (a corona, the lime forgotten about). "two, actually," he says and stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, leaving a space for you.

johnny takes the seat opposite. "thanks for this, LT," he says quietly, looking around the garden. at the greenhouse, at the flower garden, at the vegetable patch. he looks towards the house, at you in the kitchen window, at the dog guarding the back door. "you've got it good out here."

"I do," simon agrees. he's got it real good. good wife, good kids, good life. "thought you could use a bit of it, johnny."

his throat burns as he nods. "yeah," he answers.

he'd kept himself so guarded, protected those around him from his own mind. and he thought he saw that in ghost. he does see that in ghost.

but ghost isn't in front of him. simon riley is. simon riley has everything.

"you've not got the mask on," johnny says.

simon chuckles. "wife doesn't like it," he says. "don't want the kids to see it, either."

they drink as the kids play, chatting about anything that isn't work (you've got a rule. no work talk while the kids are awake). at some point, you brought over a bowl of cut up fruit. the kids joined the three of you, snatching pieces of fruit and feeding it to the dog at your feet.

it really is a little slice of heaven. the kids asking him questions, pointing at his tattoos, asking how he knows their daddy. your little girl, trinity, stood for a full minute, explaining to concept of twins to him. it's sweet and relaxing and everything johnny needs.

"okay, my munchins," you say as you stand up. you pick up the now empty bowl and head towards the house, the dog at your feet and the children behind you.

simon's got this sickeningly loving look on his face, a look johnny should never get to see. but he does and it's lovely.

"you're gonna get to see bed time," simon says and finishes his beer. "it's always fun with those two."

johnny let's himself smile. "can't wait," he says and looks up at the sky. "your wife is gorgeous, LT," he mumbles.

"yeah," he agrees and looks at him. "she's really something. fucking horny, too. you know, pregnancy and all that. 's been amazin'."

Johnny's eyes widen. "huh," he says, finishing his beer.

"yup." they're both staring at the house, at you in the kitchen. "she'd probably be down to let you fuck her."

johnny nearly chokes. "seriously?!"