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đđđ đŹ / đđ° â Eventually 18+ MDNI, best friends brother trope, Best Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Emotional Angst & Yearning, Mutual Pining, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cozy Domestic Moments, Clark Kent is the most romantic dork alive
word count: 13k
Summary:Â When Kara Zor-El crash-landed into your life at fifteen, everything changed. She was bold, brilliant, and desperate for something realâand you were it. Her anchor. Her safe person. Youâre also the girl who she made promise not to fall in love with him. But you did. You fell for Clark Kent with the kind of love that lingers quietly for years. A love built on late-night walks, inside jokes, and aching silences. A love you buried every time he dated someone else, every time you reminded yourself he wasnât yours to want.
Part 2 (Coming Thursday)
Series Masterlist
notes â not proofread
â reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
You hear it before you see it.
A sound like the world cracking openâthick and low and splitting through the sky like God struck a match across the clouds. It rattles your bedroom windowpane. Makes your bedside lamp flicker. Your feet are already hitting the floor when the second boom echoesâcloser this time, angrier. Less thunder, more impact.
Youâre fifteen and barefoot and running out the back door with your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.
The grass is wet beneath your soles, sharp with cold and half-mowed. Lightning pulses low and wide across the summer sky, casting your backyard in short, stuttering flashes. You donât even realize youâre holding your breath until you round the corner of the barn and see it.Â
Not a meteor.
Not a plane.
Not any human thing.
A crater, still smoking, carved deep into the earth like a wound. The soil around it glows faintly red, broken glass and splintered fence posts scattered like forgotten bones. At the center is a shapeâsmall, curled, trembling.
A girl.
Sheâs crouched low and naked to the skin, hair wild and clinging to her face. Her shoulder blades twitch as if remembering wings. Her knees are drawn to her chest like sheâs hiding something beneath themâsomething precious, something dangerous, youâre not sure. The air shimmers around her, heat-warped and unnatural, like the laws of physics havenât caught up yet.
You donât run. You should, but you donât. Something ancient and impossible presses at the edge of your brain and tells you this isnât real. That this is a dream or a movie or some freak cosmic joke.
But then she lifts her head. And her eyesâGod, her eyes are glowing gold. Not yellow, not amberâgold like sun through honey. Gold like the last five minutes of daylight. Gold like danger.
âAre you okay?â You whisper, because what else is there to say to a thing (girl?) that fell out of the sky?
She flinches as the words leave you. Her lip is split, her hands curl into the dirt like sheâs bracing for gravity to betray her again. She doesnât speak, just stares, and you realize sheâs scared. Not of youâbut of herself. Of what she is. Of what sheâs done. Thereâs a burn mark across her shoulder thatâs still sizzling at the edges. Smoke threads from it, rising like steam from hell.
Sirens wail in the distance. A beat behind them, your dadâs voice is shouting your name from the porch. The light flips on, flooding the yard. A neighborâs dog starts barking. The world is catching up to this moment, but youâre not ready to let it in.
You drop to your knees. âI wonât let them take you,â you say, because itâs the first thing that comes to your heart, your mind not catching up until a few beats later. âWhatever you are. Whatever happened. Youâre safe.â
She shudders.Â
âYouâre safe.â You press your palms into the dirt beside hers and whisper it again, softer. Her eyes softenânot completely, not entirely, but enough.Â
Sheâs heavier than she looks. Not in weight, but in presenceâlike gravity clings harder to her skin. Like the world hasnât decided how to hold her yet. Her body folds into yours without a word, damp hair sticking to your collarbone. Her breath comes in shallow, panicked pulls, hot against the hollow of your throat. Dirt smears your pajama shirt, her scraped knee dragging across your thigh. She smells like ozone and scorched metalâlike burnt wires and new air.
The sirens get closer. You curl around her tighter. Your heartbeat is a frantic drumbeat behind your ribs, but your hands donât shake. One presses to her spine while the other finds the back of her head, cradling it like something fragile. Your palm nearly burns against the heat bleeding from her neck.
She doesnât speak. Doesnât cry. She just holds on.
Later, there will be laughter. Ridiculous nicknames. Snack wrappers on your floor and boots on your pillow and windows that no longer lock.
But tonight, thereâs only this:
The weight of a stranger pressed to your chest.
The heat of something not-quite-human.
The unshakable pull in your gut that says: Keep her safe. Donât let go.
You donât know what she is. Or what sheâll become. But as red and blue lights flicker through the trees and the night breaks wide openâyou whisper it once, barely moving your lips.
âIâve got you.â
And you mean it. With every inch of your skin, every beat of your terrified heart, you mean it.
You donât know it yet, but that moment becomes everything. The origin point of a story that will bend your life into something you never saw coming.
-
She starts breaking into your room like itâs her own not long after.
It begins small: a rustle on the roof, the creak of windowsill wood, the soft thump of boots hitting carpet. At first you think youâre dreaming, half-asleep when she steps through the glass like it isnât solid, like physics is just a polite suggestion for everyone else. Sheâs always barefoot. Always bleeding. Always chewing on something she definitely didnât pay for.
âDonât freak out,â she says, holding up a plastic bag from a gas station you know is two towns over. A slushie drips neon blue onto your rug. âGot you gummy worms and a hot dog I sat on by accident.â
You sit up, bleary and blinking. âIs that⊠blood?â
She glances down at her knees, then the spray across her shoulder. âSome of itâs not mine.â She grins wide.
You groan and she tosses the gummy worms at your face and peels off her jacket, smearing something green and viscous onto your pillow.
You learn, quickly, to keep a laundry basket labeled Alien Shit under your bed.
-
Your parents donât ask questions anymore. Not after she saved the neighborâs dog mid-air and melted your dadâs tool bench by accident. They think sheâs just a troubled girl. Foster system. Maybe foreign. They ask for no paperwork and offer her food.
Your mom packs two lunches for you nowâone with meat, one without. âJust in case sheâs vegetarian,â she says, not noticing the time Kara inhaled a half-raw steak like it was fruit.
-
You wake up one morning to Kara floating upside down on your ceiling. âCanât sleep,â she says, voice echoing weird in the walls. âToo loud outside. Earthâs noisy.â
You throw a pillow at her. She giggles, falls like a stone, and lands in a crouch beside your bed. âYouâre such a menace,â you murmur.
She shrugs before leaping into your bed, arms wrapping tightly around you. âYouâre my human. Deal with it.â
-
You cut her hair once when youâre sixteen with scissors that instantly dulled in your hand. The strands of her hair smelled faintly of lightning and cloves. You braid it afterward, fingers trembling at how soft it is despite being able to dull scissors.Â
She sits cross-legged in front of you in your pajamas, grumbling about boys on the news and girls on another planet and how she hates the word terrestrial.
âYouâre not alone,â you whisper as you tie the braid off.
She doesnât answer. Just leans back against your knees until your chin is touching the top of her head and your heartbeat is trapped between her shoulder blades.
-
She starts calling you her anchor. Itâs always half a joke. Always slipped in when she needs you most.
When her powers spike and she shatters the bathroom sink. When a history video on a war makes her stop breathing. When her hands shake in the aftermath of an accidental rescue, where she saved you from nearly drowning, and her eyes flash red and her mouth wonât form words.
She finds you every time.
Youâll be brushing your teeth or writing a paper or halfway through a dreamâand then sheâs there, at your window. Dirt-streaked. Drenched. Wild-eyed. Shaking.
She still never knocks. She just climbs in and says your name.
And you hold out your arms before she even finishes it.
-
Some nights you lie side by side, her hand curled around your wrist like a tether. She mumbles nonsense in Kryptonian when she dreamsâsyllables that buzz against your skin like static. You memorize the sound, not the meaning. You learn the rhythm of herâhow her foot kicks when sheâs annoyed, how she hums when sheâs hungry, how she can punch through a wall but crumples when you compliment her art.
You lend her a pen one day and she carves an entire alien language into the back of your algebra notebook. When you ask what it says, she just smirks.
âProbably something dumb like Mine.â
You laugh, but it knots something in your chest.
-
She calls you her sister now that youâre seventeen. Says it casually, in front of others.Â
But when sheâs hurt, when sheâs tired, when the world feels too big and she needs somewhere smallâshe presses her forehead to yours and says, softer than anything else sheâs ever spoken, in Kryptonian, something that she translates to, âMy Constant.â
-
You still have dreams of that first night. The crater. The burn in the air. Her face lit by fire and fear.
You see her nowâbrash and bold, covered in dirt, wearing your hoodie inside out and yelling at a livestreamed video gameâand it still feels like that same girl is clinging to your chest in the dark, shaking like a leaf and pretending not to be scared.
And every time she says my human, every time she tosses a rock through your window because she refuses to knock like a normal person, every time she calls you her anchor with a grin and a winceâyou think: Iâm yours. I always was.
And you swear, without saying it out loud, without needing the wordsâyouâll never let her be alone in this world again.
-
Youâre seventeen the first time you see him. Itâs a hot July day. Cicadas scream from the cornfields and the Kent Family Farm smells like sun-warmed hay and ripening tomatoes. Karaâs tugging you by the wrist through the gravel drive, wearing cut-off shorts and an oversized tee that says Donât Make Me Punch You that you bought her as a joke. Her hairâs a mess, there's dirt under her nails, and her knuckles are skinned againâshe says it was from âgravity problems,â but youâre pretty sure she just picked a fight with a delivery drone for fun.
Sheâs talking a mile a minute. Something about cows. Something about Clark being so boring youâll actually die.
You donât hear most of it because then, you see him. Not just tall. Not just handsome.
He looks like the kind of boy youâd read about in summer paperbacks. The kind girls doodle in the margins of their notebooks. Tanned arms and a soft flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, collar slightly damp with sweat, dark curls falling over his forehead like theyâre trying to keep a secret. Thereâs a grease smudge on his cheekbone and a wrench in his hand. Heâs leaning over the open hood of a truck like heâs listening to it whisper.
When he looks up, the sun hits him square in the faceâand you stop walking dead in your tracks. Something in your chest stutters like your body doesnât know how to breathe around him yet.
You donât speakâyou just stare. He doesnât seem to notice as he wipes his hands on a rag and flashes a warm, worn-in smileâone that feels like it belongs to someone elseâs future. âHey,â he says, voice deep and patient. âYou must be Karaâs friend.â
You blink and Kara elbows you in the ribs. âDonât mind her,â she says, grinning. âShe forgets how to speak around pretty people.â
You flushâviolently. Clark laughs, soft and surprised, like he didnât expect that to be funny. And when he turns back to the truck, your eyes chase him like theyâre caught on string.
Then Clark and Pa Kent put you both to work. Kara takes the tractor. You carry baskets. Clark fixes a fence post and hums an old pop punk song under his breath that you faintly recognize as one that Kara plays on repeat. His hands are calloused but gentle. His laugh comes easy. And every now and thenâjust barelyâhe glances your way. He looks away first, before you can really tell if it was anything at all.Â
But when he fully glances up the next time, itâs to shield his eyes with the back of his hand.Â
âNeed help with that?â He asks.
You shake your head quickly, gripping the basket tighter. âIâve got it.â
Thereâs a pause, and then he smilesâbarely, but it counts. âYou sure?â
âIâm stronger than I look,â you manage, stubbornly. Not wanting to seem uncool in front of this literal god. But, what youâre saying is not true. Youâre actively losing circulation in your right arm. Not that youâd ever say that.Â
Clark nods like he believes you, however. âMust be. Kara said you once knocked a guy out with a snow globe.â
You blink. âIâshe talks about me to you? Wait. I mean. Yeahâyeah. I did.â Nice one, you think, mentally smacking your head.Â
âWell, she made it sound heroic. Most of her stories about you are.â He says kindly, ignoring your awkwardness.
âIt was in a Walgreens. And it was mostly an accident.â
Clark laughs at that. Itâs low and golden and makes the air feel too warm as he says, âStill counts.â
Later, he offers you a drink from the garden spigot, and wipes the sweat from his brow before handing over the metal cup. You take it, fingers brushing his. He doesnât flinch, doesnât pull awayâbut you feel his breath catch. Just slightly.
âYou always work barefoot?â you ask, nodding at the grass stains on his feet. âKind of⊠weird. Must run in the family.âÂ
âHarsh,â He teases, âBut seriously, only when itâs too hot for boots,â he says with a soft chuckle. âGroundâs soft today.â
You sip the water. It tastes like minerals and rust and something sweeter.
Clark watches you swallow like heâs trying not to.
The conversation doesnât pick back up because Kara flies full speed across the farm, fully launching herself at Clark, and you watch the two of them split a tree with how hard they collide with it.Â
-
At one point, while stacking wood for the firepit, youâre crouched low beside the kindling pile, fingers splintered with bark, palms streaked with dirt. The late sun drips gold across your shoulders, heat clinging like syrup, sticky and slow. Youâre balancing a half-split log on your knee when you feel him move behind youâquiet, careful, and deliberate.
ââScuse me,â he murmurs, voice low and worn at the edges, like flannel stretched too thin.
The air shifts. You feel it before you feel himâhis presence brushing along the curve of your spine like the wind changed direction. His hand doesnât touch you, not really. It just hovers, fingers spread, heat bleeding through the space between you. Like heâs bracing himself. Like he wants to touch but wonât. Canât. Not here. Not yet. Youâre not sure which it is, but you ache to feel him nonetheless.
You donât move or breathe. The log balanced on your knee starts to tip, but youâre frozenâcaught in the gravity of that almost-touch.
And then heâs gone, just as quickly as he appears.
He steps away with the wood, his flannel brushing the side of your arm like an aftershock. And when you blink back into motion, you swear your skin still remembers exactly where his hand didnât land.
-
Once again as the sun is setting, you catch him looking. You and Kara had gone down to the creek that splits the back field, dared each other across the slick stones like you were still ten, laughing too loud and splashing too hard until your jeans were soaked past the knee and your braid came loose. Kara cannonballed as you slipped in sideways and gasped when the water bit your ribs. The two of you spent who knows how long splashing one another and wrestling in the water.Â
Now, back on dry land, youâre wringing out your shirt at the hem, fingers shaking droplets loose from the cotton. Your skin is goosebumped and flushed, your neck damp with creekwater and heat. The sunâs hanging low in the skyâamber, syrupyâand it hits the curve of your shoulder just so. Makes you look like something lit from the inside.
Thatâs when it happens. You feel it firstâthe weight of a gaze. The way the air stills. You glance over, casual, unguarded. And there he is.
Clark Kent.Â
Across the field, one hand resting against a porch post, body angled toward the barnâbut his eyes? His eyes are on you. Mouth slack. Brows furrowed. Not in confusionâsomething else. Something sharper. Something closer to regret, maybe. You donât know him well enough to tell the way you do with Kara from just a glance.Â
He blinks and looks away before you can hold it. He rubs the back of his neck like heâs done something wrong, ears a little pink in a way that you canât help but find adorable.
He looked like he got caught thinking something he shouldnât.Â
You stand there, dripping, and wishing you could think of something to say. Kara starts yelling something about watermelon and a bonfire, but her voice is far away. You stare at the horizon, heart hammering, and try to pretend it didnât happen.
You try to convince yourself it was nothing. That you imagined it. You tryâhardâto unlearn the shape of his smile.The way it folds soft at the edges. The way it doesnât quite reach his eyes when heâs fighting it. The way it lingers.
That night, the sky goes blue to black in a slow, molten crawl. You lie belly-up on the porch roof with Kara beside you, sticky with sweat and dried creek water, bare feet propped on the railing. The air smells like damp wood and charcoal smoke and the mint gum she keeps tucked in her sock.
Thereâs a bag of pretzels between you. She tosses one at your face. You blink when it hits your cheek and bounce off the siding.
âYouâve got that look,â she says.
You donât turn. âWhat look?â
âThe stupid heart-eyes look.â Her voice goes mock-dreamy. âOh my god, Clark, tell me more about tractorsââ
âShut up,â you groan, elbowing her.
She snorts, rolls onto her side and props her chin in her palm. âYou blushed when he handed you a wrench today like it was a fucking bouquet.â
âI was hot.â
âYou dropped it.â
âIt was heavy!â
âIt was titanium. You carried me out of a river last summer, but sureâblame the wrench.â
âItâs not like that,â you cover your face with one hand, pretzels rattling across your chest.Â
âItâs exactly like that.â She narrows her eyes. âYouâve been extra weird since the creek.âÂ
You stiffen. She sees it. âOh my god,â she says, sitting up. âWhat happened.â
âNothing.â
âWhat. Happened.â
You hesitate. Then, quietly, you confess, âI think he looked at me.â
Kara tilts her head. âHe looks at everyone.â
âNot like that.â
Sheâs quiet. You stare at the stars. There arenât many tonight, just a few freckles of light above the cornfield. Finally, she sighs and lays back down, arm stretched above her head. âPromise me you wonât fall in love with him.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âPromise.â She says it again, softer this time.Â
You roll your head toward her. âWhat? Gross. Iâm notââ
âYou are,â she says, a little too fast. Then, teasing again, she coos, âYouâve got the goo-goo eyes.â
âYou sound like a cartoon.â
âPromise,â she says, turning her face toward you. Her eyes catch the porch light. They shine like firefly glass. âJust⊠donât. Okay?â
You laugh, weak. âWhy?â
She shrugs, but itâs not careless. âHeâs always been perfect. Everybody always loves him. I justâŠâ Her voice falters for the first time all night. âI donât want to lose the one person who doesnât.â
Thereâs a beat. A breath. You smile. Force it. âYouâre ridiculous.â
She pokes your side. âPromise.â
You sigh. Draw the word out like a performance. âFine. I promise.â
She leans back, satisfied. But something in her smile wavers, not enough to break it. Just enough to show the ache underneath. The fear. The weight of what sheâs asked. Like she already knows itâs a promise youâre going to break. Like she already knows that he looked at you like his even if you donât.
-
You donât sleep. Kara does. Out cold by midnight, sprawled on the twin bed beside yours, mouth slightly open and one leg kicked out like she fought off sleep with both fists and lost. Her hairâs still wet from the creek. Thereâs a pretzel in her elbow crease. You could laugh if your chest didnât feel so tight.
The windowâs cracked open. The breeze smells like hay and clover, cool against your cheek, but your skinâs still hotâprickling like you stood too close to the firepit for too long.
You lie there staring at the ceiling. Watching the shadows shift across the wooden beams. Listening to the distant groan of an owl and the soft click of the kitchenâs old fridge cycling on. Down the hall, someone movesâa floorboard sighs under weightâand you know itâs him.
Clark.
You imagine him in his room. Shirt off. Hair damp from the sink. Turning off the light with that quiet kind of grace he carries like muscle memory. Folding himself into a too small bed the way someone raised in a small house doesâlike they donât want to take up too much space, even when they could.
You press your knuckles to your mouth and swallow a sound thatâs not quite a sigh.
âPromise me you wonât fall in love with him.â
Kara said it like a joke. Like a dare. Like a line drawn in sand she never thought would hold. But she meant it. She wouldnât have said it to you otherwise. And now itâs sitting in your chest like an ember. Low and glowing and wrong.
You close your eyes and try to remember what his smile looked like early today when you first met. Before the creek. Before every little moment. Before you caught him looking like maybeâmaybeâhe saw you.
You canât.
Not clearly.
-
You wake up late. The sun is already spilling through the kitchen windows when you pad down the hall, bare feet sticky against the tile. Karaâs outside somewhereâyou can hear her yelling about fence integrity and laughing at her own bad jokes.
Clark is inside at the sink rinsing a plate. One hand is braced on the edge, forearm flexed, the cotton of his worn t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
You almost backpedal. You almost pretend you forgot something in the guest room. But before you can, he turns.
âMorning,â he says, and his voice is thick with sleep and honey. He offers a bright smile, dimple popping.Â
âHey,â you manage, heart beat fumbling. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it the way that Kara can.Â
You move past him toward the coffeepot. He steps aside instinctivelyâgentle, careful, never in the wayâbut as you pass, his hand brushes your shoulder. His fingers skim the fabric of your shirt like a breath, a suggestion. Warmth blooms through the contact point like a bruise that hasnât surfaced yet.
Neither of you says anything. Neither of you flinches. But your hand shakes just a little as you pour your coffee. And Clark clears his throat too quickly. Wipes his hands on the dish towel like theyâre stained with something he canât name before accidentally dropping it and bending too quickly to pick it back up.
You both pretend it was nothing.
But you feel it for years.
-
âHold still,â you murmur, curling your fingers around Clarkâs wrist.
Youâre sitting on his couch in his Metropolis apartment, but itâs soft and too big for the room and smells too much like him to let yourself fully think straight. The coffee table is covered in takeout boxes and one of Karaâs flip-flops that lost a battle with Krypto. Thereâs a blanket pooled at your hips and an old episode of Jeopardy! buzzing quietly from the TV, ignored.
Clarkâs arm is tense in your hands. Not because heâs resisting. Just the oppositeâheâs trying not to hold onto you too hard, like heâs worried heâll hurt you even after all these years. His knuckles are white where they are formed into fists, and his pulse flutters beneath your palm like something trapped.
You keep your voice low. âIn through your nose. Out through your mouth.â
His eyes are closed. Glasses forgotten on the end table. Hair damp from the sink, curls flattened in odd directions. He nodsâonce, sharpâand tries again. This time he manages a full deep breath.
âGood,â you whisper. âYouâre doing good.âÂ
You feel him start to settle. Slowly. Carefully. Like a building realigning its weight after an earthquake. You stroke your thumb over the bone of his wristâonce, twice, three timesâand say nothing more.
He had a panic attack at the grocery store. Just⊠out of nowhere. Halfway between the pasta and the soup aisle. Youâd seen the signs beforeâshoulders drawn tight, jaw locked, blinking too fastâand youâd grabbed his hand without asking.Â
Itâs rare for him. Heâs Supermanâ he sees some of the most impossible things on a daily basis. Can fly, has xray vision, heat vision, super breath. But, sometimes, it happens. And youâre no stranger to them yourself.Â
So now, youâre here, on the couch, saying nothing. But doing everything you can to help him and provide comfort.Â
This is your rhythm now. He brings you soup when youâre sick. You hold him through the wreckage when things are too loud. Itâs quiet. Constant. And almost enough.
When he finally exhales and lets his head fall back against the cushion, you feel the tension bleed out of him like steam.
âBetter?â you ask.
He nods without opening his eyes. âYouâre good at that.â
âAt basic breathing?â
âAt making me feel like Iâm not going to implode.â
You smile, but it doesnât reach your chest. âYouâve never imploded around me. Clark.â
âYet,â he says, voice gone soft. âBut seriously, thank you.â
You squeeze his wrist once more before letting go. The loss of contact makes your fingers ache.
Later, you clean up the takeout containers while he washes his face. You lean against the kitchen island and watch him through the cracked bathroom door as he pats his skin dry, careful around the eyes, like everything about him could bruise if someone looked too close.
You think about the wedding last springâhow he asked you to be his plus one in an attempt to cheer you up after a bad break up. He had said it with a shrug and a half-smile. You remember how you wore a navy dress and heâd looked at you onceâjust onceâlike the world had tilted. Youâd danced. Held hands. Swung in lazy circles under string lights until your feet hurt.
Heâd driven you home and walked you to your door. He couldâve kissed you. You think he almost did.
Instead, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and said, âWhoever broke your heart was an idiot.â
You hadnât known what to say. How to tell him that it was you who had broken your own heart in a million little ways. Or how to say it was him, with his warmth and effervescence. How since that first day you met, all those years ago, no matter what changed or who you both became, he never stopped showing up for Kara. For you. Even when looking at him sometimes made you feel like you were swallowing thousands of needles at once.Â
You still donât.
-
Youâre friends now. Real friends. Not through Kara. Not because of shared blood or expectation. Just you and him.
He texts you photos of stray cats and bad diner signs. Brings you coffee the way you like itâextra hot, two sugars, lid twisted on fully because he knows your hands shake when youâre tired. You fix his glasses when they sit crooked on his nose, just tilt them straight without thinking, and he always flushes but never stops you.
You know the sound of his laugh when he means it, the one that cracks wide open and leaves him breathless. You know exactly how big he has to smile to get his dimples to really pop. You know how he folds in on himself when heâs overwhelmedâbig hands fidgeting with threads on his shirt hem, mouth drawn quiet. You know what calms him. What ruins him. What songs make his shoulders sway just a little when he thinks no oneâs watching.
You know the scar on his knuckle from learning to open beer bottles on belt buckles in college. You know the mole on the side of his neck just below his jawline. You know that he says your name differently than anyone else.
And you want him. Still. Always. With a hunger that's patient. Gentle. Ancient.
Itâs not about kissing him. Or having sex with him until heâs actually breathless. Itâs about hearing him brush his teeth in the morning and wanting to hand him the towel before he asks. Itâs about sitting next to him in silence and thinking, please never look away.
Itâs about love so quiet it hurts.
Youâve never told him. Never dared. Because thereâs something coiled tight beneath your ribsâolder than the wanting, older than the ache. Something made of the memory of Karaâs voice on a summer night, teasing but not really. The way she smiled at you like she already knew how it would end.
You made the promise once and Karaâs never really brought it up again, but that doesnât mean it stopped mattering.
There are nights you lie awake tracing the shape of that vow with your breath. Wondering what it meant. Who it protected. Whether she remembers at allâor whether youâre the only one still carrying it, heavy and folded, like an unmailed letter.
You hadnât known how to explain the quiet erosionâhow loving him, silently and for so long, had carved hollows into your ribs where softness used to be. How the closeness felt like cruelty some days. Like being handed a glass of water after wandering a desert, only to be told you couldnât drink.
You thought you could bear it. You thought friendship was enough. But itâs not. Not when you know the warmth of his laugh. Not when youâve memorized the weight of him beside you on a too-small couch. Not when his nearness feels like gravityâsteady, irresistible, and cruel in how gently it pulls.
You still donât know how to say any of that. So instead, you drink your coffee, ask about his day, and pretend your hands arenât always inches from grabbing and holding on.
-
Itâs just past midnight when the knock comes. Not at the front door. But on the glass of your seventh story balcony.
You jolt where you sit cross-legged on the couch, half a bag of chips spilled beside you, your tank top sliding dangerously off one shoulder. Youâre wearing boxer shorts, nothing else on your legs, and your skin flashes cold as you stare toward the sliding door.
And there he is.
Clark.
Framed by the low glow of the city behind him, coat ruffled by the breeze, hand still raised mid-knock with a sheepish wince already forming on his face.
You grab the nearest blanket like a lifeline.
He mouths something through the glassâsorry sorry sorryâbut you donât bother reading his lips. You unlock the door with a sigh and slide it open, still clutching the throw blanket around you like a toga.
âYou scared the crap out of me.â
âI know,â he says, stepping inside. âI didnât think youâd be standing right there. In⊠very little.â
You arch a brow. âYou think I wear jeans to bed?â
His ears flush pink. âI wasnât thinking that far ahead.â
âNo,â you murmur, voice teasing. âYou rarely do.â
He grinsâthat boyish, shy grin that should be harmless but somehow never is when itâs pointed at youâand shuts the balcony behind him with a quiet click. The night air that snuck in is cool on your legs, still bare below the hem of your top, and you swear Clarkâs eyes flick down onceâjust onceâbefore zipping back up to your face like heâs ashamed for even looking.
âCute socks,â he mutters as he steps into your living room, brushing snowmelt from his shoulders. âPenguins?â
âYouâre lucky I like you, Kent.â
âIs that what this is?â he says, plopping onto the couch, nearly stepping on your foot in the process.Â
âShut up,â you say, but youâre smiling. Heâs still in his work clothesâtie askew, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, coat now shrugged fully off onto a heap next to your couch. He mustâve come straight from the newsroom or maybe from somewhere even higherâhalfway across the hemisphere if his hairâs anything to go by. You reach out to smooth the wind-tossed cowlick near his temple and feel him go still under your fingers.
âWhy are you here?â you ask gently, softer now.
He shrugs again. âKara texted. Said you sounded⊠off.â
You blink. âI did not.â
âShe said you posted about three tequila memes in a row.â
ââŠOkay. Thatâs fair.â You sigh and flop onto the couch next to him, accidentally bumping your knee into his thigh. He makes a sound like a half-smothered laugh, his hand drifting toward his knee where you just bumped him. He doesnât touch youâbut he doesnât move away either.
âTequila memes are a cry for help, you know,â Clark says solemnly. âItâs in the journalist handbook.â
âOh yeah?â you stretch your legs out across his lap, blanket pooling at your hips. âWhat page?â
He frowns thoughtfully, tugging his glasses down his nose like heâs actually trying to remember. âPage⊠twelve. Right after the chapter on how to cry at your desk without smudging your notes.â
You snort. âGuess thatâs why you always use a notepad.â
âExactly.â He lifts his brows, smug, like heâs won something. âInk runs. Graphite endures.â
âDid you just say that like itâs poetry?â
âIt is poetry,â he insists, but his voice is warm with laughter now. âDonât mock the power of a pencil, Op-Ed.â
You toss a chip at his chest. It bounces off his tie and lands in your lap. He stares at it like it betrayed him.
âIâm serious,â he says, plucking it up and tossing it back into the bag. âPencils are reliable. Canât say the same about people.â That last part slips out quieter. Almost too quiet. But you hear it anyway.
You donât say anything at first. You just shift, nudge your foot against his hip, and offer him the bag. âWe still talking about office supplies, Kent?â
He blinks. Looks like heâs about to deflect againâclassic Clarkâbut then something softens in his shoulders. The kind of honesty he doesnât always let show. âIâm still figuring out who I can count on,â he says after a beat. âBut youâyou make it easier.â
Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands, your fingers still tangled in the edge of the blanket, and try to pretend your heart didnât just do a full somersault. âYou always know the right thing to say,â you murmur.
âI usually donât,â he says quickly. âI justâmean it. That helps.â
You glance up at him again, catch the way heâs watching you, like heâs memorizing every shift in your expression. The air changes. Barely. But you feel it. And Clark does too.
He clears his throat. âSo. Uh. What were we watching?â
You blink. âOh. Reality TV. The worst kind.â
âGood. I came to make sure you were okay, and then to suffer.â
You smirk. âYouâre lucky I didnât start a murder doc. Or worse. The Bachelor.â
He lifts his hands in surrender. âWhatever helps avoid you posting more tequila memes. Kara was ready to show up with a bottle.â
You grab the remote, start the episode over, and settle back into the couch. Your legs are still stretched across him. His hand is near your ankle now. Youâre not sure if he put it there or if it just⊠ended up that way.
The show is stupid. The contestants are already drunk. Oneâs crying because someone else stole her âemotional support wine glass.â You feel Clark laugh beside you, that low, involuntary chuckle that rumbles through his chest before he catches it and tries to muffle the sound.
âGod, I forgot how terrible this is,â he says, voice half-buried in the blanket youâve now shared between you.
âYou love it.â
He doesnât answer right away. Just shifts slightly, enough to bump his shoulder against yours. âI love a lot of things,â he says softly.
You tilt your head toward him, just enough to see his profile. Heâs not watching the screen. Heâs watching youâsoft and unreadable, like heâs cataloguing something heâll never write down.
âYouâre not staying the night, right?â you ask, suddenly aware of how close you are. How easy it would be to turn just an inch and kiss him. âYouâve got an early shift at the Planet, donât you?â
Clark shrugs. âIâll manage.â
âYouâll be exhausted.â
âIâm always exhausted.â
âYouâllââ
âI want to stay.â He cuts you off like itâs simple. Just the truth, unadorned.
Somewhere between 2:13 a.m. and the next fake-love monologue, your eyes drift shut. You donât mean to fall asleep. But itâs warm. And quiet. And Clark doesnât move.
When you blink awake, bleary and blinking in the TVâs soft glow, your head is on his chest. His arm is around you. His pulse, steady beneath your cheek. One of his fingersâbarely thereâis tracing circles on your hip.
Heâs not asleep. You know that instantly. His breathing is too careful. You donât move. You donât say anything. And neither does he.
You just stay like that.
Until dawn.
-
This is Karaâs idea.Â
Youâre three blocks from the Planet when she loops her arm through yours and grins like sheâs planning mischief. âWeâll bring him coffee,â she says, sing-song. âMake fun of his tie. Itâll be cute.â
Youâd agreed because it did sound cute. Clark in his work habitat, tucked behind a desk, glasses slightly fogged, probably with a tie crooked from the minute he put it on. You like catching him in the middle of things. In motion. He always seems to turn toward you like youâre the only thing in the room worth noticing.
The elevator dings. The bullpen hums. Phones ring, keys click, papers shuffleâand there he is.
Clark stands near the copy machine, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loose, pen between his teeth. Heâs talking to Jimmy Olsen, whoâs waving a camera lens around like itâs a baton. The second he sees you, Clark straightens. Then falters. The pen falls from his mouth and clatters to the floor. You pretend not to notice.
âMorning, newsboys,â Kara chirps, breezing ahead to toss a coffee cup at Clark.
You hold yours out in offering. âI brought you the cocoa with cinnamon that you said helps you think. Kara also brought you a coffee because she said you like it more.â
Clark blinks and takes the cocoa. âYou remembered that?â
âI remember things,â you echo, tossing his own line back at him.
He blushes.
Jimmy steps in, grinning. âAnd whoâs this charming, incredibly thoughtful friend?â
âJimmy,â Kara groans.Â
But you play along. âHi. Iâm a friend of these twoâand apparently the only one who remembers his cocoa order.â
Jimmy offers you his hand with dramatic flourish. âJames Olsen. Photojournalist. Doer of justice. Can I get you anything? A drink? A snack?â
âSheâs already got a coffee, Jimmy,â Clark says, voice dry. âYou donât need to impress her.â
âMaybe she deserves two,â Jimmy says, tossing you a wink.
Youâre about to laugh when Clark shifts closerâsubtle, but there. One step. A glance. His shoulder brushes yours as he reaches for a stray printout. His hand lingers just a beat too long near yours before pulling back.
âSheâs good,â he says, trying for light but landing somewhere closer to overprotective older brother who just got caught staring.
Jimmy raises both brows. âDude.â
âWhat?â Clarkâs ears are already turning pink. âIâm just being hospitable.â
Kara snorts into her coffee.
You sip yours to hide your smile. âI can fight my own battles, Kent.â
He glances at you, sheepish, then ducks to retrieve the pen he dropped earlier. âI know,â he mutters. âJust⊠donât want you to have to.â
That makes you pause. Kara clears her throat loudly, breaking the moment. âOkay, Romeo, letâs dial it back before you lift Jimmy through a wall.â
Jimmy grins and leans toward you conspiratorially. âHeâs not usually like this. Iâve flirted with his cousin before. He didnât say a word.â
âThatâs because I can bench-press a truck,â Kara says, flashing a wicked grin.
Clark groans. âPlease stop talking.â
But youâre already smiling. You nudge his arm gently as you pass. âDonât say I never bring you anything.â
His voice is soft behind you. âYou always bring me exactly what I need.â
And when you glance back, heâs still watching youâtie askew, pen forgotten, a whole newsroom bustling around him. But all he sees is you.
-
Kara tosses a handful of popcorn at your head.
âStop making that face,â she says, pointing at you with her chopsticks. âYou look like someone just killed your childhood pet.â
You blink, startled out of your daze. âWhat face?â
She mimics youâeyes unfocused, lip between your teeth, brow furrowed like youâre working on a five-thousand-piece puzzle.
You sigh. âIâm just⊠thinking.â
âThatâs your Clark Kent face,â she announces, smug.
âI donât have a Clark Kent face.â
âYou do. Itâs the same one you made the first time you saw him carry a couch one-handed.â
âThat was a heavy couch.â
âThat was not the point, babe.â
You groan and flop onto your side, burying your face in a throw pillow. Kara jabs your thigh with her chopsticks until you roll back over. âOkay, okay, hear me out,â she says, tucking her legs under herself on the couch. âHis name is Evan. Heâs a pediatrician. Tall, dreamy, glassesâbut not in the same âlittle bitch with a secret identity of a godâ kind of way.â
You raise a brow.
Kara frowns. âToo soon?â
You snort. âAlways.â
âHe volunteers on weekends. He has a dog. He likes musicals. Come on. Let me set it up.â
You try. You really do. You imagine Evan. His smile, his dog, his charming glasses. You imagine sitting across from him at dinner, nodding along to stories about his little patients. But your brain wonât stay still.
It drifts.
To Clarkâs laugh when heâs caught off guard. The way he gestures with his hands when he gets excited about a story. The careful way he tucks his tie before every press conference like he still hasnât figured out people watch him. The scar on his knuckle from when he tried to slice an avocado without looking.
You think about the night he brought you soup when you had the flu. The way his voice softened as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You think about the playlists. You think about the coffee he brings you. You think about how easy it is to think about him.
âI donât know,â you murmur, poking at the edge of the popcorn bowl. âIâm probably just⊠not in a dating headspace.â
Kara eyes you. âYou mean youâre in a Clark Kent headspace.â
You roll your eyes and say, âShut up,â but it lacks heat. And she knows why.
She sighs dramatically. âFine. Iâll hold off on Evan. But just know Iâm sitting on gold, and itâs your fault if he ends up dating a barista with no upper lip.â
You snort. âA barista?â
âSheâs very nice,â Kara says, too quickly. âBut Evan deserves more. You deserve more.â
You glance at her, surprised by the seriousness in her tone. Kara nudges your knee. âEspecially more than my dumb cousin.â
You donât say anything. You just press your cheek to the pillow again and let your thoughts driftânot to Evan. Not to baristas. But to Clark. To his hands. His voice. His smile. To the way he says your name like itâs the first time every time.
And you wonderâagainâhow much longer youâll be able to pretend it doesnât mean anything.
-
The party winds down early.Â
Kara ducks out before midnight, mumbling something about space alerts and reruns of Hellâs Kitchen. You offer to go with her.Â
âIâll be fine,â she says. âGo flirt with the cute guy from Gotham or whatever.â She smirks, shoves a bag of chips into your hands, and vanishes out the front door in a gust of cold air and frayed denim.
You do flirt. A little. The guyâs nice enoughâtall, sharp-jawed, probably knows it. He compliments your drink choice, your earrings, the way you say âtechnicallyâ like itâs a threat. You laugh when he leans in, even let him touch your arm once. But the spark never lights. Your smileâs too practiced. Your eyes keep drifting toward the kitchen where Clark is leaning against the counter, nursing a bottle of root beer like itâs a nervous tic. His glasses are a little crooked. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbow. Heâs talking to someone, but every time you glance over, heâs looking somewhere else. At you.
When the guy from Gotham says something about splitting a cab, you hesitate.
You feel it in your chestâthis low, certain no. âI think Iâm gonna walk,â you say. âBut thanks.â
He shrugs. Doesnât press.
Youâre pulling on your coat near the door when you hear the voice behind youâsoft, warm, and too familiar. âI could walk you.â
You turn.
Clarkâs there, holding his jacket in both hands, like heâs afraid of offering too much. âOnly if you want,â he adds quickly, glasses slipping a little lower on his nose. âI donât mind.â
Your fingers curl around the hem of your sleeve. You nod. âIâd like that.â
The city exhales around you as the door clicks shut behind him.
Itâs late, that hour when even Metropolis quietsâwhen traffic thins and the streetlights buzz faintly like theyâre trying to stay awake. The sidewalk is damp with the ghost of an earlier rain, but the skyâs cleared now, leaving the pavement slick and silver under the streetlamps.
Clark walks beside you, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. You can hear the way his boots scuff the concrete, unhurried. You match your pace to his like you always do.
Neither of you speaks for a while. Thereâs comfort in it, the quiet. But thereâs tension tooâstretched taut between you, invisible and obvious, like string pulled between two tin cans.
You steal a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His hairâs gone soft and unruly in the misty air, curls dark and curling along the nape of his neck. Thereâs a spot on his collar where his flannel didnât quite sit right under the jacket. You want to fix it. You donât.
âItâs not really that far,â you murmur eventually.
He smiles, barely. âI know.â
âI couldâve walked alone.â
âI know that, too.â
You glance over. âThen why offer?â
He hesitates. Then shrugs. âI guess I just wanted to.â
That lands heavy in your chest. You look forward again. Your apartment is six blocks away, but you start wishing it were twelve.
Two blocks later, your fingers brush. Just for a second. A graze of knuckles, a breath of skin on skin. Neither of you pulls away.
You feel it immediatelyâhow the air shifts. How everything tilts, gently, toward that place youâve both been orbiting for years. Your pulse stutters. His shoulders tense. His hand is still in his pocket, but his arm lingers closer now, the way a magnet hesitates before it gives in.
You stop walking. So does he. You turn to face him beneath the wash of a flickering streetlamp, golden light stuttering across his face.
Clark looks at you like heâs memorizing something heâs not allowed to keep. His mouth opens. Closes. His tongue wets his bottom lip, like thereâs something he wants to say but canât. Or wonât.
âClark?â You swallow.Â
He takes half a step closer. His coat brushes your sleeve. You can feel the heat radiating off of himâsolid and steady and unbearable. The space between you isnât space at all. Itâs static. Itâs breath. Itâs wanting.
His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same. The silence buzzes.
âWe shouldnât,â he whispers, and this time itâs not a warning. Itâs an apology.
âI know,â you breathe outâquiet, shaking. But neither of you moves. Not yet. His head tilts, just slightly. Yours does too. One of you, or maybe both, lean in just a bit. And for one secondâone unbearable, incandescent secondâyou think heâs going to do it.
You think this is it.
But then a dog barks three blocks over, loud and sudden. A light flicks on in a window. Someone laughs. The moment breaks.
Clark exhales hard and scrubs a hand over his face. âI shouldââ
âYeah,â you say quickly, cutting him off. âMe too.â
He steps back. You unlock your door. You donât look at him when you say goodnight. And when the door shuts behind you, you press your palm to the wood and let your eyes close.
His breath is still in your hair. His almost is still echoing in your chest.
And you knowâGod, you knowâthis wonât be the last time you stop just short of falling.
-
A few months later and the guy from Gotham texts you good morning before his coffee. He double-knots his shoelaces and brings up his therapist in conversation without being weird about it. His hands are large and warm. His apartment smells like cedar and peppermint. He listens when you talk.
You like him. You do.Â
But he doesnât make you nervous.Â
And thatâs a problem.
-
Lois Lane has cheekbones like weaponry and a voice that cuts through boardrooms like a buzzsaw. She is brilliant. Unapologetic. Fast-talking and sharp-dressed and funny. She once told a senator to shove it in three languages during a live press conference, and the video plays on loop in your head more often than youâll admit.
Clark smiles when he talks about her. Not the shy, crooked smile he gives you. The other one. The one with his whole mouth.
You adore her.
So does Kara.
It helps that Lois doesnât look at you like sheâs trying to read your mind. She just hands you her wine glass and says, âI canât do another one of these unless youâre double-fisting with me.â
You clink glasses like a pact.
-
The triple date happens by accident.
Kara sets it up. You suspect she means well, but itâs a mess from the start. Too many candles, too many rooftop heaters, too many tiny plates stacked like apology letters. The kind of place where the menus are printed on thick matte cardstock and the waiter introduces himself like heâs auditioning for a role you didnât know you were casting.
You sit between your boyfriend Richard, the guy from Gotham, and Kara, directly across from Clark. Which is cruel.
Kara looks fantastic. Backless jumpsuit. Gold hoops. Sheâs halfway through her second glass of wine, already calling Luxâher med student dateâDr. Dumbass with the kind of affectionate venom only she can get away with. Lux is nice. A little sweaty. His collarâs too tight and he keeps trying to catch Karaâs eye like heâs waiting for a cue.
Richardâs knee is pressed to yours beneath the table. Heâs warm. Always warm. Always steady. Dark hair, big hands, a smile that melts hearts. He reaches for your hand when the server asks for drink orders, thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles. Itâs sweet.
You donât pull away but you donât lean in either.
Clarkâs jacket is draped over the back of his chair. Not folded, just tossedâone cuff slipping halfway to the floor. You donât know if itâs carelessness or comfort. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbow again, forearms tanned and dusted with the soft kind of hair you know would tickle if you touched him there. His collar is slightly askewâjust enough to notice, just enough to want to reach for. Thereâs a cocktail in front of him, untouched. Lime wedge drying. Salt clinging to the rim like something that wonât let go.
The server arrives with her pen poised and fake cheer dialed to eleven. Everyone fumbles for their menus. Clark doesnât. He doesnât even glance up when he says, âSheâll have the halibut, no lemon, and Kara wants the risotto. Extra parmesan, right?â Itâs too easy. Too practiced. Too casual to be coincidence.
Kara blinks. âHowâd you know?â
Clark shrugs. âI remember things.â
Lois snorts. Her chair is angled toward his, their knees brushing, the curve of her ankle tucked behind his boot like theyâve been doing this a while. Her lipstick is already worn at the corners from laughing too hard at something Kara said earlier, and her rings clink against the base of her martini glass when she lifts it.
âDo you remember the thing I told the mayor last week?â she asks, raising a brow over the rim.
Clarkâs smile tilts, crooked and boyish. âThatâs⊠different.â
âYouâre lucky youâre pretty Smallville,â she mutters, and loops her arm through his like itâs a reflex. Her head leans against his shoulder for exactly three secondsâlong enough to look effortless, short enough not to make it a thing.
Your heart curls in on itself. You look down at your menu and trace the embossed lettering like itâll tell you how to feel. Richard is still beside you, saying something to Lux about rooftop yoga studios. Karaâs pretending to be interested, nodding absently as she sips her drink. The city hums just outside the glass railing, and the table is alive with movement, shifting shadows, passing serversâbut all you see is the ease in the way Clark holds space.
For Lois. For Kara. Even for Lux and Richard, who are clearly swimming in this whole thing.
Youâre the only one at the table who feels like she might shatter if she breathes wrong.
Richard is telling a story now. Something about a Gotham elevator and a guy dressed like a raccoon. Or maybe it was a possum. Heâs doing voices, accents, full gestural reenactments. Everyoneâs smiling. Even Lux chuckles, finally settling back into his chair like heâs decided not to be afraid of Kara tonight.
You laugh, too. Not because itâs all that funny. But because Clark is watching you.Â
You can feel it. That soft, familiar weight of his gazeâmore aware than affectionate, more quiet than kind. It isnât hunger. It isnât even admiration.
Itâs recognition. Like heâs watching you become someone else in real time, and heâs wondering how much of you heâll still know when itâs over.
So you laugh. Too loud. Too long. It bursts out of you like a reflex, sharp and bright and aching at the edges. A sound designed to perform joy, not express it. The kind of laugh that says Iâm fine, and means please look away.
You lift your wine glass mid-giggle, but your fingers are too tight around the stem. Too tense. The base wobbles as it hits the table again. Just a little. Just enough.
Clink. The rim kisses the side of your water glassâclear, precise, piercing. The conversation doesnât stop. But Kara hears it. She turns her head so fast itâs almost a whipcrack, blonde hair catching in the breeze. Her brow is arched. Her mouth pulled tight around a half-finished sip of wine. The look isnât subtle.
You drop your hand to your lap. Rest it there like it belongs. Her eyes flick between you and Clark, and she doesnât soften.
âAre you two okay?â she asks. Not just curious. Pointed. Like sheâs catching you mid-thought. Mid-shift. Mid-undoing.
You go still. Clark doesnât. He doesnât even blink. âAlways,â he says. Soft. Steady. Too smooth to be honest. Too practiced to be real.
You nod beside him. Your smile lands like a paper napkin in a rainstormâfolded. Thin. Useless. You take a sip of your wine to keep from answering. To keep from looking. To keep from saying the thing thatâs been pressing against the back of your teeth for weeks.
It tastes dry. Too acidic. Heavy with something metallic you canât name. Like a secret left out in the sun. Like something you forgot to swallow the last time he smiled at you.
You pull it together. You breathe. You fold your napkin across your lap, pick at the bread basket, and start asking Lux about his dissertation topic. You nod while he talks. Smile when Kara cuts him off. Chime in when Lois makes a crack about the state of Metropolis traffic and blames Clark personally.
You laugh at that one for real.
And when RichardâDick, as he started insisting everyone call him after heâs had a few drinksâleans over and murmurs something about how wild this all is, how glad he is that you invited him, how lucky he is, you smile. You reach for his hand under the table. His thumb brushes yours. You anchor yourself there.
Heâs good, you think. Smart. Playful. Gentle. He knew how to get you to smile when your shoe broke in the rain last week. He leaves little cartoons in the margins of his notes. He flirts with you in a way that does make your heart flutter sometimes. He bought you a new toothbrush for his apartment without asking.
He isnât Clark. But heâs good.
So you lean in. Let the night unfold. Let the light and the laughter soften the corners of everything that came before. For a while, it works.
The food arrives. You eat. You laugh more. Clark and Lois get into an absurd debate about sandwich alignment. Kara and Lux vanish briefly to the bar and come back with shots of something blue. The wind picks up around dessert and everyone huddles closer to the heating lamps, shoulders bumping, cheeks flushed from wine and warmth and the neon blur of city lights behind them.
Itâs good. You make it good.
Eventually, the table disperses. Someone starts talking about after-party drinks, but the group is full of excuses. Busy days tomorrow. Papers to grade. Meetings to prep for. Someone mentions a looming fire inspection. Kara smirks. Clark groans. Lois just gives you a little wink and murmurs something about how sheâs âtired of babysitting this lot.â
Coats are shrugged on. Bags lifted. Goodbyes start like gentle waves, casual but inevitable. Richard moves to help you into your coat, but Clark is already thereâtugging it gently from the back of your chair and holding it out with both hands.
You blink. So does Richard. Clark doesnât say anythingâjust waits.
You slip your arms through the sleeves, brushing his knuckles on the way. His hands are warm even through the fabric. The collar settles against your throat. Too soft. Too close.
âThanks,â you murmur. He nods. Doesnât look at you. Beside you, Lois is wrapping her scarf, already halfway into her own jacket. Clark turns toward her instinctively, reaches to smooth one side of the collar that caught on her hair. She swats at his hand, half-annoyed, half-fond, and says something low you donât quite catchâbut Clark laughs. Quiet. Easy.
And then Richardâs arm slips around your waist. He doesnât say anything, just tugs you in gently, tilts his head and kisses you. Itâs slow. Sweet. Familiar. A little practiced, but not unkind. Your hand lifts to his chest out of reflex. Not to push him away. Not to pull him closer. Just⊠to steady yourself. But your chest goes still. Not tight. Not aching. Just still. And when you open your eyes again, Kara is staring straight at you. Her expression is unreadable. Lips parted. Brows slightly drawn. Not angry. Not surprised. Just⊠watching.
You shift your weight. Swallow. She looks past you thenâto where Clark is standing frozen, still halfway turned from Lois. His hand is at his side now. Still. His eyes flicker once between your face and Richardâs, and then away again. No reaction. None that shows.
He just clears his throat, says something to Lois about the parking garage, and steps back into the breeze. But you feel it anyway. A ripple. A fracture in the air. Like the moment marked something. Even if no one says a word.
-
The morning after, the city is washed in pale gold. Dew climbs the sides of your window. The air smells like coffee and dust and leftover adrenaline.
You wake slow. No hangover, but thereâs something thick in your chest. Not sharpâjust present. A dull kind of too-much. Richard had left early. Something about a date with his Dad, Bruce. A train back to Gotham. He kissed your temple on the way out, whispered thanks for the night, for the dinner, for you.
You had smiled. Had meant it, even. But your body stayed curled in the same corner of your couch long after the door closed.
By noon, you still havenât moved far. Youâre in an old hoodie and mismatched socks, chewing dry cereal straight from the box with one leg tucked beneath you. Kara texts a meme. Lux sends you a youtube video to some weird video essay about aliens, trucks, and bears and says âthis helped my post-date anxiety.â
You snort. Almost reply. Then your phone buzzes again.
Clark Kent: 1 attachment.
No caption. No context. Just a Spotify playlist titled: âfor you (shut up, kara)â
You stare at it for a second too long. Then tap it open.
The first song is âSeventeen Againâ by The Mighty Crabjoysâhis favorite band. Youâve heard him talk about it with too much enthusiasm and absolutely no shame. Said they got him through high school. Said their lyrics were âcorny in the exact right way.â
The next is a moody acoustic trackââLullaby for the End of the Worldââmelancholy and strange. The kind of song youâd listen to with your forehead pressed to a cold train window.
Then comes âSatellite Heart", then âNothing Arrivedâ by Villagers, then âYour Ex-Lover Is Dead.â
One mid-way track is just guitar and silence for almost a full minute before lyrics even start. You donât know the name, but the ache in it is familiar.
Thereâs another one by The Mighty Crabjoys, of course. âSoft Armor.â Itâs the one he used to hum when doing dishes. You remember teasing him about it once, and he said, âItâs about pretending things donât hurt when they do.â
By the time âOn Your Porchâ plays, youâre still not sure what any of it means.
Itâs a mess of genres. Pop punk and indie rock and old romantic standards and one Lana Del Rey song youâre pretty sure he meant to delete but forgot. It makes no sense. And every kind of sense.
You scroll through the list, fingertips slow, heart beating somewhere between too loud and not at all. Thereâs nothing clear. Nothing definitive. No love confession. No hidden message in the song titles.
Just a boy you loveâwho held your coat last night, and laughed at Loisâ teasing, and didnât react when Richard kissed youâsending you songs that sound like feeling too much and never saying it.
You donât ask him about it. You donât text back. You just tuck the playlist into your likes. Download it to your offline library. Make it your background noise as you do the dishes, as you clean the apartment, as you try and fail not to play every lyric like a tape recorder against the inside of your ribs.
By nightfall, youâve memorized track three. By morning, itâs the only thing playing in your head. And stillâyou donât know what it means. Not really. But you hold it close to your heart anyway.
Like it might mean everything because every song feels chosen. Tender. Devastatingly so. Like someone making space where words canât go.
Like someone trying to say I see you. I remember. I still care, without daring to say anything at all.
-
You and Dick break up on a Thursday three months later. Itâs quiet. Itâs civil. It still guts you.
Youâre sitting across from him on a park bench, shivering against the early spring wind while he fidgets with the zipper on his jacket. Thereâs no shouting. No betrayal. Just the quiet, tired truth that sometimes good things donât bloom the way they should.
âI think weâre both holding back,â he says. âI think maybe weâve been doing that the whole time.â
You want to argue. But your throat is full of glass. So you nod. Once. He kisses your forehead before he goes.
Itâs sweet. And final. And not for you.
Clark shows up just after dusk. You donât call him. You donât text. But when you open the door, there he isâhood up, hair wet from the light drizzle that started twenty minutes ago, rain dotting his shoulders in dark patches like bruises. Like he knew you needed someone. He always seems to know exactly when you donât want to be alone.Â
He holds up a crumpled brown grocery bag, soft with moisture. âI brought soup.â
Thereâs a six-pack of ginger ale under his arm. Paper towels jammed against his hip. He looks sheepish, like heâs not sure if this is too much or not enough.
You step aside without speaking.
The apartment is too quiet but Clark moves through it like heâs been here a thousand times. In truth, he has.
He doesnât ask how youâre doing. Just sets the bag on the counter, finds the chipped mugs in the wrong cabinet (you had mindlessly put them away while doing dishes and crying earlier), and pours the soup into one like itâs coffee. He hands it to you without meeting your eyes and sits beside you on the living room floor, his long legs stretched out, knees brushing yours.
You sip without tasting.
The TV hums in the backgroundâlow and forgettable. Some sitcom rerun with laugh tracks that ring hollow. Your cheek is sticky with salt where tears dried earlier, and you forgot to wash your face. Clark doesnât say anything about it. Doesnât try to fix it. He just⊠stays.
At some point, your foot grazes his. Neither of you move.
Later, youâre curled into the corner of the couch like youâre trying to fold into yourself. Clark sits on the rug, elbows on his knees, watching the shadows shift across your wall. The cocoa he made for you both has gone cold on the coffee table. His hands are clasped between his knees, knuckles white.
The silence is heavy. Fragile. Sacred.
âDo you think Iâm broken?â you whisper, voice frayed and thin, like the end of a thread.
He turns to look at youâtoo fast. Like the question hurt him. âNo,â he says, with a softness that aches. âYouâre the strongest person Iâve ever met.â
The breath you take is sharp. Unsteady. You press your face into the throw pillow and will yourself not to cry again.
He doesnât tell you not to.
-
Your phone buzzes near midnight.
KARA: iâll come home right now. say the word. i will fly back and snap his spine like a glowstick.
You almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, you send back: please donât. he didnât do anything wrong.
KARA: fine. but only bc clark is there. and only bc youâre the one who asked. i love you, dummy.
You love her too. So much it hurts.
-
Clark makes up the couch without being asked. You try to stop himâsoftly, not because you want him to go, but because it feels like the right thing to say. The polite thing. The careful thing.
âYou donât have to stay,â you murmur, standing awkward in the kitchen doorway as he shakes out the old throw blanket. âIâll be okay.â
He doesnât look up. Just folds the blanket over one arm and grabs a pillow from the end of the couch. âI know.â
You hesitate. âLois might wantââ
âShe understands,â he says, too quickly, stopping you from finishing your sentence. Then, quieter, like the words arenât meant to be picked apart, he adds, âShe knows how much you mean to me.â
You donât answer. You canât. Because suddenly, thereâs that ache again. The one that lives between your ribs and behind your throat. The one that sounds like I wish you didnât mean this much.
Clark tucks the pillow behind his head and lowers himself onto the couch with a wince. Itâs always too small for him. His socked feet hang off one side, one arm draped over his chest like heâs holding himself in place.
âClarkâŠâ You try again.Â
âIâm not leaving you alone tonight,â he says gently, like itâs just a fact. Like gravity. âNot after this.â
The air between you stills. You nod. Swallow hard. He tugs the blanket up to his chest and exhales long through his nose, eyes already drifting shut.
âGoodnight,â he says, voice low, the kind of rumble you feel before you hear.
You linger in the doorway, arms crossed tight like theyâre holding in everything you want to say. Heâs beautiful in the dark, half-lit by the glow of the streetlamp beyond the curtainsâshoulders rising and falling, brow still faintly pinched like even in rest heâs trying not to feel too much.
âGoodnight,â you whisper, barely audible.
You go to bed. You donât sleep well. Not really. But you sleep better knowing heâs here.
And thatâs what terrifies you most.
You lie in bed until late into the night, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it might finally tell you what to do. The room is too quiet. The bed too big. The ache too familiar.
She made me promise not to love him. You donât even think she remembers.
But you do. God, you do.
You remember every inch of it. The summer humidity. The way Kara looked at you. The way her voice had sharpened just enough to make your stomach twist.
You remember the way Clark looked the first time you met him. You remember the curve of his smile and the slight furrow between his brows when heâs thinking too hard. You remember how he didnât leave tonight, even when you gave him an out.
You bury your face in your pillow and think, I wish I didnât remember either.
-
The next morning, Kara texts you.
KARA: you okay?
You stare at it for a long time. Then you write back.Â
YOU: getting there.
She sends back a string of emojis that donât quite matchâđȘđ„ČđđȘâand tells you to come over later. And just like that, sheâs still your best friend.
The one youâd never, ever hurt. Even if part of you is already doing it just by breathing too hard when he is near.
-
Itâs raining again, months and months later, when it ends. Not dramaticallyâno thunder, no cinematic flashes of lightning, just a slow, steady mist that clings to the Metropolis skyline like the city itself is holding its breath.
You donât hear it from Clark. You hear it from Kara. The call comes just before dusk.
âDonât make a big deal out of it,â she says, without preamble. âBut he and Lois⊠itâs done.â
You sit up straighter, hand still wrapped around the tea you havenât touched. âWhat do you mean itâs done?â
âI mean they ended it. Talked. Cried. Hugged it out. He packed a bag and left. Heâs back at his apartment now.â A beat of silence. âHeâs not okay.â She finally adds.
Your voice comes out hoarse. âIs he hurt?â
âNot like that.â Kara sighs. âIt was mutual. Honest. But you know him. Heâs holding it like a dying star inside his chest and pretending it doesnât burn.â
You close your eyes. It feels like when you open them, youâre already there, knocking on his door twenty minutes later. Karaâs already thereâcurled up on his couch in sweats and a hoodie that says âKrypto Made Me Do It,â that Clark got her for Christmas last year, balancing a takeout container on her knees. She waves a dumpling in your direction.
âHeâs on the roof,â she says, mouth full.
You nod and take the stairs two at a time.
-
Youâve seen Clark heartbroken before.
You were there after the girl in college who said she loved him, but not enough to stay in Kansas. You and Kara brought him takeout after the journalism student who cheated, Kara threatening to go beat her up. You watched him cry onceâsilently, stubbornlyâwhen a summer fling ghosted him right after Pa Kentâs birthday.
But this? This is different.
You feel it the second you step onto the roof. Heâs still in that same beat-up flannel. The same jeans with the frayed pocket. But heâs standing like someoneâs rewound him too many timesâshoulders bent, head low, arms folded tight against the chill that has nothing to do with the wind. Like heâs trying to hold in the silence before it spills.
The city glows beneath him, golden and soft around the edges. It smells like wet concrete and ozone and the faint sweetness of a corner bakery somewhere down the block.
Youâve never seen him this still. He always movesâpacing, shifting, tapping his fingers against whatever surface is near. Even in grief, heâs kinetic. Quiet, but always doing something. But now, heâs just⊠here. Heavy. Suspended. And somehow smaller for it.
You hesitate at the stairwell door, your hand still curled around the railing, like youâve stepped into a moment you were never supposed to witness. He doesnât turn. Doesnât need to. You know he knows itâs you. He always does. You're not sure if it's because of his enhanced senses, or if it's something else. The same something that always tells you when he's near.
You walk toward him anyway. Carefully. Each step feels too loud in your own body. Your boots squeak just barely on the damp concrete. When you stop beside him, the silence bends around you both like itâs been waiting. He exhales, long and soft. His breath curls in the cool air between you.Â
âShe said I never fully gave myself to her.â His voice is raw when he finally speaks. Not brokenâno, not Clarkâbut worn, like a page turned too many times.
You swallow. âDid you?â
He doesnât answer at first. Just shifts his weight like the question tugged something loose. Then, almost too quietly, he says, âI thought I had.â
You glance sideways. His jaw is clenched. His curls are wet from the mist, flattened over his temple. Thereâs a tremble in his fingers where they press against his arm, like heâs holding back more than he knows how to carry.
Your chest tightens. âYou loved her.â
âI did.â A beat. âI do.â
âBut?â
âBut I couldnât give her what she needed. I didnât even know I was holding back until she said it.â
You nod. Itâs all you can do. The truth tastes like metal on your tongue.
âShe deserved more than half my heart,â he adds.
âAnd you deserve to be loved by someone who didnât need to ask for the rest.â You say, not unkindly. Just gentle but firm.
He flinchesânot from hurt. From recognition. Thereâs ink on his forearm, you notice. A smear of something that mightâve once been a signature or a note. His sleeves are still rolled. He hasnât changed since the conversation. Since he left her apartment. That much is painfully clear.
You want to touch him, but you donât. Instead, you say, softly, âI thought you two were endgame.â
He turns to you then, just barely, and your breath catches. âI think we both did,â he says.
You nod again, your throat too tight to answer. You look out at the skyline instead. Let the lights of the city blur behind unshed tears.
âI wasnât going to call you,â he says, sudden in the quiet.
You blink. âWhy?â
His hand finds your wristânot holding, just there. Anchoring. Then, finally he shrugs, like it costs him something to bring it up. âDidnât want to make it worse.â
Your brow furrows. âWorse how?â
A beat. His eyes stay forward. âJust⊠figured if I saw you tonight, Iâd feel things I donât know what to do with.â
The silence that follows is dense. Not uncomfortable. Just⊠full. Like thereâs too much unsaid suspended between your shoulders. He doesnât look at you. You donât press.
He lets go.
And you let him.
You walk back downstairs together, feet barely making a sound. When you step inside, Kara looks up from the couch. Her hairâs a mess. Sheâs already wrapped Krypto in one of Clarkâs blankets and is halfway through a box of cheezits.
She doesnât ask about your conversation. Just nods toward the seat beside her and gestures with her hands like nothing in the world has changed.
You sit. Clark drops beside you a few minutes later. The couch is too small. Your thighs touch. He doesnât shift away. Kara starts a movie. Something loud and dumb. You canât follow the plot. Because Clarkâs elbow brushes yours every few seconds. Because your pinkies are almost touching.
Because youâre here, in the quiet that follows a storm you didnât think youâd live to see. Sitting beside the boy whoâs been part of your world for so long it hurts to remember a time he wasnât. And nowâfor the first time in yearsâhe isnât holding someone elseâs heart in his hands.Â
You donât know what that means. Not yet. But you feel it. The shift. The hush. The space that opens and doesnât immediately close.
Neither of you says a word but something lingers. Unnamed.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: heâs soft. earnest. 6â4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. youâre fine. everythingâs fine. itâs just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenlyâheâs not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesnât start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolisâs biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like âgoshâ and âwhat the hayâ without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just âlooked so hopeful.â
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediatelyârushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the wordsâthen offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. âAre you okay?â you asked, because someone had to.
He noddedâtoo fastâthen proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
Youâve been friends ever since.
Itâs not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the âcall-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbingâ kind of way (thatâs Jimmy), or the âbring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-exâ kind of way (also Jimmy).Â
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like itâs trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like youâre doing Godâs work even when you're calling the mayor a âpower-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.â
Heâs your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesnât make sense.
Why, one night, it all⊠shifts.
.
Youâre soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from âwater-resistantâ to a really bad âSwamp Thing cosplay,â and your toteâhome to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscousâis dripping like itâs auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his placeâsoft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energyâyou say yes.
Not because youâre weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but youâll unpack that when your socks arenât squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now youâre in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, âYouâre going to catch a cold if you donât change out of those clothes.â
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, âThank you, Mom.â
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that youâve seen the size of his arms.Â
âSorry,â he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. âI just meant⊠yeah. Youâre soaked.â
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. Thereâs a candle burning on the kitchen counterâone of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And heâs looking back.
Not like most men doânot the bar-stool inventory of what you are and arenât. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like heâs already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and heâs just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You donât think. You donât make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
Itâs not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like youâre trying to stun him. Like youâre trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just⊠fully.
Like this is the thing heâs been waiting on for months, and now that itâs finally happening, heâs scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like heâs making sure itâs real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waistâtentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesnât know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
Heâs not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, heâll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.Â
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
Youâve never wanted to risk that with Clark. Heâs been yoursâjust yours, in the safe wayâfor too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.Â
Put space. Just⊠anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. âShitâuh. You donât have to say anything,â you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. âWe can pretend it didnât happen. Go back to normal. Thatâs fine.â
Clarkâs brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesnât look hurt. He looks⊠steady. Like he expected this part. âAre you sure?â
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like itâs not some ultimatum. Like itâs okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
âI justââ You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. âYou know I donât do relationships.â
âI know,â he says, without hesitation.
You study himâreally study himâlike youâre trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isnât there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. âYou donât have to do anything youâre not ready for.â
You blink. âEven if Iâm the one who kissed you?â
Clark smiles, just barely. âEspecially then.â
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesnât push. Heâs patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
âWhatever you want,â he says again, quiet. âIâm good with that.â
You stare at him. âYouâre really not gonna argue?â
âNope.â
âNot gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me Iâm avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?â
He huffs a small laugh. âAlready did. Long time ago.â
Your lips twitch despite yourself. âAnd?â
He shrugs, like itâs the easiest truth in the world. âYouâre complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.â
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that heâs always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hateâmore than anything, more than all of thatâhow badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because youâre already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending youâre not.
You didnât plan for it to go further. You didnât plan anything, really.Â
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like theyâre the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like thisâflushed, breathless, undoneâyou think, mine.
And itâs terrifying.
Because it means itâs real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something youâd been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Thenâquietly, like he wasnât sure if it was okay to want anythingâhe says, âYou⊠you donât have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.â
But you are. Because he is.Â
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than youâd give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway throughâlet out an annoyed groan and tried to keep goingâand he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
âClark,â you hissed. âChill. I'm okay, dude. Iâm fine.â
âOkay,â he said, dazed, grinning. âJustâdidnât want you to get hurt. I mean. Youâre, uh. You were very intense. Just now.â
âYeah, well, youâre the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,â you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worseâgoddamn it, worseâhe looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those handsâgod, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steadyâand looking up at you like he meant it.
Youâd told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didnât trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.Â
âLike theyâre trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking itâs love,â youâd scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of courseâof courseâwhen you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you meltâ
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
âDo you want me to close my eyes?â
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. âOkay.â
Then he kissed the inside of your wristâjust because it was thereâand you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.Â
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie youâve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hairâsomething low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
You collapse over him afterward, a mess of limbs and sweat and disbelief, heart hammering against his chest like itâs trying to hide inside him.Â
And he wraps himself around you like he wants that. Like heâd let it. Like heâs been waiting to make room for you in all his softest places.
Then he hums.
You donât recognize it at firstâjust the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. Youâre half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
âYou humming Dolly right now?â you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. ââHere You Come Again.ââ Then, almost shy, âSheâs good. What?â
You groan into his chest. âYou absolute dork.â
âI like her,â he says, defensive. âSheâs smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books toâwait, are you laughing?â
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.Â
You're just trying to get clean.Â
Wash off the evidence of the night beforeâsweat and come and a whole lifeâs worth of repressed emotional distressâbut then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.Â
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadnât just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. âJust to save water,â he says. â'Cause of the environment⊠and all that.â
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind youânaked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckableâyour resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, âThis one okay?â
Like you're supposed to justâwhat? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hipsâsteady, reverent, hugeâand you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
âOkay?â he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. âYeah. Justâdonât be sweet about it.â
âBut I'm always sweet about it,â he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.Â
Like he means it. Like he thinks heâd scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was overâwhen your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thingâyou turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just⊠helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didnât speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didnât ask you to stay.
You didnât ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes laterâhalf-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadnât just been folded neatly in a drawerâyou find him in the kitchen, humming again.Â
Making pancakes.
âYou want blueberries in yours?â he asks, like he didnât have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And youâtraumatized, horny, emotionally compromisedâyou say, âSure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
âAlso, we need to talk.â
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. âOkay,â he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didnât almost combust from having maybe, fourâno, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. âLast nightâand this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.â
He looks amused. âOnly eight?â
âIâm leaving room for improvement,â you say, defensive. âBut I just want to be clear again that this isnât⊠this isnât a thing.â
Clark nods slowly. âOkay.â
You squint at him. âYouâre not going to ask what I mean by that?â
âWell,â he says, lips twitching, âIâuh, I figured Iâd let you finish your prepared statement first.â
You gape at him. âI knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.â
âYouâre even holding your coffee like a mic.â
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. âSo. Ground rules.â
He raises his brows. âRules?â
âYes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this⊠goes.â
Clark tilts his head. âYou mean for⊠us?â
âNo, for NATO,â you deadpan. âYes, us.â
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. âOkay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like⊠like âyou can sleep with other peopleâ casual.â
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. âDo you want to sleep with other people?â
âNo,â you admit. Then scowl. âBut I want to have the option.â
âRight,â he says, nodding. âThe illusion of freedom.â
âExactly. Waitâ"
Heâs smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. âWhatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. NoâlikeâValentineâs Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.â
âYouâre really against foot rubs?â
âI just think they set a tone.â
Clark looks at his plate. âWhat if I just make you pancakes sometimes?â
You narrow your eyes. âPancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
âNoted.â
You tuck your feet under you. âRule three: no falling in love.â
He looks up.
Thereâs a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, âI know that sounds dramatic, but Iâve seen what love does to people, and itâs terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like âmy foreverâ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each otherâs heads. I canât be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clarkâs smiling again. Not in the ha ha youâre sooooo funny way. In the I think youâre the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
âAre you even taking this seriously?â you demand.
âI am,â he says, clearly lying. âYouâre very intimidating.â
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. âIâm just saying! I donât want this to become something that implodes because IâGod, because I canât remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly weâreâwe're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.â
Clark chuckles. A pause. âwell, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.â
You wrinkle your nose. âThatâs a red flag.â
âYouâre the one writing up a treaty before brunch.â
âExactly,â you say, triumphant. âSee? Weâre incompatible.â
Clark leans forward slightly.Â
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like youâre the only person in Metropolis who matters. âI think youâre scared,â he says gently. âWhich is okay. I just want you to know⊠Iâm not going anywhere. Rules or not.â
And thatâ
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. âDonât say stuff like that. Itâs dangerous. Youâll trick me into liking you more.â
âIâm just being honest.â
âWell, stop.â
He raises a brow. âWhat do I do if I want to kiss you?â
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
â...well, that's allowed,â you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because heâs a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And itâs soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like youâre trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because heâs touched you yet. Not really. Heâs just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like youâre something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, âOkay.â
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, âYouâre still allowed to want things, you know.â
Which isâgod, so not fair.Â
Now heâs between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like heâs praying. Heâs been taking his time. Like the goal isnât to get you off, but to study you. Like heâs memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
Youâre panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard youâre pretty sure you taste blood.
And heâs grinning. Not cockyâjust happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
âYouâre staring at me again,â you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. âI just like looking at you.â
âThatâs crazy,â you whisper. âYouâre crazy.â
âProbably.â He kisses your navel. âDo you want me to stop?â
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. âNo.â
âDidnât think so,â he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because heâs the devil in a button-up: âYou know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. Iâm not just aâjust a piece of meat, you know.â
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. âSo bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.â
âSee? Objectified.â He presses a kiss just below your ribs. âReduced to myââkissââridiculous shouldersââkissââand tragic dimplesââkissââand stupidly proportionate thighsââ
âI didnât say anything about your thighsââ
âOh, but I think you were thinking it.â
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. âGod, shut up and fuck me.â
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardlyâthis isnât early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.Â
This Clarkâthe one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like itâs the only thing keeping him from rising into the skyâthis Clark is different. Â
Heâs grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. Youâve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunriseâyou didnât notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesnât panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just⊠waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like youâre made of something precious.
Still, he doesnât move.
And thatâs what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. âWhat?â
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesnât know whether to hold on or let go. Thereâs something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
âYou really want that?â he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. âYou think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while youâre flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chestâpetulant, defensive. âClark.â
âYou say stuff like that,â he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, âbut then you pull back like Iâve asked for your soul.â
You glare at him. âIâm not pulling back.â
He lifts a brow. âYou havenât even kissed me yet.â
You scowl. âI was about to, but youâre being annoying.â
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. âYeah? Gonna punish me for it?â
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that heâs rightâthat youâre the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you donât care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. âI swear to god, if you donât do something soon, Iâm walking out that door.â
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. âYou wonât.â
âWatch me.â
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. âYou always say that. You never do.â
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that heâs always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when heâs calling you out.
âIâm not just a warm body, you know,â he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. âIf thatâs what you wanted, you shouldâve picked someone who doesnât look at you like I do.â
You blink. âAnd how is that?â
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. âLike I actually see you.â
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips youâeffortless, smooth, like it doesnât take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gaspânot in surprise, but because itâs too much. Heâs too much.
âYou keep asking me to take you apart,â he murmurs against your skin, âbut you never let me show you what it actually means.â
âOh my god,â you groan, shivering under him. âYou are so fuckingââ
âWhat?â he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. âSoft? Serious? A buzzkill?â
You donât respond. Youâre too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because heâs right. Again.
âToo bad,â he murmurs, smiling like a secret. âYou donât get to run the show tonight.â
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, itâsâ
Heâs so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a soundâsomething small, strangled, "Clark."âand he doesnât shush you this time.
He smiles.
âThere it is,â he murmurs. âNow weâre being honest.â
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
Thatâs it. Thatâs all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and âIâll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.â He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. âYouâre the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.â
He doesnât respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself itâs fine. You tell yourself you donât care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. Itâs another Superman PSAâthird this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His capeâs caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his postureâit looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. âShould I be worried youâve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me youâre not selling supplements.â
Thereâs a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: âIâm so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?â
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, âNo worries,â even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. Youâre the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. Heâs the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like heâs trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
âAre you okay?â you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. âYeah,â he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. âI will be.â
.
By week three, heâs dodging plans like itâs his new hobby. Youâre not hurt, obviously. Youâre busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders youâll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
Itâs not a relationship. Itâs just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
Thatâs all.
But still, thereâs this night.
Youâre at your apartment. Thereâs an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
Youâd ordered his favorite takeout. Youâd even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesnât show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzesâclose to midnight, just his name and a short, âIâm so sorry. Can we talk soon?ââ you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
Youâve done it to people before.
You just never thought youâd be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You donât cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. Youâre not. Obviously.
Youâre just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, youâre thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now heâs something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes youâre already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or âdelightfully optimistic.â
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fastâstreaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, heâs infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like youâre made of something breakable. Like you havenât already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
Itâs not tense at first. Itâs easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hairâs damp. Thereâs flour on his cheek.
âYou baked?â you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. âFelt like it.â
Thereâs banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. Heâs already sliced yours and left the end pieceâyour favoriteâon the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But itâs hard to keep your footing when heâs being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didnât flake three times last month. Like you hadnât spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe itâs no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lampâs still on. Your mouths are moving like theyâve done this a hundred timesâbecause you have, but it's not enough, will never be enoughâand youâre both pretending itâs still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesnât feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like heâs been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. Youâve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesnât immediately jump up.Â
He doesnât mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just⊠stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like youâre something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looksâserious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesnât know what to do with itself.
âWe need to talk,â he says.
You still have one shoe on. You donât even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. âIâwhat?â
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesnât take them off.
âSomethingâs beenâthereâs something that I need to tell you,â he says, slower now, like heâs rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And thatâthat is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. Youâve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he âneeds to talk,â and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. âWait. Just⊠donât. Yet.â
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
âLook,â you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like youâre looking for your dignity. âIf this is about how Iâve been kind of, I donât know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say â I know. Okay? You donât have to do this so gently.â
His face twists. âWhat?â
âYouâre trying to break things off,â you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. âAnd I get it. I do. Youâve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you donât sleep anymore, you look like youâve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe itâs metaphorical.â
Clark tries again. âIâm notââ
âItâs fine,â you say, voice louder now. âItâs fine if you met someone. You donât have to pretend itâs not happening.â
âI didnâtââ
âYouâre allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.â
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like itâs armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
âI shouldâve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you donât stick around for girls like me.â
âHey,â he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
âDonât,â you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. âDonât be nice to me about it.â
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like heâs short-circuiting. âYouâre not even letting meâIâm not trying to end this with you.â
You stare at him, lips parted.
Heâs breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirtâs wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like heâs holding something back with both hands.
âI was going to tell you something,â he says, voice raw. âSomething real. Something Iâve never told anyone who didnât already know.â
You freeze.
Because that doesnât sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
âWhat,â you whisper, suddenly breathless. âLike a dark secret? You have a kid? Youâre actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are youâOh my God. Are you a stripper?â
âWhat?â he blurts, completely thrown.
âI donât know, Clark!â your voice spikes, hands flying up. âWhat the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with âwe need to talkâ and isnât a relationship guillotine?â
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like heâs not scared of you. Heâs scared for you.
But itâs too late. Youâve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise heâs afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Becauseâand this is humiliatingâyouâve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not âhey, should we get you some keys?â But enough that the signs are there.Â
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded âCentral City Gazette Student Press 2013â logo you refuse to drink out of at home because itâs chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way â hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he âforgotâ you left here, that you âforgotâ he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like itâs a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville â the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clarkâs still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and canât tell who started the fire.
âWaitâare you leaving? You donât have toâjustâcan we talk? Please?â
You donât look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. âThis is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Donât mind me.â
âCan you stop for two seconds and just let meââ
âClark,â you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. âItâs okay.â
It isnât. But youâre trying to win the emotional Olympics in the âcool and detachedâ category, and youâre not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.Â
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. Youâve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
âNo harm, no foul,â you say. âTell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.â
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You donât call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit theyâd already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Justâa recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, âYouâre holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so Iâm gonna circle back on the âhotâ part of that minute.â
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodegaâthe one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, âHeâs okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?â
You blink. âSorry, what?â
âHe always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.â She squints at you. âYou were good together.â
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You donât tell anyone where youâre going, mostly because youâre not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, âWe tried our best, but it wasnât enough.â
You don't let yourself think about that⊠that stupid drawer by Clarkâs bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm mustâve rested on the foil, like he wasnât sure if he should knock. You donât bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you donât trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope youâre doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You donât answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because youâre angryâokay, maybe you are, a littleâbut because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, youâll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like itâs a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. Youâll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And thenâon the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you havenât worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houstonâs I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
âNo,â you say, out loud. âNo. No. Absolutely not.â
Clark stops short. âHi,â he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. âTurn around.â
âIââ
âI swear to god, Clark.â You donât even look at him. âI am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.â
He nods. Raises both hands. âOkay. Not saying anything.â
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hairâs sticking up at the back. Thereâs a scuff on his glasses like heâs been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
âWhy are you here,â you say finally, flat.
He swallows. âBecause I needed to see you. Because Iâve been calling, andââ
âRight,â you cut in. âThe calls. That I didnât answer. On purpose.â
âI know.â
âAnd you took that as a challenge?â
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
âIâve tried everything else,â he says.
You roll your eyes. âMaybe thatâs because youâre not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.â
âThatâs not what I want.â
You shrug. âAnd? Sometimes we donât get what we want. Thatâs life. Welcome.â
Heâs quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you canât name. Doesnât defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And youâre just about to tell him to cut it outâwhatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing isâwhen he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And thenâ
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. âWHAT THE FUCK,â you yell. âWHATâARE YOU KIDDING MEâWHAT IS HAPPENING.â
âIâm sorry!â Clark yells over the wind.
âARE YOUâIS THIS YOU?! ARE YOUââ
âYeah!â he shouts. âHi! Surprise!â
âSUPERMAN?!â
ââŠYes!â he calls back, cringing midair.
âYOUâRE SUPERMAN?!â
Clark doesnât answer that. Just⊠grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like heâs half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. Youâre only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
âMy toothbrush is still at your apartment!â you shriek.
âI know!â
âI HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMANâS APARTMENT!â
âI know! Thatâs why Iâlisten, I panicked! You werenât picking up! You blocked me on like, four platformsââ
âI BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.â
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. Youâre barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clarkâno, Superman, apparentlyâheâs not even breaking a sweat.
âYou couldnât have called?â you snap.
âI did!â
âWITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?â
âI showed up at your apartment!â
âWith a cape, Kent?!â
âNo! No, the capeâs newâlook, I didnât know what else to do. You wouldnât talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and havenât left your apartment in four days and I justâI needed you to see me. To listen.â
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. âSo your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!â
âI checked to make sure no one was looking!â
âYOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.â
âI swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.â
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. Thereâs an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
ââŠOkay,â you breathe. âOkay, so this is real.â
âItâs real,â he says.
âLike, capital-R Real.â
âYeah.â
You shake your head once, sharp. âJesus Christ.â
And then something in you quiets. Something thatâs been vibrating with panic for daysâfor weeksâsputters out like the end of a bad engine. Youâre too tired to scream again. Youâre too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: âI'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.â
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nodsâonce.
âI didnât want to lie to you,â he says again, quieter now. âI hated it. Every second of it.â
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still wonât quite meet your eyes.
âI thought I could keep it separate. You and⊠that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, itâd be enough.â
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. âBut then it wasnât. Because I started⊠I donât know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when youâre scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but youâll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your faceâI wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.â
His voice cracks a little. Heâs still not looking at you.
âI kept thinking, if I say it out loud, youâll leave. Or worseâyouâll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I donât want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like Iâm just⊠Clark.â
He laughs, sudden and shaky. âGod, I sound insane.â
You say nothing. Youâre not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like heâs pushing it out before he loses the nerve: âI love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. JustâI love you. I think Iâve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.â
He swallows. âI donât need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.â
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.Â
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like heâs afraid youâll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
Heâs flushed. Nervous. He looks like heâs trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because itâs easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment thatâs led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.Â
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.Â
The fact that he never interrupts when youâre spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.Â
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
 The banana bread.Â
âI love you too, you idiot.â
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasnât expecting you to say it back. Like he wasnât hoping.
âYou do?â
You nod, eyes stinging. âYeah. In every kind of way.â
And Clarkânot Superman, Clark Kent, the worldâs most ridiculous man, the guy youâve known and kissed and run from and found againâleans in and kisses you silly again.
.
Youâre still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction âmore like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything thatâs been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
âSorry,â he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. âIâllâclean that upâlaterââ
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
Itâs not like you didnât know he was strong.Â
Youâve seen his biceps. Youâve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. Youâve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
âClark,â you gasp, because you donât know what else to say. Your hoodieâs already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like heâs staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. âYouâreâfuckââ
âI know,â he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like heâs starving for it. âI know, baby. YouâreâGod, youâre actually killing me.â
He lifts youâactually lifts youâlike youâre nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.Â
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like heâs being hunted for it.Â
"Fuck, fuckâtake this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasnât had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.Â
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. Heâs making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like heâs surprised every time you let him touch you again.
Youâre squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
âI am gonna ruin you,â you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like heâs tracing poetry there.
âOh yeah?â he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. âGet in line, pretty girl.â
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
âI love you.â
Your breath stutters.
He doesnât give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesnât let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.Â
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. âWait,â he murmurs, and you freeze. Youâre still so full of him you can barely think. âJust let meâcan I justââ
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. Youâve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it â but open.
âI love you when youâre mean,â he pants, voice fraying around the edges. âI love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "âwhen you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend youâre not soft.â
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. âClarkââ
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
âI love you when youâre being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you donât care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.â
âStopââ
âI love you,â he says again, brokenly this time, like itâs being torn out of him. âI love you even when Iâm scared youâll leave. Even if this is all I get.â
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
âI love you,â you whisper against his mouth. âI love you, you absolute fucking idiot.â
Clark lets out a sound thatâs not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like itâs a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like heâs got nowhere else heâd rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clarkâs got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like itâs always been there. Which, lately, it has.
Youâre about halfway to Smallville.
âSo,â you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. âHow many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.â
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. âOh, uh⊠probably all of them. Again."
You groan. âEven the corn maze one?â
âThere are multiple corn maze ones,â he corrects gently. âThereâs one where Iâm dressed as a scarecrow.â
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. âWith face paint.â
âOh my God,â you wheeze, turning toward the window. âI donât know if Iâm emotionally prepared for that.â
âDonât worry,â he says, squeezing your hand. âMa loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and sheâd ask if you wanted seconds.â
You snort. âThatâs very comforting.â
He shrugs, smiling again. âItâs true. She already set up the guest room.â
You blink at him.
ââŠThe guest room?â
A pause. Clark glances over. âWell, I didnât want to assume weâdâuhâshare a bed. With my parents in the house.â
You raise a brow. âClark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.â
âThat wasâokay, yesâbut that was under different circumstances.â
âWe are dating.â
âI know.â
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. âYouâre so weird.â
âYou love it,â he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who neverânot onceâlooked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who wonât stop pretending she doesnât care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, youâre his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means youâre going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clarkâs fifth grade spelling bee trophy like itâs the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostlyâmostly it feels like the best thing youâve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. âHey.â
You turn.
Heâs watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still canât believe youâre real. Itâs so sincere it nearly undoes you.
âIâm really glad youâre coming,â he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
âMe too, Michigan.â
His ears go a little red. âDonât call me that.â
âOh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.â
âI like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while youâre holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. âNot my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.â
Clark coughs through a laugh. âGod help me.â
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
âWake me when weâre ten minutes out?â
âYou sure?â he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
âMhm.â You close your eyes. âI gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.â
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
âYouâre gonna be fine,â he says. âThey love you, you know that. I do too."
âYou always this clumsy with your mouth,â he mutters, thumb pressed against your lower lip, âor you just savinâ all your bad habits for me?â
You flush, fists clenched in your lap. Youâre already on your knees, skirt fanned around you like something sweet and sacred, but thereâs nothing holy in the way youâre looking at him now, breath quick, lips wet, thighs pressed tight.
Remmick exhales through his nose. Slow. Measured. You can feel the heat of his gaze even when you look away.
âLook at me,â he says, quieter now. âCâmon, doll.â
You glance up. Heâs fully hard now, thick and slick, hand wrapped around himself lazy, like heâs not in a hurry, like heâs got all the time in the world to break you in just right.
âIâm gonâ show you,â he murmurs, brushing your hair back again, gentle like it means somethinâ. âBut you gotta listen.â
You nod, lips parting slightly. He hums.
âStart with your tongue. Just light strokes along the tip,â he taps the head of his cock against your tongue, eyes locked on yoursâ âThatâs itâŠâ
You swirl your tongue, tentative. He groans, low and sharp.
âGood,â he says, voice gone gravel rough. âNow kiss it.â
You press your lips against the head, just once, and he breathes out a broken little laugh.
âYou kiss prettier than you pray,â he mutters. âGo on. Take a little more.â
You open wider, sliding down slowly, carefully. His handâs in your hair, not forcing but guiding. You gag too early, and pull back with a cough, eyes watering.
He doesnât mock. Doesnât scold. Just strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers.
âSlow, baby. I ainât goinâ nowhere.â
You try again. Better. Deeper. And this time when your lips seal around him, he twitches, a curse slipping past clenched teeth.
âThatâs it,â he breathes, hips rocking just once, not rough, but heavy. Needy. âYou learninâ. Iâll make you good at this if itâs the last thing I do.â
You hum around him, and thatâs what snaps itâ his restraint, his silence. His jaw locks tight, and he growls low in his chest.
âFuck. Just like that. Keep goinâ, sugar.â
His fingers grip your hair tighter, anchoring you there, guiding you down his length until your nose brushes his skin.
âHell,â he rasps, watching the tears in your lashes. âYouâre gonna ruin me, learninâ so damn fast.â
if you take little prompts, could i propose a jealous remmick drabble with a breeding kink? đ
"Iâm gonna fill you up, make sure you carry somethin of me forever"
áŽáŽáŽÉŽáŽ áŽáŽ ÊᎠÊáŽáŽÊê±
ᎥáŽ: 6.9k (i giggled too)
áŽ/ÉŽ: the title choice... if you know you know. anyways, i needed to get my freak on and god damn did i do just that. i adore fluff but sometimes i just can't say no to my pussy. please don't talk to me about the mental state i was in while writing this. i simply have no excuses, take me to horny jail. though i will say i feel WAY more confident about writing smut now. i think i should do these more often because it's kind of an outstanding way for me to stretch my legs if you will. THAT SOUNDS SO CRAZY LAMFJDJHVHBJDV but i even got over my fear of em dashes just a tiny bit. also, this was a combination of like 3 asks in 1 and you'll definitely SEE which ones i'm talking about when you check the warnings. anons, you know who you are!
ᎥáŽÊÉŽÉȘÉŽÉąê±: 18+ MDNI (!!!), filthy disgusting shameless smut, minimal plot all porn, exes, stalking, very rough sex, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, spit kink, degradation kink, breeding kink, dumbification, sadism, masochism, choking, spanking, biting, dacryphilia, overstimulation, eye contact, drooling, cuckolding, infidelity, bloodplay, threats of violence, fantasizing about violence, graphic violence, murder, dark!dom!remmick, sub!fem!reader, reader is just as freaky, vague setting, excessive use of pet names, excessive use of italicization, read at your own discretion
The night was quiet. Too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that came with peace. Not the softness of contentment or rest. This was the kind of silence that felt like it was waiting. Like something pressed against the windows, unseen, watching the curve of your back as you moved through the hallway in your robe, your bare feet barely whispering against the floor.
You shouldâve been asleep. But the bed felt too big tonight.
Your husband was out, running one of his rare late-night errands. Something about a friendâs stalled car, a favor owed. Heâd apologized for leaving, pressed a kiss to your forehead, a hand brushing the side of your face like he always did. âWonât be long,â he promised. âI hate sleeping without you.â
And he meant it. He always did. He was that kind of man.
You loved him. You did. He was good. Honest. Steady. The kind of man who brought home your favorite pastries without being asked, who offered to do the dishes before you even touched your plate. You didnât marry him expecting fireworks. You married him because you were tired of chasing smoke.
But some nights, like tonight, you still missed the fire.
You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping lukewarm tea youâd already forgotten to drink, robe slipping off one shoulder. The tile was cool beneath your feet. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space like static, soft and constant.
And then, like it always did when you let your mind wander too far, the memory of him crept in.
Remmick.
A name you hadnât spoken in years. A man you hadnât touched in longer.
You cut him off like you were supposed to. You did it for your own good. Your sanity. Your future. But Lord, if there wasnât something in the way he ruined you that no one else had been able to match since.
He didnât beg. He didnât need to. Just looked at you in that way that made your stomach knot and your thighs press together. He touched you like he was claiming something. Deep, slow, maddeningly precise. He didnât fuck fast. He fucked full. He filled you, stretched you, split you open in ways that made you forget your own name. And when he looked at youâ
God, when he looked at you.
It was like you were his favorite meal. His last drink. His only prayer.
Your husband never looked at you like that. He looked at you with kindness, sure. But never hunger. Never need. Never like you were something to be devoured.
You closed your eyes, set your mug down. The ache between your legs pulsed, low and steady, like a bruise remembered. You shouldnât miss him. You shouldnât want him.
But you did.
You always had.
And it had been so long since someone made you come the way Remmick used to. Effortlessly, endlessly, like he knew every part of you before you even touched yourself for the first time.
You shivered.
Outside, thunder rumbled low in the distance.
Somewhere, not nearly far enough, Remmick was still out there.
Waiting.
And, of course, it had to be tonight when he came.
The knock was sharp. Not loud. But sure. Like whoever stood behind that door knew you were already halfway toward it, breath stuck somewhere between your ribs. You froze in the hallway, mug still warm in your palm, heart already catching on a beat you hadnât felt in years.
Three more taps followed. Firm. Even. Familiar.
You didnât need to check the window. Didnât need to ask who it was.
Your feet moved on their own.
When you opened the door, there he stood.
Remmick.
Older, sharper, polished like glass but dangerous like a blade. He leaned against the frame like he owned it, like heâd been here before and would be again. That light blue shirt was pressed clean, top buttons undone just enough to show a sliver of white undershirt and the chain you remembered. Gold, delicate, glinting faint in the porch light. Black slacks. A belt with a gold buckle. Suspenders hanging easy off his shoulders.
His hair was slicked back, still dark, still wild in places where the waves refused to be tamed. But it was his eyes, those deep sea-blue eyes, the unmistakable red glow, that made you forget how to breathe. That looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel.
He didnât just see you.
He devoured you.
âWell, hey there, darlinâ,â he said, low and slow and unmistakably him. He didnât bother hiding the curve of his grin. Fangs bared. Sharp. Bright. Gorgeous.
Your pulse tripped over itself.
âWhatâŠâ You swallowed. âWhat are you doinâ here?â
That smile stretched wider, lazier. He stepped forward just enough for the porch light to catch the edges of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.
âYâknow damn well why Iâm here.â
There wasnât an ounce of shame in his voice. Not one drop of hesitation. Just velvet certainty, dragging you backward into something youâd spent years clawing your way out of. Something you never stopped missing.
You blinked at him, trying to level your tone. âMy husbandââ
âAinât here,â Remmick said quick and flat, like it was obvious. He glanced down the street. âCarâs gone. Bedroom lightâs off. Not a single trace of that man in this house âcept that little ring youâre tryinâ to hide behind your fingers.â
You dropped your hand before you could stop yourself.
He tilted his head. âStill nervous, huh?â
âRemmickââ
âYou alone?â
Your lips parted, but the truth had already settled between you like smoke. You knew the question was redundant. That he was simply trying to drive home the point.
ââŠYeah.â
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not exactly. Something darker. Warmer. Hungrier.
âKnew it,â he murmured. âKnew he didnât know what to do with ya.â
Your breath hitched.
He leaned forward, just a few inches, but it knocked the air right out of your lungs. The air between you changed. Heavy. Hot. Close. The kind of air that pulled your thighs tight and made your stomach knot with something sharp and sweet and old.
âYa look beautiful,â he said, his eyes raking over you. âBut yâknew that already.â
You shouldâve closed the door. Shouldâve told him to leave.
But you didnât.
Remmickâs voice lowered, slow and syrup-thick. âLet me in.â
It wasnât a question.
The muscles in your arms tensed, fingers still on the knob like you werenât sure who you were anymore. Every part of you said no. But your body, your breath, your blood? All of it whispered yes.
He waited.
And waited.
His eyes burned into you, red flickering hotter now. Not loud, not angry. Just patient. Starved.
âI ainât gonna ask again,â he said, voice soft, almost sweet. âDonât make me beg, baby.â
Your throat went dry.
You didnât shut the door.
You didnât step back.
You didnât even breathe.
ââŠCome in,â you said. Quiet. But clear.
And he did.
The moment he stepped inside, the door shut with a thud behind him.
Remmick laughed.
Not a sound youâd heard from him before. It wasnât warm or familiar. It wasnât charming or even cruel. It was cold. Final. Like something had been waiting, watching, for the moment you said Come in, and now that you had, it didnât have to pretend anymore.
âYouâre just as desperate as I remember,â he said, still smiling as his boots landed slow and heavy on the floor. âKnew yâwould be.â
Before you could even blink, he had you. A searing kiss, full and crushing and greedy. No warning. No space to breathe. His hands gripped your jaw, thumbs pressing your cheeks, mouth sealing over yours like heâd gone too long without it.
You shouldâve pulled away.
You shouldâve shoved him off, reminded yourself of the ring still sitting on your finger.
But your lips parted.
Your breath caught.
And when his body pressed against yoursâhard chest, long arms, belt buckle cold against your stomachâyou melted into it with a sound that betrayed every shred of shame you still had left.
You hated how much you missed this.
How much youâd been starving, too.
Remmickâs hand slid down the front of your robe. He didnât waste time. Not even a little. Fingers traced the curve of your stomach, the ridge of your hip, and then dipped between your thighs like he already knew what heâd find there.
When he felt how wet you were, he growled.
Actually growled.
âSlut,â he muttered, dragging his mouth along your cheek, jaw, ear. âMy married girl, touchinâ herself to the thought of me. Makinâ them soft sounds every time yâsay my name.â
You trembled.
âI heard ya,â he whispered, voice all breath and bite. âEvery damn night. Ya donât know how many times I nearly came through that window just to shut ya up the way ya wanted.â
His fingers were still there, not moving much, just resting. A threat. A promise.
You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, in your fingertips, in your thighs. Your robe slipped further open, the air cool against your chest where the silk parted.
âI didnâtââ you tried, but the words caught somewhere deep. You couldnât lie. Not to him. Not with your legs shaking and your lips kiss-bruised and your entire body leaning into him like it had never wanted anyone else.
He chuckled again, quieter this time. Darker.
âYa did,â he said, kissing the side of your neck, lips soft now. Tender, even. âAnd I ainât mad, darlinâ. Yâthink I donât dream âbout this too?â
His other hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye like he hadnât just dragged twenty years of buried longing to the surface in a single kiss.
âI just didnât think,â he murmured, eyes glowing as they flicked to yours, âyaâd open the door so easy.â
And then his hand moved.
Two fingers, thick and slow, slipped inside you with a precision that made your knees lock and your breath shudder out in a gasp you didnât mean to make. No warning. No teasing. Just in, to the knuckle, deep and deliberate, like heâd never forgotten the exact shape of you.
You jolted forward against his chest, hips stuttering, thighs pressing shut on instinct. But his arm wrapped firm around your waist, locking you there, helpless and pinned against him as he crooked his fingers just right and pulled another sound from your throat you didnât recognize.
He groaned low. âStill so fuckinâ soft. Still open for me like I never left.â
Your hand slapped the doorframe for balance, fingers scrabbling, mouth half-open, trying to find air. But Remmick wasnât giving you space. Not anymore.
His mouth brushed your ear. âHe ever touch ya like this?â
You didnât answer.
His fingers stopped.
Completely.
The stillness was brutal.
Your body rocked against him, desperate, aching, but he didnât move. Not even a twitch.
âAnswer me,â he said. Calm. Almost bored. âYour good man. Your sweet husband. He ever make ya feel like this?â
ââŠNo,â you whispered, too soft.
Remmick clicked his tongue.
âI said speak up, baby. Yâknow better.â
You swallowed hard, voice shaking. âNo. Heâhe doesnât.â
A satisfied hum rumbled from his chest. âDidnât think so.â
He thrust his fingers deeper, slow and grinding, pressing against that spot that made your spine curve and your mouth fall open.
âEver make you soak through your sheets just from thinkinâ âbout a look?â he asked. âEver make your legs shake âcause you wanted it so bad you thought youâd die from it?â
You whined. Tried to shake your head. But again, he stopped.
Not a flex. Not a curl. Nothing.
âRemmickâpleaseââ
âAnswer me.â
Your voice broke. âNo. Never. Not once.â
His mouth split into a grin so wicked it made your whole body clench around him. âDidnât think so.â
He fucked you slow, fingers curling in a rhythm that felt like a secret being pulled from your bones. His hand on your waist held you still, anchored you to him as he worked you open with ease, with arrogance, with that goddamn patience that made him feel like punishment and prayer in equal measure.
âYâever beg for him?â Remmick murmured. âCry for it? Lose your fuckinâ mind just âcause he looked at you the right way?â
You didnât want to answer.
You didnât want to admit any of this.
But the pause was longer this time. The stillness unbearable. Your body was screaming for it.
âNo,â you gasped. âOnly you.â
âThatâs right.â His smile pressed into your neck. âMy good little wife, moaninâ for the wrong man.â
His thumb found your clit and circled it once, just once, enough to make your legs buckle.
âYa feel how wet you are?â he whispered, nose brushing your cheek. âThis for him?â
You shook your head. âNo.â
He paused.
You whimpered.
He pulled back just slightly. Not out. Just enough to make you feel the empty stretch behind it.
âFor who?â
Your voice cracked. âYou.â
âSay my name.â
âRemmick.â
He groaned against your throat, fingers thrusting again with filthy, exquisite control.
âFuck, thatâs it. Thatâs my girl.â
You couldnât think. Couldnât breathe. He didnât just touch you, he worked you. Drew out every forgotten ache, every unsaid word, every damn piece of yourself youâd buried under decency and dishes and folded laundry.
âYa ever fake it?â he asked, lips at your jaw. âFor him?â
You nodded.
He stilled again.
You whimpered, panicked. âYes! Yes, IâGod, I have, I didââ
Remmick chuckled darkly, fingers starting to move again, slick and obscene.
âCourse ya did. Poor thing. Never stood a chance.â
You clenched around him, helpless against it. Your head dropped back, vision fogging.
âThatâs it,â he cooed. âYâremember how this ends, donât you?â
You couldnât answer.
Didnât need to.
He already knew.
And so did your bodyâtraitorous, needy, too honest for its own good.
You were close.
You were so fucking close.
And just for a moment, you let yourself believe heâd let you finish.
Just as your stomach curled, breath catching, thighs beginning to tightenâhe pulled out. Abrupt. Cruel.
Your whole body jerked like heâd ripped something vital out of you. A desperate, broken whimper escaped your throat before you could bite it back.
And Remmick laughed.
âOh, baby,â he said, voice thick with mock-sympathy, âthat little sound right there?â
He licked the tips of his fingers slow, eyes never leaving yours.
âThatâs the sound of a girl who forgot who she was dealinâ with.â
You hated the way your body trembled. Hated that your pulse was still stuttering out of control. Hated that he was right. That your cunt was still clenching around nothing, already grieving the loss of him like heâd been inside you for years instead of seconds.
Before you could think to curse him, slap him, beg him, he moved.
Remmick grabbed you by the hips and lifted.
Effortless. Like you weighed nothing. Like this wasnât the first time heâd thrown you around.
Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. Old muscle memory. Dangerous muscle memory.
Your arms clung to his shoulders as he walked, carrying you like a man on a mission.
And you knew.
You knew where you were headed.
The moment you saw the edge of the dining table come into viewâsolid oak, the one your husband insisted was âtoo nice to actually useââyour breath hitched, legs squeezing tighter around his hips.
âStill remember, huh?â Remmick muttered against your jaw, setting you down with zero gentleness. Your back hit the wood hard enough to knock a gasp out of you, the cool polish biting into your skin through the robeâs thin silk. âTold ya once Iâd take you on every fuckinâ surface of that house. Never broke that promise.â
You barely had time to adjust before he gripped the hem of your robeâwhat little of it still covered youâand ripped.
The bottom half tore clean off, jagged and loud, silk whining in protest before it fluttered to the floor.
You were bare beneath it.
You always had been.
Remmick groaned like he was seeing it for the first time. âGoddamn, darlinâ.â
Then he dropped to his knees.
Didnât say another word. Didnât tease. Didnât breathe.
His mouth found you like it belonged there.
Hot tongue, open mouth, greedy hunger.
No hesitation. No warm-up. He dove in like he was starved, like heâd been dreaming of this every goddamn night since the last time he tasted you. His hands gripped your thighs, spread them wide, fingers digging in like bruises he meant to leave.
And his mouthâ
You screamed.
Low and sharp, head tossed back as he licked through your folds with the kind of practiced ruthlessness that made your vision blur.
He devoured you.
Sloppy. Loud. Wet.
His tongue flicked against your clit with obscene precision, slow and steady until your hips bucked. Then he sucked it between his lips and groaned like it was his favorite flavor.
You clutched the edge of the table with both hands, knuckles white, legs already shaking against his shoulders.
âOh my GodâRemmickââ
He didnât slow.
Didnât stop.
Didnât even look up.
You felt him groan into you, like your taste alone was something holy. One hand slipped down to grip your ass, yanking you closer to the edge, forcing you to take it, to feel every roll of his tongue like a punishment youâd begged for.
You wanted to run.
You wanted to cry.
You wanted to come.
You could feel it, spine curling, fingers digging into the table hard enough to leave crescents. Your breath came fast and ragged, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth as he sucked and licked and fucked you with his tongue like he meant to ruin you.
And he did.
Because he always did.
The orgasm hit you like nothing else ever had. No slow climb, no gentle crest. Just an eruption, pure and bright and violent, ripping through your entire body like lightning set to music. You screamed. You sobbed. You shook, thighs squeezing around his head as your back arched clean off the table.
You came so hard you forgot your name.
And still, Remmick didnât stop.
His hands held you open, mouth insatiable, tongue dragging through the aftermath like he was trying to clean you out, like he couldnât stand to waste a drop. You cried out again, voice cracking, body too raw and too sensitive, but he kept going, sucking and lapping and groaning like heâd never get enough.
You tasted yourself on the air. Felt the heat dripping down your thighs. Felt your soul start to float.
Until finallyâ
âPlease,â you gasped, sobbing now, voice broken. âPlease, Remmickâs-stopââs too muchâpleaseââ
You were crying.
Tears streaked your cheeks, your chest heaving as your hands tried and failed to push his head away.
And thatâs when he looked up.
Face soaked.
Neck wet.
Shirt clinging to his chest, sheer with your slick.
But it wasnât just you.
There was drool.
An obscene amount.
Slipping from the corners of his mouth, glistening down his chin in thick, silvery ropes. So much spit you couldnât even understand how it kept coming, gluing him to you, shining like filth made holy.
He stared at you.
Eyes glowingâred, hungry, starved.
And then he smiled. Real slow. Real soft.
âYa always look the prettiest when ya cry.â
That broke you.
Something in you cracked wide open. You whimpered, too weak to fight, too full of him to think.
And then he moved.
He stood in one smooth motion, grabbing you by the waist, and lifted you off the table like you weighed nothing. Again. And you went, limp and ruined, legs instinctively wrapping around him, arms slung over his shoulders.
This time, his tongue shoved its way into your mouth the second he caught your lips.
And you drowned.
In yourself. In him.
The taste was unbearable. Your come and his spit, mingled and messy, wet and wild. It filled your mouth, coated your tongue, slid down your throat as he kissed you with open-mouthed desperation, feeding it to you like it was a gift.
You choked on it.
You loved it.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, still damp with what youâd given him, and he kissed you harder, tongue claiming you like he needed it to live.
Then, he turned.
He walked.
Straight down the hall, not even breaking the kiss.
And you knew where he was taking you.
The bedroom.
Your bedroom.
Where you and your husband lay in false comfort night after night.
Where your hand slipped between your thighs in silence after the lights went out, tracing your own skin as you bit your tongue to keep from whispering the name of the man you really wanted.
Remmick didnât speak as he pushed the door open with his shoulder.
Didnât look around.
Didnât hesitate.
He set you down hard on the edge of the bed, the marital bed, the sacred shrine of everything you pretended was enough, and looked down at you like he was ready to burn it to the ground.
You were on him the second your back hit the bed.
Fingers trembling but fast, grabbing for his belt buckle like it was the only thing tethering you to sanity. You needed him out of it. Needed him inside you, now, needed to feel every inch of him stretch you open until you forgot the name of the man who actually slept in this room.
The metal clinked once before you got it undone, hands sliding down to shove the leather free.
Remmick chuckled.
Not the amused kind.
The mean kind.
âChrist, slow the fuck down,â he snapped, voice a blade slicing through the haze. âYa always were a needy little thing. Sloppy hands, pantinâ like a bitch in heat.â
The words shouldâve shamed you.
They didnât.
They burned.
Hot. Dirty. True.
You didnât look at him. Couldnât. But you heard the rustle of his slacks hitting the floor, his boxers following quick after. He didnât bother with his shirt. Didnât even unroll his sleeves. He climbed on top of you half-dressed, his chain swinging low and his breath heavy as his body pressed yours into the mattress like he was settling back into something heâd missed.
He didnât have to try. Didnât need force.
His weight alone pinned you down.
One arm slid beneath your back, the other caught your wrists, locking them overhead with no more effort than it took to breathe. You couldnât move. Could barely think.
And God, it was familiar.
The ache of it.
The sheer rightness.
The feeling of his body covering yours, his mouth close enough to taste your thoughts, his cock heavy against your thigh as he lined himself up with no warning, no softness, no pause.
This was love, wasnât it?
Not the gentle, tepid kind your husband gave youâbedtime kisses and surprise bouquets.
This was Remmick love.
Cruel. Honest. Brutal.
âI shouldnât let you fuckinâ have it,â he muttered, eyes burning into yours, âafter the way ya ran. The way ya begged me to stay, then slammed the door like ya meant it.â
You squirmed beneath him, already gasping at the feel of his tip pressing just there, your cunt still soaked, still trembling, still too raw from what he did to you on the dining table.
âBut yâwant it so fuckinâ bad, donât you?â
He didnât wait for your answer.
He slammed into you.
One sharp, vicious thrust.
You cried out, body arching up as your walls struggled to take him, stretch for him, remember him. You werenât ready. You couldnât be. Not after what heâd already done to you. But that didnât stop him. Didnât even slow him.
âFuck,â Remmick growled, hips pulling back only to rut forward again, deeper this time, harder. âStill tight. Still fuckinâ perfect. Like this pussy never forgot me.â
Your eyes rolled back.
Your hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, wrists still pinned tight in his grip. His other hand caught your jaw, forcing your face toward his, making sure you didnât dare look away.
âYa let him fuck you in here?â he hissed, voice venom. âIn this bed? These sheets?â
You whimpered.
Remmickâs thrusts got rougher. Barbarous. He was fucking you like he owned you. Like he was carving himself back into the spaces time tried to seal shut.
âAnswer me.â
Your voice came out a rasp. âY-yes.â
He spat, not even trying to hide his disgust. âBet he couldnât even make ya come.â
You shook your head, biting back a sob.
âAnd now look at ya,â he snarled, dragging his hips slow this time, a deliberate grind that made your body sing. âLettinâ me fuck the truth outta ya like always. Like nothinâs changed.â
Tears welled again.
Because nothing had.
Because it had always been like this with Remmick. Not gentle. Not sweet.
But real.
He fucked you like he was never going to stop.
Eyes locked on yours.
Not blinking. Not flinching.
Just watching as your mouth parted, as your body opened for him, as the ruin of you spilled across the sheets that had never seen this kind of worship.
And still, Remmick didn't slow.
Not even close.
Not when your eyes rolled back. Not when your body clenched tight around him like youâd never learned how to let go. Not when the air left your lungs in staggered, helpless sobs.
Remmick fucked you like he hated you.
Like heâd missed hating you.
And thenâ
His hand let go of your wrists.
Only to move to your throat.
Fingers curling slow around your neck, the pads of them warm, calloused, unforgiving.
Your body froze beneath him.
Not in fear. Not exactly.
Something darker. Deeper.
You looked up into his eyes.
And he looked back like he wasnât really there anymore.
âYâknow,â he said, voice calm, like he was talking about the weather, âthere were so many nights I thought about killinâ ya.â
Your breath caught.
His grip tightened.
âAfter ya left,â he murmured, hips still driving into you like punctuation, âafter yâsaid all that pretty shit and slammed the doorâwhen you thought yaâd wonâI used to lay awake, hand on my dick, thinkinâ about wringinâ your pretty little neck.â
You whimpered, legs trembling around his hips.
He leaned closer, chest flush to yours, breath hot against your lips.
âNot just ya,â he added, almost like an afterthought. âThat man of yours, too.â
Your stomach flipped.
âI thought about what his blood would look like on your white fuckinâ comforter. What your scream would sound like. If yaâd still cry my name with his body lyinâ cold at the end of the bed.â
His fingers pressed harder. Just enough to make your vision shimmer.
âYâdonât believe me,â he whispered. âBut I still think about it.â
Your heart stuttered.
âAnd right now?â he said, grinning. âRight now, I could do it. So easy. Youâre lettinâ me fuck you raw in your husbandâs bed, cryinâ beneath me, begginâ for it. Whatâs one more sin, huh?â
His grip cinched tight.
Your breath stopped.
The room swam.
He didnât blink.
Didnât move.
Just held you there, trembling beneath him, his cock still buried deep inside you as the world slipped sideways.
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
Your fingers spasmed.
And just before the edges went blackâ
Smack.
A vicious slap to your thigh, loud and hot, snapped the air back into your lungs. Then another, this time across your ass, hard enough to sting. Your throat opened on a strangled gasp, your back arching as your body reeled from the sudden shock.
âThere she is,â Remmick said, laughing low. âDidnât want ya driftinâ off just yet, darlinâ. Weâre just gettinâ to the good part.â
You choked on your own breath, eyes wet, chest heaving.
He let go of your throat, dragging both hands down your ribs like he hadnât just threatened to kill you. Like the idea still wasnât sitting there behind his eyes, twitching like a secret.
You were dizzy. Raw. Split open and trembling and soaked.
And Remmick looked like he'd never been more in love.
Which is exactly when the front door opened.
Just a quiet creak. A shift of hinges.
But it shattered the world.
You went still.
So did Remmick.
The sound of keys hitting the bowl by the entryway echoed like a gunshot through the hallway. A low thud as shoes hit the mat. A familiar voice, soft and unsuspecting, humming the tail end of some commercial jingle. Your husband.
Your husband was home.
And your heart plummeted.
The blood in your veins iced over. Your breath caught. Every nerve ending snapped taut, your body trembling beneath Remmick in frozen disbelief. You were still spread beneath him, raw and soaked and filthy, your thighs trembling and your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.
Remmick blinked.
Once.
Then again.
Then he looked at the door.
Then at you.
Back to the door.
Then you again.
And then that grin split his face.
Wide. Sharp. Wrong.
It wasnât the cocky, teasing smile he wore when he knew youâd already given in.
This was different.
This was a grin that made something ancient and terrified curl up inside you and scream.
âYâainât tell me he was gonna be early,â he whispered, voice light, sing-song. âHow rude.â
You couldnât speak.
Could barely breathe.
But Remmick moved with purpose nowâsat up, still inside you, dragging your body with him. He flipped you like he owned you, like you were just a doll to be repositioned. Hands grabbed your hips, yanked them up beneath him, forced your knees into the sheets until your back arched and your cheek was pressed flat against the mattress.
Doggy style.
Exposed. Helpless.
His cock dragged out slow before slamming back in with a wet, brutal sound.
You gasped, eyes squeezing shut.
âNo no no,â Remmick said, voice a low hum as he gripped your face, twisting it until your eyes were pointed toward the bedroom door. âKeep âem open. He deserves to see it.â
Your name echoed from down the hall.
âHoney?â your husband called, so painfully unaware. âYou home?â
Another thrust.
Louder this time.
Obscene.
The slap of his hips hitting your ass echoed off the walls like thunder.
You whimpered. You couldnât help it.
âSweetheart?â the voice came again, closer now. Footsteps.
Remmick picked up his pace.
Flesh on flesh. Sharp. Wet. Merciless.
You heard a pause outside the door.
Then the knob turned.
Then the door opened.
Your husband stepped into the room.
And froze.
His eyes landed on yours firstâyour face, contorted in shock, shame, raw pleasure.
Then his gaze moved.
To where Remmickâs hands were fisted in your hips.
To the way your body shook with every loud, violent thrust.
To the way your mouth hung open in a sob you hadnât let fall yet.
The look on his face couldâve killed you.
Confusion.
Betrayal.
Thenâhorror.
Like something inside him snapped.
And still, Remmick didnât stop.
He slammed into you again, harder than before, dragging your face further toward the edge of the bed, forcing you to watch.
âSmile for him,â he said, voice thick with a darkness that made your stomach turn. âShow him how happy ya look when youâre finally beinâ fucked right.â
You looked into your husbandâs eyes.
Wrecked.
That was the only word for it. Wrecked in a way youâd never seen beforeâlike someone had cracked open his ribcage and yanked his heart out with their bare hands. He looked lost. Pale. Mouth parted. Staring at you like he couldnât make sense of what he was seeing.
And for a secondâfor one brief, trembling secondâyou wanted to believe in him.
Wanted to believe heâd fight.
That heâd do something.
That heâd cross the room, fists swinging, screaming, snarling, crying, clawing Remmick off of you like the man he was supposed to be. Like the husband he was supposed to be. That heâd fight for his wife, no matter how futile, no matter how ugly, no matter how late.
You wanted to believe heâd choose you.
But insteadâ
He covered his face with both hands.
And sat.
In the chair at the corner of the room, opposite the bed.
Chest heaving.
Shoulders shaking.
Not saying a word.
Not making a move.
And just like thatâ
Every drop of love you had left for him died.
Turned to ash in your mouth.
It wasnât just disappointment. It wasnât just betrayal.
It was hatred.
Hot. Immediate. Unforgiving.
And Remmick saw it happen.
Felt it bloom in your body beneath him.
He laughed.
Not playfully.
Not even cruelly.
It was disgusted.
A laugh like spitting. Like rot.
âThatâs the man ya chose over me?â he said, thrusts still pounding into your cunt, hands bruising your hips as he snapped his hips against you with brutal rhythm. âThat little fuckinâ coward?â
You didnât answer.
Didnât need to.
The silence screamed.
âJesus Christ,â Remmick muttered, breathless and gleeful, âhe canât even pretend to care. Ya ruined him, darlinâ. Just like I knew yâwould.â
He pulled out of you without warning, grabbing you by the waist and flipping you again, dragging you half off the bed until your head dangled over the edge, hair brushing the floor, throat exposed, everything upside-down.
And there he was.
Remmick, towering above you, cock flushed and leaking, sliding back into your wrecked cunt with a force that rattled your teeth. The angle sent lightning up your spine, your toes curling, vision swimming. He gripped your thighs and pushed them wide apart, spreading you open, fucking you down against the edge of the bed like you were just a hole to conquer.
But your eyes?
They were locked on him.
Your husband.
Still sitting there.
Hands still over his face.
Until they werenât.
You saw the moment shame turned to something else.
Curiosity.
Then heat.
One hand dropped to his lap.
You didnât want to believe it.
Didnât want to see it.
But you couldnât look away.
The outline of his cock, straining against his jeans. The way his chest rose and fell faster. The way his fingers hesitatedâthen unzipped.
Remmick saw it, too.
âOh fuck me,â he laughed, cruel and delighted. âYouâre hard, arenât ya?â
Your husband flinched.
Remmick leaned over you, one hand grabbing your jaw, tilting your face so you couldnât look away, even though he knew you werenât.
âHeâs hard, baby,â he sneered. âYour good little husband, sittinâ there watchinâ another man ruin his wife and heâs got his fuckinâ cock out.â
You whimpered.
Remmick thrust harder.
âGo on,â he said over your shoulder, loud enough to sting. âYouâre already sittinâ there. Might as well enjoy the show, huh?â
And then, your stomach dropped.
Because your husband did it.
He pulled his cock free.
Hard. Strained. Already wet at the tip.
And he started stroking himself.
Right there.
Right fucking there, watching you be destroyed.
Something inside you shattered.
But Remmickâs grip only tightened.
âSee?â he breathed, voice low in your ear, hips pistoning into you like he wanted to leave dents. âTold ya no one would ever love ya the way I do.â
And as your tears slipped backward into your hair, as your cunt pulsed around Remmickâs cock and your husbandâs soft, broken moans filled the roomâ
You realized something sickening:
You believed him.
And the second you did, everything shifted.
Remmickâs voice fell away.
Replaced by sound.
Raw, filthy, feral sound.
The slap of skin against skin. The wet pulse of your cunt around him. His groansâdeep, guttural, half-chokedâas he rutted into you with a new kind of desperation. Like something had cracked inside him too. Like he was breaking right alongside you.
His hips lost rhythm.
Gained need.
The drag of his cock turned erratic, heavy, slick. His breath stuttered against your neck, hot and shallow, teeth grazing skin in the warning way. And you felt itâhis weight pressing down, arms sliding beneath your back, legs shifting to cage you in, his entire body wrapping around you until there was no air between you, no space left untouched.
He was everywhere.
Crushing.
Consuming.
Yours.
âGonna fill ya up,â he slurred, voice strained, drunk on you, on this, on everything he hadnât let himself say until now. âGonnaâfuckâgonna put a baby in ya, darlinâ.â
You gasped, eyes wide, your arms sliding up around his back without thinking.
He didnât stop.
Didnât blink.
Didnât care.
âMake ya a momma,â he panted, forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat dripping from his brow to yours. âMy fuckinâ housewife. Keep ya barefoot and full for the rest of your goddamn life.â
Your thighs clenched around him.
Your fingers dug into his back.
âJust how yâshould be,â he growled, pace stuttering. âNo more runninâ. No more pretendinâ. Just me with ya and a whole house fullâa kids with my fuckinâ eyes.â
You cried out, your body already tightening again, trembling.
And then, one last thrust.
Devastating. Bone-deep. Final.
He came with a groan that barely sounded human, hips locked in place, cock pulsing inside you, spilling heat deep into your cunt like it was a claim. Endless. Relentless. It spilled out around him, a mess between your thighs, and still he didnât stop.
And with itâ
His fangs sank deep into your neck.
No warning.
No care.
Just sharp, precise, possessive puncture.
You screamedâand came. Hard. Wrung-out, shattered, blinding.
The orgasm ripped through you like it had teeth. Your walls fluttered around him, milking every last drop. Your back arched, pinned and blood-warm, as his mouth sealed over your skin and drank. Long, greedy pulls. Like he needed it more than breath.
Your heart stuttered. Your eyes rolled back.
And in the haze of it, another sound.
A choked gasp. The sharp, wet rhythm of a fist meeting skin. Then a broken, pathetic groan as your husband came too. Facing you both, cock in his hand, shame on his face, guilt dripping down his knuckles.
Remmick pulled back from your neck, blood staining his lips, breath heaving.
Then he angled to look.
Smirked.
Spat.
âThis the first time yâever came with her, huh?â
He thrust once more into your ruined cunt, slow and deep, just to emphasize it.
âHad to watch me do it for ya. Pathetic.â
And you?
You didnât even blink.
Didnât even look at the man you once thought would love you right.
Because Remmick was right about that too.
This was where you belonged.
He stayed inside you for a moment longer, just long enough for you to pretend it would never end. Your walls still fluttered around him in soft aftershocks, your body unwilling to believe it was over even as your mind tried to catch up.
Thenâ
He pulled out.
Slow. Measured. Intentional.
A sound escaped your throatâbroken, needy, trembling. Not quite a sob, not quite a plea.
Your hands caught his hips weakly, as if you could keep him, tether him, keep that full warmth inside for just a moment longer. "PleaseâŠ"
âShhh,â Remmick cooed, brushing a thumb beneath your eye where your tears had dried and cracked. âItâs alright, baby. Youâll get it again.â
The emptiness hit harder than anything else had.
A cavernous ache. Raw. Desperate. A void nothing else could fill.
You didnât realize you were crying again until your vision blurred.
You watched as he stood.
Watched as he moved across the room toward the man still sitting dumb and wide-eyed in the chair.
Your husband.
Your witness.
There was a single second.
A flash of recognition.
His eyes met Remmickâs.
And that was all.
The claws flashed.
Once.
Ripped.
There was no scream. No fight. No time for last words.
Just a sound, wet and ugly, as his throat was torn open. Gutted clean from beneath the jawline, near-severed, a geyser of arterial red splattering across the walls, the chair, the floor.
And still, for one sickening second, his body twitched.
You screamed.
You screamed with everything you had left, dragged yourself backward across the soaked sheets until your spine hit the bedframe, until your limbs locked up with exhaustion and fear and your own slick still coating your thighs.
Remmick turned to face you.
Blood painted his chest, his jaw, his hands, dripping from his fingers like it had always belonged there. His eyes were gleaming, that familiar, terrifying red turned brighter now, like it fed off what heâd just done.
And then he crawled.
Across the bed.
Staining the sheets with long streaks of crimson, smearing every part of the room you once thought of as yours. As his.
Now defiled.
Claimed.
Ruined.
His handsâslick, stickyâcupped your face with impossible tenderness.
And then he kissed you.
Slow.
Deep.
Unforgiving.
Spit. Blood. The coppery tang of death. And beneath it all, still the faint, almost-sweet taste of you on his tongue.
It coated your teeth. Filled your lungs.
You let him.
You kissed him back.
When he pulled away, his voice dropped low, affectionate, almost reverent.
âGuess itâs just us now, darlinâ,â he whispered. âUs. And our little thing growinâ inside ya.â
Your mouth parted, but no sound came.
He leaned in again, brushing his blood-wet cheek against yours, dragging his tongue slow along the edge of your jaw.
âGonna make sure yânever forget who you belong to.â
You didnât speak.
Couldnât.
There were no words left.
Just slick cooling on your thighs.
Just sheets ruined for good.
Just the memory of your husband's eyes, wide and broken, moments before he died doing nothing.
And a part of youâthat sick, lost, unredeemable partâknew:
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author's note: this is much much more angsty than my usual writing. reader is emotionally mature we are vibing lads. grma enjoy!
tags: toxic family situations, talk about toxic relationships, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, f/m sex, mostly sub!lion but very soft!dom reader
You trace your fingers down the side of Lionâs face. He looks so peaceful while heâs sleeping, hugging the pillow tight. Early morning light pours in through the slotted blinds of your apartment windows, giving your man a golden, glowing halo. Â
âLion,â you murmur.
He hums in response, but you know heâs not awake yet.
âHey, baby,â you coo.
He looks up at you and blinks slowly.
âWhaâ time sâit?âÂ
âGym time, pretty boy.â
He smiles at you, his eyes closed. Until the first two words set in and he groans, face in the pillow.
âBig fight on Friday,â you remind him.
âQuit that. You sound like Stan.â
âLion, brother, câmon,â you mock Stanâs voice, pushing his shoulder.Â
He rolls onto his back and you lean over him, already dressed.
âNow?â
âYour brotherâs meeting us there at nine.â
âAre you gonna be nice?â
âTo Stanley? No, never.â
âBaby-â
âBut Iâll be civil.â
Lionâs been living at your place for eight months now. He was hesitant at first, but when you put yourself between him and Stan and told his brother off, he agreed to move in. You both found Stan a place to stay and made the brothers agree to have another set of eyes handle their finances.
âIâm sore,â he complains.
âAw, Iâm sorry,â you coo at him, kissing his cheek.
âI donât like it when you do that âoh, poor babyâ voice.â
âYou love it.â
âNo, I donât.â
You turn to look at the tented bedsheet and turn back, smirking at him.
âThatâs not- thatâs morning wood, not you.â
âYeah?âÂ
Heâs squirming already at the way you husked that out.
âYou get dressed and Iâm gonna make you breakfast.â
âAnd coffee?â
âYeah, baby, Iâll make coffee.â
You press a soft kiss to his lips and he sighs happily, his eyes closed.Â
At the gym, you stretch your hamstrings on a mat as you watch Lion and Stan train.
You can see Lion getting frustrated with his brotherâs nonstop talking. You stand, offering his bottle.
âWater break?â
âYeah,â he mutters, stalking over to you.Â
He takes a drink and sighs, wiping his mouth.
âI like those electrolytes.â
âYeah, theyâre pretty good.â
His stomach growls.
âDid you bring any food?â
âMhm. I brought you a protein bar, you want that?âÂ
âYeah, please.âÂ
âAre you two lovebirds done?â Stan calls.
Lion blushes and you roll your eyes.Â
âStan, lemme just⊠just hold on, okay?â
You hand him the bar.
âThank you, babyâ he says, pecking your cheek and tearing the wrapped and biting into the bar. âFuck, fank you,â he groans with his mouth full.
You giggle at him and feel a little fire in your tummy. Thatâs exactly how he sounds when he eats you out.Â
âLion, letâs go,â Stan urges.Â
âCan you let him take a break?â you shoot at him.
Lion gives you a look.
âIâm his trainer, last time I checked. So, I donât need your input.âÂ
You feel that rage bubbling up inside of you.
âHeâs been at it for a fucking hour, let him breathe.âÂ
He finishes his bar and tosses the wrapper in the bin, shaking his head as he joins Stan again. He says nothing to either of you, he canât stand the way you bicker.
You canât believe you ever gave that shithead any attention.Â
Thirty minutes later, you walk over with your gym bag. Â
âLion.â
He looks over at you.
âI gotta go to work.â
He takes out his mouthguard and walks over, eager for your directions.Â
âUmâŠâ you think of anything you need to tell him. âThereâs chicken in the fridge, if you want that. And I put a menu for that Chinese place on the counter.â
âIâll probably just have what you made.â
âThereâs some clean laundry in the bin but Iâll get to it. Oh! Iâm going to really, really try to remember to water the plants but can you check for me when you get back? And if theyâre dry can you water them?âÂ
âSure.â Â
âThank you.â
You kiss him sweetly.
âOkay. Iâll see you at home.â
âSee you at home.â
Lion loves saying that. He loves living with you, the stability and the comfort.
âBye, sweetheart,â Stan snarks.Â
You glare at him and turn on your heel, walking out. Lion watches your ass in your yoga pants and the way your hips move when you walk. Stan pats him on the back.
âYouâre a lucky man, brother.âÂ
âGross.âÂ
âI wasnât saying- whatever, sheâs nice, thatâs what I mean.â
Lion shakes his head and drinks from his water bottle.
âEven if she has a fucking mouth on her-â
âStop it, Stan. I want you two to stop fighting. Fuck.âÂ
âSheâs the one picking fights. Sheâs always starting shit.âÂ
Lion and Stan train for another hour, Stan riling Lion up about you.
Sheâs always talking about you âneeding breaksâ. What, she thinks youâre weak? You can handle your own shit.
And she treats you like youâre her fucking girlfriend!
Fucking folding her laundry. Watering the plants. Youâre totally whipped, brother.
Look, man, she can be a bitch sometimes.
Lion rides home on the metro. His phone lights up with a text from you.
My Girl â€ïž
donât open this on the train đ
My Girl â€ïž
Attachment: 1 Image
Lion gets home to the apartment alone and slumps down on the couch. He checks on the plant on the side table and sees the soil is dry.
He scrubs his hands down his face, groaning. He wants to ice his hands and take a hot shower, not do chores. Stanâs words ring in his ears and he leaves his phone on the couch, grabbing a bag of ice from the freezer.
You tap your foot at the club as you wait for Lion to pick up.
âThis is Lion. Leave a message or try Stan.âÂ
You huff, not even wanting to leave him a voicemail. Youâre tempted to unsend that sexy selfie you sent earlier, but you leave it. You look at his contact.
big cat đ
The photo is a back camera flash selfie of the two of you that you had taken after a fight, his nose bloody and cheek bruised. He grinned and kissed you, smearing blood on your face. You didnât even care.Â
Heâs tired, you remind yourself. And you were a little too abrasive at the gym today. Stan just gets on your fucking nerves.Â
âHey, doll,â one of the girls greets you, coming to get some water.Â
âHey.â
âYou okay?â
âFine, yeah.â
âYou sure?â
âI think my boyfriendâs mad at me.â
âHe doesnât seem like an angry guy.â
Lion meets you here and walks you home plenty of nights. And on the very desperate ones, Stan comes to get you and you sit one seat apart on the train.Â
âI was an asshole to his brother today.â
âBut his brotherâs an asshole to you, right?â
âYeah.â
âWell⊠manifesting a good angry fuck for you,â she jokes with her fingers crossed.Â
You sigh, looking at your phone again.
Lion falls asleep on the couch waiting for you until his alarm goes off.
He pulls on his ratty hoodie and sniffles, grabbing his keys and heading to the metro station to go and get you. Heâs still mad, and sore, and tired.
He sees you waiting outside of the club, and sees a guy talking to you.
You laugh politely and look at him.
âHey,â he greets you.
âHi.â
âYou ready?â
âYeah.â
Lion gives the man a look and you follow him to the metro. Itâs quiet and tense. He shifts away when you try to lean on him.Â
You get back to the apartment and pout at him.
âLion,â you start.
âWhat?â
Youâre taken aback by how harsh his tone is, but youâre a big girl. You can apologise and own up.Â
âIâm sorry about today. I⊠I have my own feelings about your brother but that doesnât mean I get to put you in that position. Heâs really good at pushing my buttons, but I lost my temper today and Iâm sorry.âÂ
Lion softens.
âThank you,â he croaks out.
He should expect this from you. Youâre emotionally mature, unlike Stan, and you can admit fault. He feels like an asshole for being upset with you.
âItâs okay that youâre upset, Lion. StanâsâŠâ you trail off, not wanting to fuel the fire, âheâs a lot to deal with.âÂ
He nods absently and you squeeze his bicep, kissing his cheek.
âI really love you, okay? And Iâm willing to⊠to deal with Stan because I love you. I just wish he would play nice like I do.âÂ
âI do too,â he mumbles, his voice breaking.Â
âLion,â you murmur, hugging him. He hugs you tight, tucking his head in your shoulder.
âMissed you.â
âMissed you too, big cat.â
Thatâs his happy place, buried in the fabric that smells like your perfume and hearing your heartbeat pulse against his ear.Â
âI love you, Walter,â you say softly, holding his face.Â
âLove you,â he breathes, his head turning to kiss your palm.Â
âDid you eat?â
He sniffles and shakes his head.
âUm, no. I fell asleep.âÂ
âLetâs eat dinner, okay? And we can go to bed.â
âThis is so weird, but I was like⊠kinda hoping you were more mad at me.â
âWhat? Why?â
âI dunno. I guess my other boyfriends have just been total dickheads. I just remember like⊠this old routine of coming home and screaming at each other and⊠fucking each otherâs brains out.â
âI can do that.â
âI know.â
âI can fuck you however you want.âÂ
âI know, baby. It was just like, the⊠that energy, that pissed-off sex.â
You exhale.
âUgh, thatâs so toxic that I want that.âÂ
âIâm mad at Stan, does that count?â
âWhy are you mad at Stan?â
âCause he was shit talkinâ you the whole time.âÂ
You sit up and narrow your eyes.
âHe was what?â
âYeah, he was-â
Lion sees your eyes and swallows.
âSayinâ you⊠you think Iâm weak. You think I canât train like he wants me to.â
You scoff.
âBecause I think you need a break after an hour straight? What else did he say?â
âBaby, I donât wanna-âÂ
âWhat else did he say, Lion?â
He looks at his hands.Â
âHe said you⊠you treat me like Iâm your girlfriend. Y-you make me do everything and Iâm whipped.â
You suck your teeth.
âAnd what did you say?â
Lion doesnât look at you.
âSo you just⊠stand around and let him talk shit about me?â
âNo-â
âDoes that happen every time Iâm not there?â
âStan has a lot to say, you know that. Baby-â
âOh, fuck off.âÂ
You get up and he follows you to the bedroom.
âDonât follow me-â
âIâm sorry!â
âLion-â
âStop! God, what are you actinâ so fuckinâ crazy for?âÂ
You turn your head around and glare at him.
âCrazy?âÂ
âI-I didnât me-â
âYou want to see crazy? Because Iâll show you fucking crazy, Lion.âÂ
You see his hands clench into fists and he growls.
âStop it! Stop, I donât wanna fight with you!â
âNo, you just want to call me a bitch with your dumbass brother all day!âÂ
âI would never call you that!âÂ
âStan would. I fucking bet he did today. Tell me he didnât.â
You stare at each other, breathing heavily. Your body is hot, youâre so fucking angry.Â
âIâm sorry, okay? Iâm sorry. I hate it when he talks about you like that, itâs just⊠easier to ignore him.âÂ
âWhat, you canât even stand up for me to your own brother? Youâre such a pushover, Lion!âÂ
âIâm not- you know how Stan is!âÂ
âYeah, I do! And I want him out of our lives! He just-â
âClings on.â
Lion takes a shaky breath.
âAnd ruins shit.âÂ
You soften and wrap your arms around him. He holds you close and once again hides in your shoulder.
You kiss his temple and feel him squeeze you as he tries not to cry.
âYou can cry. Itâs okay.â
His grip on you tightens and a sob racks through him, making him tremble. You gently lead him to the bedroom and sit the both of you on the bed.
âIâm so-rry,â he hiccups, hiding his face in his hands.Â
âI know you are. I know, baby. Itâs okay. Just let it out.â
Lion bawls like heâs a little kid. He cries for so long, so hard, he feels like a deflated balloon by the end of it. Finally he sniffles and pulls back from you, wiping at his eyes.
âYou wanna wash your face?â
âYeah,â he croaks.Â
He steps into the bathroom and splashes some water over his face, patting it dry with a towel.
He sighs, padding over to you and flopping on the bed. He lays his head in your lap and you brush your fingers through his hair.Â
âYou okay, big cat?â
âYeah, but I feel like shit.â
âIâm so sorry, Walter. I didnât mean for that to be⊠such a big fight.â
âDonât be sorry. I donât want us to get⊠all pent up about shit. I donât want to yell at you either, but⊠yâknow. Iâd rather talk it out.âÂ
You glance at your alarm clock on the nightstand.
3:36 AM
âI bet the neighbours hate us.â
You lean over and kiss his forehead.
âI love you.â
âLove you so much, baby,â he murmurs, his face squished against your thigh
âMaybe we can make it up to each other?â
âCan you give me like, five minutes? I think I just lost five pounds of waterweight.â
You laugh at that and he chuckles softly. Â
You stay like that for a little while, combing his hair with your nails and murmuring to him until he sits up slowly. He stretches his back and you nod to the pillows.
âSit back.â
Lion props himself up against the headboard. On your knees between his legs, you kiss him sweetly.Â
âSo handsome,â you murmur.
He makes a soft noise, reaching for you. You thread your fingers with his, which he canât bend in all the way. You press a kiss to his jaw and he whines. Your lips chart a path down his neck, his chest, his absâ that little spot by his hip that makes his hips buck hardâ leaving little love bites as you do.Â
âI-I got a fight,â he reminds you in a whimper when you pull from his skin with a wet pop!
âYeah, and everybody is gonna know youâre mine, pretty boy.âÂ
His cock twitches at your words. He realises your final destination when you fiddle with the ties on his gym shorts.
âOh, fuck,â he whispers, covering his face.
You hook your fingers into his waistbands and tug them down, his cock springing free. Your slow, sloppy kisses have left him achingly hard, and he can feel your breath as you hover over his cock. You wrap your fingers around him, kissing the tip like you had kissed his lips a moment earlier, all sweet and loving.
Before Lion has something else to say, his cock is in your mouth. Hand gripping what you canât take as you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock.
He gasps, one hand over his eyes and the other fisting the bedsheet.
âTalk to me, baby,â you purr, kissing the side of his shaft.
âSâgood- ngh- so good, fuckâŠâ
You hum as you take him in your mouth again, your other hand coming up to cup his balls.Â
His head falls back and meets the headboard with a soft thud, mouth open, sweat on his brow, chest expanding with his heavy breaths.
âYou close, baby?â
You stroke him with both hands and move down to mouth at his balls.
You slow yourself to an agonizing pace and Lion makes a choked noise. His hand falls, so you can see his expression. Fucking wrecked, the way you like him.Â
Your hand splays on his tummy, the way he does to yours when heâs buried deep inside. Youâve found that treating Lion like a girl in bed works pretty well. Using all the tactics your old boyfriends used to get you squirming makes him squirm a little more but cum a little harder. One of his big paws cradles the crown of your head, not pushing or grabbing your hair, just resting there gently.Â
He gasps one more time, his hips jerking as you swallow the load he shoots down your throat. You donât stop, still bobbing your head up and down his length even as he slowly softens in your mouth.Â
âOh, fu-! Fuck, y-you canât just ke-! Keep sucking like that, please, ba-! Baby,â he begs and hiccups, trembling under your touch. He pushes on your head and you know he could shove you off but he doesnât want to, his thumb rubs loving little circles on your scalp.Â
You finally pull off of him, pressing kisses to his pelvis as you look up at him. He shudders and you let him catch his breath.
âWas that good?â you punctuate, squeezing his arm.
He nods, dazed and totally drained. You giggle and he winces.
âDonât laugh at me.â
âYouâre just so cute, Lion, I canât help it.â
You perch on your knees next to him.
âI watch you in that ring and I see you fight⊠youâre such a badass. But I know youâre my good boy who begs so nice⊠makes me so wet.â Â
He makes a little squeaky noise, shifting to sit up. He puts a hand on your thigh.Â
âBaby, I wanna⊠can you, please?â
âCan I what?â
âI want you to just⊠just use me,â he confesses without meeting your eyes.Â
âUse you,â you repeat, swinging a thigh over his lap.Â
âI love watchinâ you r-ride me⊠I want you t-to feel goodâŠâ
âMy own personal fucktoy,â you giggle.Â
Lionâs breath hitches and you smirk at him.Â
You push him to lay down, and he shimmies down the bed to put his head on the pillows. He kicks off his shorts and underwear, watching you undress like heâs never seen it before. When youâre bare before him heâs wide-eyed with that loverboy gaze you adore so much.Â
You take his hand and bring it to your mouth, slipping his two middle fingers past your lips and wetting them.
âFingers first.â
He nods obediently and you bring his hand between your legs. He spreads that slickness from your hole to your clit, brushing that nub lightly before sliding a finger in. Youâre so wet, so fucking on that he can slip another in without much fuss. He watches your face change, the way your muscles relax at the feeling of being filled.
You ride his fingers, he pumps and curls to the best of his ability but with his creaky joints he mostly just watches you go for it. He angles his hand for you to grind your clif against the heel of it, his own hand crushed between your cunt and his thigh.Â
âLove you, love your pussy so much, fuck⊠ri-ridinâ my fingers, y-youâre so fuckinâ hot,â he babbles in a whisper, feeling the blood rush from his head to his cock as he watches the way your eyes close. Itâs focus and pleasure, and heâs twitching again already just thinking about being inside of you.Â
He tries to reach to the nightstand for a condom. You grab his wrist.Â
âBut we-âÂ
âLion,â you breathe. âI want it raw.â
He swallows hard and nods. You keep grinding on his hand until you dig your nails into his thigh, making him hiss.Â
âYes, yes, yes,â you chant, gripping his wrist between your legs. âFuck, good boy, Lion, youâre so fucking good with these fingers- shit!âÂ
Your hips buck and you shiver as you cum, soaking Lionâs fingers. You paw at his wrist and he pulls his hand away, looking up at you.Â
âOh, look who got all hard again,â you joke breathlessly, nodding to his painfully hard cock.Â
You move yourself over his cock, and he grips himself at the base to line up with your dripping cunt and slide in.
âFuck, ba-by,â he moans, feeling your ass against his bare thighs. They flex, raising you up an inch.
âYeah, feels good?â
âFeels s-so goodâŠâÂ
You lift yourself up, with Lionâs help, and slide back down. You watch his eyes go unfocused and laugh. You grab his face between your hands as his paw at your waist uselessly.Â
âCâmon, talk to me, big cat. Talk to me, baby, tell me how you want it.âÂ
âWanâ⊠want you bouncinâ on itâŠâÂ
You speed up gradually, hands planted on his chest as he holds onto your waist for dear life. Heâs fighting overstimulation like you are.Â
âIs this what you wanted?âÂ
âYes! Yes, baby, fu-ckâŠâ his voice shakes with the rhythm you bounce on him, like youâre driving over speed bumps.Â
âThatâs my good boy,â you purr, making him whimper and throw an arm over his eyes.Â
Itâs a bumpy fucking ride toward the end, youâre grinding on him more than anything, chasing that release so he can cum feeling your cunt squeeze the life out of his cock.Â
âCâmon, baby. Câmon, Lion, cum with me.âÂ
âFuck, baby, I-Iâm so close, please,â he cries.
You honestly didnât think he had any tears left in him.
âFuck me. Fuck me, Lion, flip me over.â
He does what you say instantly, turning the both of you over and driving into you, your thighs hooked over his hips.
âYeah, you wanna cum in me?â
He nods feverishly, holding you like he might fall apart if he doesnât.Â
âYes! Yes, please!â
You circle your own clit with a rough touch,Â
âYeah? You wanna fill me up, big cat, you fucking fill me up, baby. Youâre my man, Lion, câmon, fill me up- oh, shit,â you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders and dragging them down as your orgasm rips through you.Â
It feels like the ground is shaking, not just your body. Lion cries out, his hips stuttering as he sobs and leans over you, spilling deep inside of you. You kiss, hot, wet, sloppy, absolutely in love.Â
âI love you, I love you so much,â you say it like youâre praying, kissing his cheek.Â
He pulls you close into a tight hug, kissing your shoulder.Â
âIâm sorry for shoutinâ at you, baby, I love you so muchâŠâ
âApology accepted, fuck.âÂ
He pulls out with a whimper and you feel his cum dribble out of you.Â
âFuck. I just washed these sheetsâŠâ
âIâll go to the laundromat tomorrow.â
He helps you to the bathroom and you both wash up, half dressing in your pajamas.Â
He slumps over you again, kissing your neck as he buries his face in it.
âI love you. Letâs run away and not tell Stan and just fuckinâ⊠just be in love.â
âYeah?â
âWe can start our own laundromat and⊠do whatever. Have some kids,â he says in a much smaller voice.
âMaybe a dog first,â you admit softly.Â
âYeah, I want a dog.â
âWe can go to the shelter on Friday if you win.â
He chuckles.
âAnd if I lose?â
You run your fingers through his short hair.Â
âIce cream.â
âFuck, ice cream sounds really good.â
You kiss again, holding his face. He rests his head on your chest, listening to the bass tone of your heartbeat.Â
âYou wanna stay up and watch the sunrise or you wanna go to sleep?â
âWhatever you want, baby,â he murmurs, half asleep already.
SUMMARY: A run-in with one of the most notorious gun-slingers in the West leads to an unexpected intimacy.
PAIRING: roy goode x fem!reader
WC: 8.2k
WARNINGS: mentions of parental issues, male violence, misogyny, guns/weapons, sexual insinuation, hunting/killing animals (for food), reader is stubborn and unaware, death, violence (shooting), drinking, pining/yearning, use of âwhoreâ for prostitute, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering, bath/shower sex, dirty talk, praise kink, riding (girl on top), nipple play, creampie, cute cuddling 18+ under the cut
A/N: wellâŠthis is it, everybody. big thank you to @spikedfearn for a discussion on how royâs praise kink, @amaranthine-enihtnarama, @iceemochaa, @remmicks-salvation for the motivation to write, @fuckoffbard for literally everything, @confetti-cakemix and my lovelyyyy wifey @eternalstrigoii for beta reading! this fic is based off of this request, so thank you anon đ roy goode is my no. 1 jack role so this is long overdue! this takes place before godless, so no need to watch/know the show. please enjoy!
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likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated!
You had a habit of finding yourself in places where you didn't belong. As a child, it was your father grabbing you by the back of your frock after he found you wandering near the library. "Girls don't need to concern themselves with books," he'd said. Didn't stop you from reading almost every one of them.
It was back in Courthill when he caught you watching the deputy's target practice.
âYou should be courting the boys, not shooting at âem.â
So, it was no surprise that you found yourself as another lonely wanderer through the vast Western frontier. Youâd slipped out the back door of his farmhouse that had never been a home. And considering there hadnât been a single sign of a search for you in the past five years, clearly, you werenât missed. Maybe youâd been presumed dead.
It was no matter to you now. Courthill was long behind you, and living on your own as a young woman in the West had taught you more than your father ever had.
Youâd done bad things, but no worse than any man. Youâd killed, but no more than a womanâs survival called for.
Now, as you found yourself wandering in some forsaken town during the hottest month of the summer, you couldnât help but remember your fatherâs words. There was no telling if you were even in Texas anymore. Your only possessions consisted of a sack swung over your shoulder carrying spare clothes and a canteen.
The scorched dirt crunched underneath your boots. This town wasnât yours and you werenât about to stroll around it like it was, but no matter how low you held your head, you felt the glare of cautious, watchful eyes.
It wasnât everyday someone would see an alluring woman like you dressed in her fatherâs trousersâa few sizes too bigâboots that were stuffed at the toe to fit, and a gambler hat faded by the sun. The most noticeable accessory was the silver pistol on your belt. But it wasnât the stolen clothes that gave it away.
It was your hair. Uncut and hanging just above your waist. And the fact you hadnât made an attempt to hide it under your hat showed you werenât trying to be someone you werenât.
You were just another runaway.
There were whispers, none of which you could make out, but enough to know you werenât exactly welcome in this place.
You had to leave. Soon. But the next civilization wasnât for another eight milesâtoo far to go on foot in this heat.
âWho is that?â A young boy asked his mother; she shushed him, and turned him away.
Like the sight of you was a walking sin.
The rim of your hat hid your eyes as you walked past them. A sharp turn to your right led you to another street lined with wooden buildings bent from the Western wind. This road was quieter and emptier; you preferred it that way.
Then, like a miracle, you heard the sound of a deep, throaty snort. Your gaze shifted to an alley between a small house and the telegraph office where a hitching post stood in the dirt. Tied to it was a black mare, standing strong despite the sun beaming down on her.
Bullseye.
You were careful not to make any sudden sounds as you approached the post. She shifted her weight, head hung low just like yours as steam faintly curled from her nostrils.
âEasy, girl,â you hold your hand out gently.
On her back was a worn leather saddle and two sacks hung over her hips. Braided reins wrapped around her snout. This one belonged to someone, and as a stranger to this town, you had no place in taking her.
A girlâs gotta do what a girlâs gotta do, you thought to yourself.
Once you were close enough, you set your hand on her cheek, gently rubbing the soft fur with your thumb. âLong day?â You half-cooed, scratching underneath her chin. The mare snorted in response.
Looking over your shoulder to see that no one had noticed you yet, you began to sort through the sacks. An empty canteen. A couple of golden, shotgun shells. A stale, half-eaten piece of bread wrapped in cloth. A handful of silver dollars. You took the money, but everything else was nothing of value to you. You threw the sacks to the ground so the dust floated in the air like a cloudy sky you hadnât seen in days. A bead of sweat dripped down your cheek as you hurriedly tied your own bag to the saddle, moving to undo the knot around the hitching post.
If your heart hadnât been beating so hard that you could feel it in your eardrums, you mightâve heard the quiet footsteps behind you.
âAfternoon, maâam,â a low, gentle voice called out to you.
You almost gasped, your fingers still fumbling with the reins. Turning on the heel of your boot, you noticed the figure at the end of the alley.
A man dressed in black half-smiled at you.
âAfternoon, sir.â
âIs there, uh,â he began to slowly approach you, and you readied yourself to pull the gun from your side. âsomething I can help you with?â
Perhaps he was just a kind man looking to help a random woman in trouble. But you didnât plan on finding out.
âOh, not at all,â you smiled warmly. âThank you.â
You finished untying the knot of the reins, quick to get out of this town as soon as possible.
But before you could secure it in your hand, the man behind you clicked his tongue against his teeth. In almost an instant, the mare rushed to him, the reins slipping from your hands with a burning sensation. You hissed at the feeling and immediately pulled the pistol from your hip.
The horse stopped by his side. The man looked over to see your gun pointed directly at his chest. Aimed for his heart.
Roy Goode had met a lot of strange people in his life. Heâd been to a lot of strange places, and never had he met such a woman like youâstanding in your stolen boots and holding your pistol at him; you could take his life in an instant, and he doesnât doubt it. He takes the reins in his hands and twists it around his palm.
âThieves donât do too well here,â he said, though it didnât feel like a threat.
Dust swirls in the space between you. âI didnât know it was yours,â thereâs an edge of defensiveness and even shame to your voice. âIâve stolen worse from worse men.â
Thereâs a ghost of a smirk on his face. The man studies you for a moment and nods once. âThat why youâre out here alone?â
If you had thought of something clever enough to say, you wouldâve, but your mind draws a blank. Youâre fixated on the pair of blue eyes watching you. Without noticing, youâve lowered your weapon to your hips already.
âWhatâs your name?â
You glared at him for a moment. âAnd why should I tell you?â
He smiles. âItâd be kind, at the very least. Wanna know who Iâm talking to.â
â(y/n). (l/n).â
The man nods. âWell, Miss (l/n), horses arenât just toys to be stolen,â he says, gently petting the mareâs chin and running his fingers through her mane. âYou want something that runs, you earn it.â
âAnd how would I do that?â You tilt your head.
The man mounts the horse with an impressive ease. He settles into the saddle like heâd been doing it his entire life. Now, the tilted smirk on his face widens. âDonât suppose youâre any good with a rifle?â
You glance off in the distance for only a second.
You could bolt off right there and then. Itâd probably earn you a bullet in the leg, but you were quicker than you looked.
Most men in the West would have shot you on the spot for messing with what was theirs. Not this one. You clicked your teeth at the realization that your options were severely outweighed.
Any good with a rifle? âGood enough.â
Whoever this man was, he wasnât completely with the law.
Yet, he didnât seem to think himself above it. You nearly objected when he paid a rancher on the outskirts of town for a horse, saddle and all, but who were you to deny a gift? Besides, it had a lovely chestnut coat that you admired.
The town was far behind you as you slowed the horsesâ galloping to a gentle stroll beside one another. To anyone who didnât already know you, the two of you actually made quite a nice-looking pair.
Canyon walls surrounding you stood tall, practically glowing a golden rust in the late afternoon sun. Gravel and dirt crunched underneath the horse hooves; small songbirds gently chirped off in the distance; the dry air whistled a tune. The sweet music of the West.
Neither of you spoke much.
There was a polite âthank youâ for the horse and a brief conversation about sunburn, but other than that, you were complete strangers. Perhaps it was a way of leaving the scenery undisturbed, or maybe it was that you didnât have anything to say until one of you was sick of the silence.
Fortunately, he gave in first. âSo whatâs a young lady such as yourself doinâ in these parts?â
âIâm not a lady,â You had no qualms against this man, but a part of you scowled at him. It wasnât the first time someone thought theyâd figured you out because of what was between your legs. âAnd Iâm from Courthill. Texas.â
He whistled. âYouâre a long way from home.â
âHow long?â
âAbout two weeks that way.â He pointed to the left.
For the past few days, you wouldnât have been able to pinpoint your location on a map if it was laid out in front of you. It was odd to think that homeâa place you never wanted to see againâwas so close yet so far.
He spoke again. âI donât suppose you made the whole journey by foot.â
You scowled, turning your head so he wouldnât notice it. As of now, heâd only shown you kindness. You couldnât shake the stubborn, defensive barrier that came with being a woman on her own.
âI had a horse,â you shifted the reins in your hands to avoid a large rock in the path. âCouldnât keep it fed, so I sold it to a woman who could. A Miss Alice Fletcher.â
A brief silence settled between you before he broke it.
âSurely, thereâre ways for a- uh, woman to, uh,â he cut himself off, gently stumbling on his words. You knew damn well what he was going to say. âYou knowâŠâ
âDo I look like a prostitute to you?â
If your hair had been tied up, or youâd worn a thicker jacket to cover up the curve of your chest, Roy wouldâve fairly assumed you were a thieving, conniving, worn-down man like him. But you werenât. And he enjoyed seeing you in pants rather than a skirt. He didnât even try to picture the latter.
There was dirt on your cheek. Mud smudged over the knees of your slacks. A small, red scar on your collar bone.
âNo, maâam.â
Good. Thatâs that. But he spoke again, just above a mumble like it was only meant for himself.
âYouâd make good money as one.â
You sighed. A spiteful grin on your face. âSo, would you.â It was meant to be offensive, something degrading and sarcastic. He hardly took it as one.
âWhy, thank you.â He perked. You shook your head at your lame insult.
Then, he motioned to the hat on your head and the boots on your feet. âSo Iâm guessinâ those ainât yours?â
Well, youâd hoped it wasnât noticeable that they were a size too big. Your eyes trailed across the scenery, an embarrassingly obvious way of forming a quick lie. âA farmer from Oklahoma gave them to me.â
Of course, he saw right through it. âThat donât look like a farmerâs hat to me.â
âI didnât realize I was being interrogated.â
With a shrug, he continued, âThereâs a man Iâm lookinâ for, lives down in Tucson.â That nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. You pulled back on the reins and he turned at your sudden halt in the path. âSomethinâ wrong?â
âI donât even know who the hell you are,â you sighed. It mightâve been better to speak a little quieter in a valley where anyone could be hidden, but you werenât exactly aiming for security. âLook, I appreciate the horse, and Iâm sure itâs a lovely ride to Tucson. This has been fun and all, but Iâve got other matters to deal with. You canât even tell me the manâs name and Iâm supposed to shoot him down for you?â
He didnât necessarily smile at you; his lips only tilted slightly. It was his eyes that looked amused at your sudden burst.
The world you lived in wasnât kind to women who used their mouths. Youâd learned that the hard way from your father first. There were plenty of men down the line whoâd shown you as well, mostly with their fist to your cheek. You werenât wrong to feel angry or misled, but you hadnât meant to raise your voice with a stranger.
Maybe heâd shoot you right there. Leave you for dead in the middle of nowhere.
But there was no firm slap across your face nor the ringing of a gun piercing a bullet in your side.
Just the surprisingly gentle tone of his voice.
âNow, thatâs a mighty fine stallion, so youâre welcome for the horse. And yes, it is a lovely ride to Tucson. I think youâll enjoy it. I wouldnât say this has been funâis this what you consider fun?â You scowled. âBut I enjoy the company. And seeinâ that youâve made no attempt to outrun or rob meâagainâI donât think you do have other matters to attend to.
âThe manâs name is Les Moore. Heâs a banker-turned-bandit. Weâve got unfinished business I donât plan on disclosinâ, but I do plan on shooting him myself. I simply need someone to watch my back. And my name is Roy.â
He paused again, but this time, it left a noticeable weight in the air.
âRoy Goode.â
You knew that name. There wasnât a soul throughout the West that didnât know that name. Youâd heard it in folktales and stories around campfires, seen it written in thick, blank ink on wanted posters across a hundred different towns.
Even further, you knew that the man it belonged to had a certain friend you didnât want any association with.
âIf youâd like to go your own way, be my guest.â He continued. âBut you donât seem to know these parts and a lot of men stronger than you have died here. Itâs up to youâŠmaâam.â
A long silence followed.
Your teeth dig into the inside of your cheek because, deep down, you know heâs right. And you hate being wrong. The two of you stood still in the middle of the canyon. Even your horse sighed with impatience, but Roy kindly awaited your response.
âFuck,â you said under your breath.
Then loud enough for Roy to hear, âFine. But know this, Roy Goode,â You clicked your heels against the stallionâs belly. âAinât no man in the West whoâs stronger than me.â
Not a single bone in Royâs body doubted it.
âCareful, now.â
You clenched your jaw so visibly that Roy could see you were in no need of his advice. The rifle rested so comfortably in your hands, he had to wonder how many times youâd done this.
âI know how to shoot, Goode.â
âI believe you,â He dryly chuckled. âSo take the shot.â
He had a point. It only pissed you off more. You shifted quietly enough that the small, dirt-colored rabbit off in the distance never noticed your presence. At this point, it wouldâve been Royâs voice that gave it away.
âShut up,â you hissed.
With your left eye squeezed shut, you focused your sight on the rabbit. Not even your heart could beat hard enough to throw off your aim, but a gentle breeze blew a strand of hair into your face and ruined your line of vision.
âLet me do it,â Roy moved to take the pistol from his side before a shot rang from beside him.
The rabbit dropped to the ground with a gentle thud.
You grinned at your new partner in crime. âYou were saying?â
An hour passed before the sun sat low in the sky, just above the line of the land, casting a golden hue across your surroundings. The rest of the sky was somehow an inky shade of black, illuminated with more stars than youâd ever seen in your life. Strange you thought to yourself. Embers from the small fire Roy had started with spare branches and weeds floated above you, glistening amongst the stars.
He watched you take the blade hidden in your belt, dragging it against the rabbitâs fur and pulling its skin from the meat. The women he knew wouldâve gagged at the sight of blood or ran at the simple thought of killing an innocent animal.
But not you.
âNow, whereâd you learn to do that?â
You chuckled, a faint smile coming to your face, at a memory. âI canât go givinâ you all my secrets.â
There was something about you that knew survival. It was gritty and dark, and though he would never admit it, Roy ached to know more.
He hung the meat above the flames on a spit, gently twirling it so the skin had an even, roasted color all over. Your mouth watered at the sight of it. Once it was ready, the two of you ravaged it with desperate fingers like starving wolves. It was, in no way, a good meal. Dry and flavorless, and split between the two of you, one rabbit was hardly enough. But it was the first time in days that your stomach had been able to settle over anything.
âI lived off of lizards for a time,â Roy said once there were only bones left. The two of you wore soft, tired smiles that came with good food and good company. Youâd licked your fingers clean and now used your leather sack as a make-shift pillow. âCanât shoot the fuckers. I had to chase after them with a blade.â
You laughed softly. Roy enjoyed the way a smileânot a flashy, pretty one put on to appease the men around you, but a distant, reminiscent oneâlooked on you.
âIâve been there. I was near Mexico when all I had were tree leaves and cactus meat. Boiled it with river water.â Roy hummed a chuckle. The horses, tied to a withered tree, shuffled nearby. You glanced over your shoulder at them. âI like to think theyâre talking to each other.â
âThey are,â he said, throwing the last of the bones into the dirt. âJuneâs got a lot of stories to tell him.â
For a brief moment, you thought it odd that he referred to the horses like they were the same as himâor that he was one of them.
You arched a brow, âYou named her June?â
Roy could see that you were amused. âThought it was pretty.â He almost shrugged.
You hummed in fairness. Glancing back at your horse, you realized it didnât feel right to leave him nameless. And despite Roy having bought it, the stallion was yours. âJohnny.â You said plainly.
âCome again?â
âIâll name him Johnny.â
Now you were talking like you were one of them too.
Roy wondered then who Johnny was to you. Or maybe it was someone from a past life. He gazed at the remains of the fire before glancing over at you.
Maybe it was the gentle light in the vast darkness, but there was a newfound softness in your face. He could see the tiniest of imperfectionsâsmall scars won in battle, a minuscule bump on your chinâof which most women would cover with powder.
But not you.
Heâd seen beautiful women before. Plenty of them. And here you were, resting near the flickering fire and under the iridescent moonlight, forcing him to question if heâd ever really understood beauty before he saw you.
âJohnny and June.â He said out loud in thought.
You met his eyes, unaware of how long heâd been looking at you. âIt has a nice ring.â
Roy nodded. âThat it does.â
Three days of riding had taken the two of you to a small town called Tombstone, just a dayâs journey to Tucson. Royâs name was known around here, but, thankfully, his face wasnât.
With a pair of crinkled, ten-dollar bills, he reserved two separate rooms in a lodging above the general store. As he paid, the clerk didnât miss her chance to shoot a half-confused, half-cautious glare your way. âEach roomâs got a tub,â she noted, motioning to the smudged dirt on your cheek.
You gave her a tight smile. âThank you, maâam.â
Roy handed you a key and kept one for himself as the two of you scaled the stairs to the second floor. âHungry at all?â
âYou got the money for dinner?â
He shrugged, âEnough for more than rabbits and lizards.â You reached a long hallway. He pointed to the second to last door marked with a 6. âI think thatâs your room there.â
âThis says four,â you read the engraved number on the key. The correct door was only two away. Roy only hesitantly chuckled to himself. You glanced at his key, âAnd youâre three.â
âRight,â he said, awkwardly but gratefully nodding. He seemed to know numbers well enough when it came to money.
Without saying more, you started to fumble with the keyhole of your door. The lock clicked open before Roy spoke again. âThereâs a saloon on the corner. Meet me there a little after the sun sets? Give you some time to rest up.â
You were surprised to instantly nod at his request. âSure,â you smiled before you went your separate ways.
The room wasnât much by anyone elseâs standards, but it was more than youâd seen in weeks. A wire-framed bed with two quilts and an oil lamp sat to your right; a wardrobe for clothes you didnât have stood tall in the corner. A metal basin in the other one. The windows were adorned with dusty lace curtains that filtered the sunlight into the room.
You locked the door behind you and tossed the sack on the ground, immediately collapsing onto the bed. The springs squeaked underneath your body, but the mattress was comfortable enough.
Better than rocks and dirt.
Before you let your eyes close, you watched the ceiling, noticing the slight cracks in it. They began to form a shape, soon morphing into a familiar face. Blue eyes that always seemed to gaze at you when you werenât looking. A pair of soft lips that hardly ever smiled, but on the canvas of the ceiling, they did.
You laid on your side and forced your eyes shut.
But even in the darkness of your mind, a place of purgatory between dreams and wake, you saw him.
When you woke, you swore you could feel something grazing your arm. But you turned over to see that you were still alone in the room. The sweet, golden light of day was gone now, replaced by the ghostly, glowing moon. A gentle hue of purple sat over the horizon.
It hadnât been dark for long. You thought this while mentally praying you hadnât kept Roy waiting too long.
You hurried to grab your hat and leave the room, rushing down the stairs and out the door. Just as heâd said, a saloon stood tall on the corner of the street. A few men grouped together with smoke curling from their mouths watched as you approached the entrance.
âEveningâŠmaâam,â they said hesitantly at your appearance. You only nodded.
With one step into the bar, you seemed to catch the attention of nearly everyone inside. You noticed then that there didnât appear to be a single woman. Even the man at the piano stopped playing his song, only missing a beat before starting again.
Silence. Your boots clicked against the wood floor.
You glanced around the room for your traveling companion before a man with a thick beard approached you. His broad frame seemed to block you from entering further.
âMaâam.â He grinned, revealing yellow teeth and two silver caps. His eyes drifted up and down your figure. âI think you may be in the wrong place. Sallyâs cafe down the street doesnât close for another hour.â
You tightly smiled back. âI assure you, sir, Iâm in the right spot.â
You began to move forward again before his firm hand pressed itself over your stomach. The contact, unexpected and unwelcome, made you suddenly feel trapped.
âGood men donât go puttinâ their hands on young women,â a voice said from behind you.
The man slowly dropped both his hand and his grin. You turned to see Roy standing just as he had back in that alley. He offered you a small smile.
âYou with him?â The man sneered, glancing back and forth between you and Roy trying to discern the dynamic. You shook your head.
âHeâs with me.â
As the man backed away, retreating to his spot at the bar with his friends, Royâs footsteps halted at your side. He pulled out a chair from a table nearby and held his hand out like a gentleman. You kindly took the seat.
Roy sat across from you, placing his hat on the table. âTwo whiskeys,â he ordered once a server came by. âWhatâs your finest meal?â
âIâve got a beef and bean stew.â The server offered.
âTwo of those,â you smiled. He turned away, leaving just you and Roy alone again.
And despite the other men in the room cautiously eyeing you, not a single soul seemed to exist then. The server returned with two glasses of whiskey before the bar guests called him back over.
âThat happen anytime you go somewhere?â Roy asked with the whiskey at his lips.
You twirled your glass, careful not to spill a single drop. âFor the most part,â you shrugged, though you donât appear to be at all fazed from the gentle smile you wore. There was a distant, amused gleam in your eyes where Roy could see a thousand thoughts running in your mind.
âI donât need saving, you should know,â you added a little quieter.
Roy wasnât offended. Not at the very least, but he thought it odd that you hadnât fully appreciated his incursion. Now that he considered it more, he wouldâve liked to see you handle yourself.
âWell, I respect that,â he said. You nodded in gratitude and he blinked.
âYouâre a respectable woman, Miss (l/n).â
Your body froze as whiskey hit your throat like flames. âWhat makes you say that?â
He gave a small shrug. âThere arenât many women out in the West who carry themselves withâŠstrength.â He held his hand up defensively and chuckled. âI mean no offense, I think all women are respectable. More than any man, thatâs for sure. Hell, my mother died when I was young, but I knew she was formidable.â
You knew that kind of pain. Your heart clenched, but your expression didnât change.
âI guess, you somewhat remind me of that about her.â
Youâd been complimented before, much more in regards to your looks, but there were many whoâd commended your skills with a pistol or aptitude for words. No one had gone so far as to say you were formidable.
And deep down, youâd always considered yourself so.
But it was different to finally hear it from someone else. Someone other than your mind who could see you for what you were.
You knew you were strong. And Roy Goode knew it too.
âMy mother died when I was young, as well,â you added. âDonât remember her much, and my father didnât like to talk about it.â
He studied you for a good moment. Then, knowingly, âYou ran away?â
âAs soon as I was eighteen,â you hummed. âShouldâve done it sooner. Woulda saved me a lot of trouble.â
The subject of parents was a risky place to go with someone like Roy Goode, but there wasnât a bone in your body that was afraid of it. âWhat about you,â you amused. âMama died and you come across Frank Griffin?â
His eyes snapped up to yours like a threat, but you werenât afraid of him. At all.
âEveryone knows who Frank Griffin is,â you downed the rest of your drink. A little more would go to your head soon. âIâm not stupid.â
Then, Royâs eyes softened.
âYou can read,â was all he said.
âWhat?â Did he even hear you?
Roy quickly caught himself and shook his head. âNothinâ.â
The server returned to the side of the table and refilled your glasses. Once he was out of earshot, Roy rested his elbows on the table. âI met Frank when I was younger. He and his brother saved my life.â
You arched a brow. âFrank Griffin saved your life?â
âCareful, maâam,â he finished his second glass in one gulp. âDonât go sayinâ his name too many times, or youâll summon someone worse than the devil.â
âGuess he canât be too bad if youâre with him.â
Although you expected Roy to chuckle, or at the very least smile, at your comment, he didnât. He instead thickly swallowed as if heâd suddenly gone nervous. You could see his knuckles tense.
It was maybe a miracle when the server then arrived with two steaming bowls of stew. The smell that it emanated was that of bitter salt and old potatoes, but as you dragged your spoon in it, it looked fine enough to consume. The two of you hesitantly and simultaneously took one mouthful before furrowing your brows in thought.
After a moment, you set the spoon down and shook your head.
Royâs lips curled in disgust. âI think I almost prefer the rabbits and lizards.â
You instantly broke out into a synchronous chuckle, one that almost made your smiles reach your eyes. He tried to take another bite before swearing it was poison. A few other guests at the bar sent some questionable glares your wayâyour laughter was nearly louder than the piano.
But the two of you could hardly notice anyone else when you had the other right across the table.
It was surely late enough to retire back to your rooms by the time youâd finished at the saloon, but the combination of your earlier rest and the whiskey running through your veins left you both awake.
The street lamps had been lit as the two of you strolled down the side, passing by the few townspeople whoâd decided to enjoy the pleasant evening air.
For the first time in a while, it wasnât blistering hot, even with the moon in the sky.
Your conversation from dinner hadnât ended for a single moment during your walk. âYouâre some kind of horse whisperer, then?â You asked after Roy had told you he âunderstood themâ.
âMaybe I am,â he chuckled, hands lazily in his pockets. âMaybe we share the same kind of brain. I can hear them.â
You shook your head with a grin, the whiskey still hot in veins. âYouâre something else,â you mumble. âYou got June well-trained, Iâll say that.â
But Roy tutted. âItâs not âtrainedââyour first mistake.â You nodded for him to continue. âI respect her and she respects me. Itâs a relationship.â
âShe respects you?â You asked in amused disbelief.
He hummed. âItâs a balance, like an exchange.â
Though you can still sense the humor in your voice, you momentarily ponder that what Roy said was deeply beautiful. Youâd never given it much thought, but riding a horse was much more than mounting it and yelling at it until it went.
Roy had a profound tenacity for kindness that you hadnât encountered in very many, if not any, men. In a way, it puzzled you. He was a complicated, tangled string that became a fascinating image in all of its knots. You were vexed by it just like the constellations in the sky as the two of you gazed up at the end of the road.
âI do hope Heaven is real,â you say out loud. You didnât actually mean to.
But Roy knew exactly what you meant.
âMe too,â he said softly, carefully shifting his gaze to you for only a momentâtaking in how perfectly moonlight hit your skin, shadowing and highlighting all of the right parts.
You were the type of woman someone carried a picture of with them for the mere hope theyâd see you again.
He looked down at his boots in the dirt. âDoubt Iâd make it there.â
You turned to him. âYou donât think so?â
âWell, bad men seem to do well enough down here,â Roy smiled softly to himself. âI donât think I know anyone whoâd make it up there. Good, badâŠI used to think there was a difference. Itâs just two ends of the same spectrum.â
âAnd what about me?â
Roy looked at you then, almost puzzled. Bewildered. âWhat?â
âYou said you donât know anyone whoâs good enough for heaven.â The slight tilt of your lips was more intoxicating than the whiskey. âWhat about me?â
Despite the burning in his pulse, Roy held himself back from saying what he wants: Wherever it is, I hope itâs with me.
Instead, he professed, âWell, you just might be an exception.â
And for the first time since you met Roy Goode, you let yourself feel the blood in your body rush to your heart. It moved to your cheeks, and you mentally thank God that it was too dark to see how red theyâd turned.
But there were worse matters on hand than the flush on your face. It was the horrible ache between your legs that hadnât been relieved inâŠtoo long.
âCâmon,â you mused. âWe should get back before itâs too late.â
His bashful smirk matched your own.
Royâs eyes donât pull from your figure for a single second as he follows you up the stairsâŠthe sway of your hips with each step, how you glance over your shoulder to see if heâs close behind.
And each time you look, heâs exactly where you expect him to be.
The sound of your boots comes to a halt as you stop at the door marked four, your fingers brushing over the handle. Royâs presence lingered behind you like a ghost.
âToday was a hot one,â he says quietly, as if anything too loud would have you running away. âLeft me feelinâ grimy.â
Like youâd said: You werenât stupid. âBest to wash it off, then.â
He nods back slowly with a soft smirk you havenât seen him wear yet. You wonder then what itâll be like to undress it.
You push the door open with a sudden ease from Royâs weight pressed against you. His hand graces over your hip as he closes the door witht the heel of his boot. Once his touch becomes firmerâbut still respectfulâyou speak again.
âYouâve helped me an awful lot these past few days.â You didnât expect yourself to speak so softly. His other hand sets his hat on the side of the bed. âBuying me that horse, this roomâŠâ
In the corner, the large metal basin sits empty. Waiting.
âYou treat every girl who robs you like this?â
A quiet chuckle comes from the depths of his chest. âJust this one.â
Your eyes glance at his, before drifting downwards to where your hand ghosts over his belt. A shaky, almost inaudible breath falls from his lips. âI almost feel like I owe you.â
âOh, no,â he drawls. âDarlinâ, you donât owe me nothinâ.â
He tilts your chin upwards so your eyes meet his again. You donât even notice youâve taken your bottom lip in between your teeth, and he nearly moans just at the sight of that.
âIâm a giver,â he says softly, his thumb dragging over your lip. The metal in his belt clanks as you fumble with the buckle.
He leans in even closer. âAnd I could give you something more.â
So close. Close enough that he can undo each button of your blouse, so slowly you swear heâs trying to make your skin crawl. Close enough that he can feel your lips brushing over the corner of his mouth.
Itâs not an invitation. Itâs a seal of approval.
And so with it, Roy lets his body move before his mind can stop himânot that it ever would. You mold so perfectly against his lips like he was made to kiss you and no one else. Itâs warm and wet when he drags his tongue, brushing over your teeth and finding your own.
Youâve been kissed before, but never like this. Never so sweetly yet vigorously. He pulls your top from your shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, your trousers soon after. You toe your boots off before unbuttoning his own shirt.
He pulls from the kiss to drag his lips across your jaw, grazing over your neck.
âBeen wonderinâ what was underneath all this.â.
âYou like what you see?â You giggle.
He stands back, and youâre left vulnerable and naked. The air is cold without his touch. You almost feel unsure of yourself.
Then you realize heâs looking at you with the hunger of a starved wolf.
âDarlinâ, I ainât sayinâ Iâm gonna ruin youâwould never ruin you,â his chest rises and falls with a heavy, steadying breath. âBut you just might beg me to.â
Your knees almost buckle. He moves to switch on the faucet to the tub, and you take the moment to appreciate the parts of him you can see. His belt hangs slightly open, the zipper of his jeans pulled halfway down.
You run your hand through the water once it reaches a high level in the tub.
ââS perfect,â you hum, a warm smile on your face that soon disappears when Roy lifts you from your feet.
He sets you inside the tub, leaning over the edge. Cupping the water with his hands, he runs it over every inch of your body, making sure there isnât a single dry spot apart from your face. When his fingers graze your skin, you shudder.
âArenât you gonna join me, Goode?â You ask with a tempting smile.
âLadyâs first.â He takes a soft rag by the side of the tub and lathers it with a citrus soap, rubbing it smoothly over your figure.
You sigh contently. âNo point in washinâ the sin off me now if weâll be making more later.â
Your eyes meet his. Temptation mounted his face with an alluring darkness settling over his eyes.
A pressure began to build in the space between your legs before you realized it was no phantom feeling, but instead Royâs two digits submerged under the water. Heâd dropped the towel in the water with his mind focused on something else now. His fingertips brushed over your pearl before completely pressing against it.
He acted as if there was no time to waste, setting a consistent, circular motion over your clit. Your eyelids fluttered close blissfully.
âFuck,â Your brows knitted together, a soft, restrained curse fell from your lips.
Then, he pulled his hand away.
Your eyes shot open again to meet his. He warned, âDonât hold back from me now, baby.â
You nod as he pressed a little harder against you. You swear his hand is made of ironâhot, smooth metal that knows just how to perfectly work the most beautiful sounds from you.
As you writhe in the water, eyes squeezed shut with your mouth gaped open, Royâs eyes remain on you.
âSomeoneâs gonna hear you, honey,â he presses his forehead against your temple. âThey donât deserve to.â
You instinctively lean against him, grinding your hips into his hand. The pads of his fingers drift down to your puckering hole, but no more than that.
âPlease, Roy,â your hand reaches out of the water to curve around the back of his head, pushing his mouth closer to yours.
He chuckles. âI told you, youâd be begging for me.â
Then, like he was trying to make you cry, he pulled away and rose to his feet so he towered over you. His bottom lip, swollen from your kisses, hung heavy and glistened with your drool as Royâs hands pulled his belt from the loops. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter, his jeans following soon after.
You stood from the tub and reached for him, your hands drifting down to the last thing covering him from you. And once he was fully bare, the two of you stood still for a moment.
Shamelessly, you drifted your gaze down his body, taking in what it was like to see Roy Goode in all of his glory.
Glorious was the right way to put it, for sure.
He smiled as he watched you scan him before taking your lip in between your teeth again.
âCâmâhere,â he says softly, taking your hand in his.
You stepped out of the tub, dripping water on the wood floor. Itâd surely leak through to the ceiling above the poor woman downstairs.
Before you could say anything, Royâs mouth landed on yours again, his fingers running through the dry roots of your hair.
âCanât get enough of you.â His words came out muffled and broken through the kiss.
âItâs yours,â you say, placing your hands on his chest and breaking the kiss. A small, gentle push has him settling on the floor, and youâre quick to take your seat on top of him.
His eyes softly close when your folds envelope his cock with an insatiable warmth.
âIâm yours. From the moment you showed me,â you relax and feel his solid shaft right under that swollen pearl. âKindness when I did you wrong.â Your fingers lace with his. âIâm all yours, Roy. So take it.â
His right hand lifts your hips the slightest bit, allowing him space to take his cock in his left hand. He strokes it gently with a tight fist. The tip of it bumps against your hole, and you can feel it leaking against you.
âYou ainât real,â he whispers, eyes focused on where you two touch. And in a moment, you become connected. âAre you?â
One swift move of his hips pushes his full length past your folds. Your jaw drops open, but itâs the overwhelming feeling of him splitting you open that leaves you surprisingly quiet.
Roy doesnât seem happy at that. He juts his hips upwards at a different angle so a sweet yelp cuts through the air. âFuck, thatâs good,.â He pulls you so close that your flesh nearly melts around the bone. Youâre putty in his hands. âPretty cuntâs grippinâ me like a vice.â
Everytime Royâs hips draw from you, only to vigorously push themselves into you again, you swear you see God.
The skin on your knees splits against the splinters of the floorboards. A pleasurable pain. You steady yourself with your hands on his chest.
ââS my turn, now,â your words slur together, eyelids heavy from how sweetly the tip of him kisses your cervix. âGotta give you something too.â
He doesnât object. His hands settle like a loose weight over your hips as you start to move yourself. Your hips grind against him, letting his cock rub against every inch inside of you. The motion is too familiar. For a second, you swear youâre riding off into the sunset with heaven in your pocket.
Your eyelids flutter close when you begin to bounce. And though you canât see it, Roy can. His chest under your hands lets out heavy breaths as he gazes at how you swallow his entire length like itâs nothing.
But he knows itâs not. âThatâs it, sweetheart,â he feels his body go loose. He lets himself give in to you. âRide it.â
Gravity pushes you down just for you to lift yourself back up again. Your tits bounce in the most mesmerizing way, and Royâs hand reaches up to grab the flesh of them. His thumb rolls over your nipple.
âYouâre beautiful,â he grunts out, bending his legs so you can rest your back against them. But your movements donât stop.
And neither does the way Roy looks at you like youâre the only thing worth living for.
When you catch his eyes on you, you clench around his girth, pulling another sharp moan from him. Suddenly, his hips begin to meet yours in a pleasurable rhythm; the sounds of skin slapping, heavy breaths, and your delicate yet guttural moans make the most beautiful music.
âDonât stop, sweetheart,â Roy pleads.
Your mouth curls, âWhoâs begging now?â
He chuckles. A soft tension around his cock grows into a desperate need to finish off how good you feel around him.
âYou got it, baby.â His drawl leaves your hips stuttering, and he can tell from how youâve tightened around him, youâre feeling just the same as him. âMake yourself feel good on it, just like that. Wanna see you turn to pieces all over me.â
Suddenly, your head is too heavy to hold upright. It lulls back onto your shoulders, all of your energy going towards the way you ride him.
âYou feel it? Gonna make a mess for me?â
You nod, rapidly and loosely.
âWeâll just have to clean you up all over again.â He mutters to himself, and you can hear the smirk on his face. It stays there even as his brows furrow together, a mixture of bliss and pressure.
You feel the pad of his thumb press against your clit again. You instantly break at the contact. He feels your orgasm wash over him, a lush shower of warmth that brings his own release.
It mixes together inside of you like the sunrise bleeding into the remainder of the night outside your window. Itâd be illogical to sleep now, but you canât find it within yourself to keep your eyes open as your cheek rests against Royâs chest.
His hand lazily rubs over your spine. âSâpose Les Moore will have to wait to die another day,â he whispers.
You chuckle, âDonât waste your bullets on that man. Iâll do it myself.â
Roy cocks his head. A few days ago, you wouldâve protested at any mention of doing his bidding. And here you were, now, ready to make yourself a wanted woman.
There were many women heâd slept with. Many women whoâd opened their doors, shared their beds, held him in their arms. Many women whoâd sing him to sleep thinking itâd make him maybe even love them.
And sure, heâd been with whores. Heâd paid good money to see fine women dance like there was no God above. Maybe even paid them off enough so they wouldnât have to suffer under any more men with a heavy fist.
Many women whoâd liked the color of his eyes. Whoâd gasped and shuddered at the sound of his name. Whoâd fawned over the sight of him.
But never a woman like you.
He tells himself to remember that forever as he carries you to the bed.
Youâll wash in the morning he thinks when he pulls the covers to your chin. And when Roy moves to draw his own bath, he hears your tired voice from behind.
âDonât go,â you call out to him.
He hums. âIâm only right here, darlinâ.â
Your eyes are closed shut, lost in a dimension between sleep and wake. âHere,â you say softly, motioning to the spot in the bed next to you.
He ignores the sheer layer of sweat clinging to his skin. He ignores that thereâs still dirt in his hair from earlier in the day. He ignores the grimy feeling underneath his nails and the ache in his feet. Roy carries himself to the side of the bed.
The sheets are cool against his skin as he takes the spot beside you. Then, he feels the warmth of your arm draped over his chest. He stills.
âYou never held a woman, Roy Goode?â you tease with a tired smile.
âSure, I have,â he says. âFirst time itâs felt right, though.â
You move your head so he can tuck his arm underneath it. He feels your soft, mindless clouds of breath against his skin.
After the Summer
ââË.After the summer Draco looked better than ever, and every girl in Hogwarts thought so too. The thing is he only ever wanted you.
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Tags and Warnings: Chicago 1930s Au, Mafia Au, Remmick is in an Irish mafia, Remmick is still a vampire, Reader is 22 years old, everyone is up North from the South, Age gaps, slow burn, eventual smut, dub-con, (maybeânon-con), lengthy fanfic
Summary: At the twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the Southside eyes linger a little too long on you.
A/N: â ïž Hi, everyone!! Before diving deeper to read this story, I ask that you throughly read the tags and know what youâre about to read. This contains dub-con and maybe non-con. Please be aware of those factors if youâre uncomfortable with that. If not please proceed and enjoy! â ïž
I put this extra warning because someone on ao3 felt it had non-con in it in later chapters, i apologize profusely for that because it wasnât what I thought I was writing and I donât want anyone else to have to same experience as that person, so please tread carefully and be warned!!
âWell, little lady, you ready to show off that voice of yours?â A raspy, dried out voice croaks.
In the mirrorâs reflection your eyes catch a glimpse of an old tall man peeking his head through the crack of the dressing room door. Still applying makeup, you give him a silent nod, heart racing wildly.
Profusely you begged your older twin cousins from down south to let you sing at their new night club in Chicago. Persistently without an ounce of sympathy they denied you, specifically the more firm, mean oneâSmoke.
The only reason youâre set to put on a show tonight is because little ole Sammy from down south came all the way up north to escape the hot fields of crop sharing and is putting on a show himself. Heâll perform right after you, singing the blues whilst playing his fancy little guitar.
You two are the same ageâtwenty-two and you made sure to bring it up to make your case against Smoke. Stack took your side and convinced his brother and thatâs how you ended up in their clubâs dressroom.
âOkay, well make the dolling up quick, Smoke says you're on in five minutes, little lady.â His southern accent drips from his words, old and raw. He too came up north to support the twins' new night club.
âIâll be out soon, Slim.â
With that said, Slim leaves and the door clicks shut softly. You continue finishing your last step of putting on the makeupâlipstick. Careful and docile, you apply a dark cherry red lipstick before twirling in the mirror. The pale purple flapper dress dances in the air, shining from the light's reflection. You always wanted to wear this type of dress, but never had the money to afford one. Stack has taste since heâs the one who brought you the dress for tonight.
You join Slim on the main stage excited but nervous. From his piano he looks up and smiles. âMy, my, little lady, you are breathtaking tonight.â
You blow the old man a kiss. âWhy thank you!â You giggle, eyes bright.
People pool into the establishment, wearing all sorts of expensive attire for tonightâs event. The sight of so many people nearly makes you want to dash off stage to the dressing room and stay there the entire night. But you refuse to back out. Not after all that convincing you did. Nope, no going back now.
Sammy strolls on the stage, guitar in hand as usual. âGood luck out there.â He smiles ear to ear.
âSame to you!â You chirp, as Slim begins to play the piano and other musicians on stage join him.
Soon the night club is buzzing with folks from all around Chicagoâs southside. Brown faces of all shades fill the room leaving no space for any lighter tones. Though the city wasnât legally segregated, itâs still separated by redlining. The closest youâve been to white people are the ones also residing in the southside as well but in different neighborhoodsâIrish white folk.
Lately thereâs been rumors of tensions growing between the Black and Irish gangs for territories and things you really didnât know about. Itâs also rumored tonight an irish gang will join tonight's grand opening, settling tensions or come to some sort of compromise.
Whatever, it doesnât concern you so you donât mind it. On the main level where the dance floor is Smoke and Stack stand side by side welcoming their guests. Stack displays a bubbly face and his brother, an intimidating frown, stoic as always.
Stack takes a drag of a thick cigar. âWelcome, good folk of chicago! How yâall doing tonight?â His voice booms, southern drawl rich.
The crowd hoots and whistles among multiple claps.
âTonight our little cousin, raised and born here in the sweet ole windy city will be our opening performance.â Smoke chucks a thumb over his shoulder to the stage facing his backside and takes his turn with the cigar.
The crowd cheers louder this time as the showlights shine brightly on your frame at the center of the stage. It nearly blinds you, but you remain stiff, not daring to move an inch.
âShe got the voice of an angel yâall, but letâs get this shit started!â Stack hypes the people up once more before blending into the sea of tables with his older brother trailing behind.
The lights everywhere else in the large club fade to a dimmer glow, and only the bright light on the stage shines. You feel like you could throw up at any given second with so many eyes glued on you. At the side of the stage Delta Slim begins playing the piano and other musicians on stage follow suit.
Deep among the multiple faces of strangers, Sammy gives you a reassuring smile and mouths, âyou got this!â He flicks up a thumb.
You gulp, giving moisture to your gritty, dry throat and start singing. Slowly your body loosens up, that stiffness melting off. As the song goes on your body moves with the flow dancing around the stage and the crowd springs to life. People cheer for you and others groove to the rhythm themselves.
As youâre distracted, absorbed in the world of music, you miss the glowing red eyes far off at a table with Smoke and Stack. The eyes latch onto your body, watching your every move on stage.
Curiosity turns to interest.
Interest to fascination.
Fascination to lust and desire.
âHey, Irish man, eyes on me,â Smoke demands, eyes grave as his palm rests on the gun buried in his hip holster. âNot on my baby cousin on stage.â
Stack joins in, a cocky smirk pulls at his full lips. âI know, she a diamond ainât she? But you ainât come here for that. So, you best keep those wanderinâ eyes on us.â
The Irish man grins himself, eyes slick. âCanât help admiring pretty things,â he drifts off, eyes daring to sneak a peek at you once more. âAnd Iâm the type of man that loves pretty things.â
His words tick the twins off. Between the both of them it enrages Smoke the most. It takes every ounce in his body to stop the itch in his hand not to aim the gun at the cheeky Irish man.
âYou better watch that filthy fuckinâ mouth of yours, motherfucker,â Smoke growls.
The Irish manâs goons around him grow tense at his offensive words. Ready to start a bloodbath, hands ghosting over their guns too but their bossâ voices freezes them.
âBe calm, this ainât nothing.â And as if itâs a command their muscles relax. âRight, me and my men are gathered here for business. So letâs talk business, fellars.â
On stage you huff, panting, light sweat pooling at your temples. The crowd goes wild, clapping and cheering your name.
âYou did amazing,â Slim says and takes a swig from a flask.
You shoot him a smile too tired to use your voice. When the cheers die down you gain the clubâs attention. âCousin Smoke and Stack, cheers to a wonderful night tonight!â Your hands point to them and then at Sammy. âAnd everyone give it up for little ole Sammy from the deep south!â
Like before, cheers shake the club as you leave the stage. Behind stage Sammy squeezes you in a tight hug. He applauds your performance before rushing to the stage to sing his blues. Before he completely disappears to the stage he halts, head peering over his shoulder.
âOh also, Smoke said to stay in the back rooms cause you ainât allowed up front.â He sharply inhales, eyes glinting with guilt. âSorry about that!â
You blink. His words take a minute to sink and soak in your brain and before they register heâs already bolted on stage. The booming sounds from the crowds tell it all as it practically shakes the walls. You want to ask him why, but seeing itâs too late you just listen.
Salty and disappointed, you walk through the short dimly lit hall. Fingers trailing along the blood red walls as you pass by. The backroom is empty of people. Fancy expensive couch chairs surrounding a polished wooden table with a candle on top centers the room.
Mirroring the halls outside, the walls inside here are red with painted portraits of long black figures dancing and playing the blues. Left to the wooden table is a brick built in fireplace and to the right is a small bar with pricey booze bottles.
Illegal booze.
Plopping down on a tall stool, back slouched, you snatch a liquor bottle.
How ironic, blues music whispers in the backroom as youâre feeling quite blue.
After tonight youâll make sure to give Smoke and even Stack a piece of your furious mind. This sudden unpromised treatment is petty and unfair. After your performance you expected to be out on the dance floor dancing and mingling. Not locked away back here for no one to see.
You slide a nearby shot glass to you and pop the bottle open. The top goes clacking on the cocktail table. Filling the small glass to the brim, you take a swig of the bitter poison. It burns, slipping down your throat. You repeat the process once more.
You sigh and bury your face in your palms, both elbows propped on the table. âFuck you SmokeâŠand fuck you Stack.â
Your vision blurs as you sniffle.
As if they planned it, the twins burst through the door and you jolt upright on the tool. Behind them a pale white man follows after. His eyes are quick to find you and a sly smirk carves on his face. The twins however fail to notice you until they're on the cushion red couches. Smoke's face is quick, flashing anger and irritation while Stack is dumbfounded.
Stack stands. âWhat the fuck are you doinâ back here?â
Your eyes widen, appalled at his words. âWhy am I back here,â you pause. A glare pulls your brows together. âYou two jerks sent me back here, thatâs what Iâm doing back here!â
Your little feisty attitude makes the Irish man lean forward. Elbows resting on his legs, callused hands entwined as his face ghosts above them. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. His mind races, ideas of how heâd have fun breaking you in. He never did like the obedient type of women.
Smoke remains seated, legs crossed. âWatch your damn mouth in front of company, girl.â
The word girl makes you flinch as the three men watch you. Smoke rarely speaks to you in such a tone let alone call you girl. It makes you wonder who spit in his drink tonight.
âDonât mind him, heâs just a bit moody,â Stack says lightly, but you still donât buy it.
You shift on the stool, feeling a bit shaky at your older cousinâs brutal demeanor. âWhatever,â you mumble, but no one but your ears hear it.
âBut really, whyâre you back here, Sammy didnât tell you to come here.â
Confusion flickers upon your features. âWith all due respect, yes he did.â
A long exhale falls from Smokeâs mouth. âDamn boy, canât even listen right.â
The Irish man sitting between both twins is silent and patient as he watches the scene unravel. His eyes sparkle with greed and mischief as his eyes linger longer over at the bar.
âWell, gone on home. Find Sammy and Slim so they can take you.â
âWait.â
All of your eyes fall on the Irish man. You stand on your feet, hand idly resting on the bar table.
He tilts his head towards the bar and you swear you can see steam seething from Smoke.
âDonât,â Smoke grits out. His eyes glint doused in bloodlust as he leans forward on the couch.
The Irish man keeps going, regardless of Smokeâs threatening tone.
âIs that my open booze over there by the pretty little thing?â His eyes remain on the twins.
Smoke and Stack heads whip to the bar. The younger twin eyes grow wide and his brotherâs face twists in rage. Smoke curses under his breath, lost for words.
âRemmick, you leave her out of this. She had no idea it was yours,â Stack says, brows furrowed.
You stand frozen, mind dizzy, stomach sinking. Did you do something wrong? Yes, and you know it, but you just donât know what exactly it is. You do figure itâs got something to do with the open booze bottle on the cocktail table.
It might be the wrong decision to say something right now, but you speak anyway.
âOkay, Smoke. Stack. Iâm gonna head home now.â
âDonât move.â
Remmickâs voice freezes your body in place.
âI think you owe me, darlin.â He smirks, eyes growing wide.
âHow much money for the bottle?â Smoke jumps from the couch.
âIâm not talking to you,â Remmick says, voice stale and dry. His deep brown irises burn holes through you. âWhat was it again?â His fingers caress his chin, licking at his sharp canines that resemble more that of fangs than regular human teeth.
Finally, he says your name as if heâs won the lottery, snapping his fingers. He turns to you and sighs, still smiling like a maniac.
âHow are you gonna pay me back for drinking my booze, pretty little thing?â
name: angstasf
age: 22
pronouns: she/her
race: black · white · mexican
occupation: sonography student Ă movie theater server
mbti: enfp/infp
astro: scorpio sun · leo moon · scorpio rising
likes: sleeping, camo, bedrotting, movies, music, UFC, coming-of-age horror
dislikes: men irl, fascists, action movies, silverware napkin textures, and more
to note: ex-Christian (raised in the church), now agnostic
avoidant attachment final boss⹠· Black Panther Party enthusiast
â.Ëđ. music favs:
cigarettes after sex · 60s doowop · 80s/90s yearner hits
clairo · tyler the creator · jazz · adrianne lenker
radiohead · solange · kendrick lamar · anything sad & nostalgic
âïœĄËâ· àŒ media favorites:
the perks of being a wallflower · eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
interstellar · waves · blink twice · sinners · soul · the labyrinth
slushy noobz · peyton king · sad tiktok edits
.âᄫᥠcurrent lovers:
remmick (sinners) · steve harrington (stranger things) · sir jimmy crystal (28 years later)
jack oâconnell (in general tbh) · richie (the bear) · carmy (the bear)
igor (anora) · heavy on aged-up draco malfoy (harry potter)
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After getting lost on a scavenging outing and ending up alone, you find yourself taken in by a group of tracksuited hunters and their eccentric leader...
author's note: hope yous like this one it's different from what i usually write and very very dirty
warnings: dead dove do not eat, psychological manipulation, light horror elements, dubcon, breeding kink, fingering, masturbation, f/m sex
You knock an arrow in your bow, back against the trunk of a tree. You can feel the crags and knots of the wood even through your thick jumper and your sturdy jacket.Â
You shouldnât be here. Not alone.Â
You and your cousin Thomas went foraging for baby supplies three days ago. Heâs not really your cousin, just the son of a woman who was once a dear friend of your mother. She took you in after your mother passed, and Tomâs been like a brother to you ever since. His girlfriend Liv is pregnant and he wanted to surprise her.Â
But you kept being pushed out further and further from the causeway, from safety and home.
You know the rules.Â
Poor Tom, you think, looking wistfully at the trees where you put an arrow through his eye.Â
âNock an arrow, duck.âÂ
âNo, no, Tom, please-â
âNock an arrow, now.â
âTommy, I canât-â
âYou shoot me right fuckinâ now!â
And so you did.Â
It hurt for a moment, but then you had to run. So you took his quiver and his knife and ran.Â
You found a moment of peace, able to transfer his arrows to your own quiver and secure his knife to your belt.Â
He had carved a little smiley into it, and it made you sniffle. But then you heard a twig crack in the distance.
So here you are, scanning the treeline as you prepare to send an arrow at whatever comes running.Â
You take a sharp breath. Your lungs burn from running and your body is hot, though the air of October is cold.Â
You see one body and aim, then see another. Two more. Three more.
Run.
You bolt in the opposite direction, bow over your shoulder as you weave through trees. You come around a rocky corner and find yourself blocked by a rock-covered knoll you would have to climb.
âOoh, look what I found, Jimmy,â a voice calls. You see a blonde girl in a tracksuit on the ridge.
âPlease, help me up!â
Another blonde girl in another tracksuit kneels down and grabs your hand to yank you up as your legs try to aid her, pushing with your boots. You look back.
You run together until you find an old barn. The three of you scramble up to the loft and wait ford the infected to shamble by. You take a shaking breath and look at them.
âThank you,â you whisper. âI really thought that was it.â
âYou all alone?â
âNow I am,â you admit.
The two look at each other.
You give them your name, puffed out in a quick breath.
âJimmy Ink,â the one in red tells you.
âJimmy Jones,â says the orange one.Â
âYouâre⊠both called Jimmy?â
âWeâre all Jimmy, babe,â Jimmy Ink says, eyeing you.
âY-youâre from a village?â
âNot far from here,â Jimmy Jones supplies with a smirk.Â
âPlease, c-can I come with you? I brought some food, I can trade-â
âAh, you gotta see the boss about all that.â
âThe boss?â
They just grin at you, and donât elaborate.
You donât have much to trade anyhow. Youâd picked up a crinkly baby toy and a milk bottle with the tip. An absolute score for your cousinâs girlfriend, whoâs five months pregnant.Â
The three of you try to fall asleep together. The two of them are snuggled up, but not like theyâre in love. More like the way you wouldâve slept next to your cousin. For warmth and comfort.Â
In the night you hear them talking.
âFuckinâ killer find, Inky. Heâs gonna go mad.â
You wake up in the morning to a gentle hand on your shoulder.
âLetâs go,â Ink says.Â
You nod, gathering your things and following them. You meet another tracksuited individual, this one clad in black and white.
âHeâs called Jimmy Snake.â
You wave nervously. You continue on the road, collecting more Jimmys until youâve got a veritable clan of them. Blonde hair, matching brightly coloured tracksuits, funny names. You wonder if maybe youâre having a nightmare, and you never really left Lindisfarne in the first place. Maybe youâll wake up in bed, cozy and safe. And youâll make breakfast for Liv and talk about what âbabyâ wants to eat.Â
âAh, sheâs a bit rough, but sheâll do,â Jimmy Fox mutters to Jimmy Shite.Â
âStrong though,â he responds.
âYeah, but he donât like âem strong,â Jimmima adds.
You follow them over a hill and to a derelict abbey. Your ma was religious before the virus, but not much after. Your aunty told you she was a kinder woman. The world around her made her rougher. You think about your aunty and Liv back on the island all alone. Without Tom, without you.Â
One of them whistles from behind you, and Jimmima takes your hand, tugging you forward as you enter the cold and empty courtyard, a fountain full of murky water at the center.Â
âOi, you didnât find her,â Jimmy Jones hisses, wrenching your hand away. She and Jimmy Ink lead you forward.Â
A figure appears. Blond, tracksuit clad. Fingers littered with rings, cross chain around his neck, and a tiara perched in his white-gold hair. Â
The Jimmys crowd around you, like theyâre presenting you to him.Â
âOh, my,â he murmurs, approaching you.
He smiles, showing that heâs missing a tooth.
âNow where did these mad cunts find you?â
âI-I was running, um-â
âMe ân Inky helped her out,â Jimmy Jones chirps.Â
âOi. Donât interrupt our guest,â he chides gently. âYe come with me, love.â
Itâs a command, not a request or an invitation. He says it sweetly, though.Â
He takes your shaky hands in his, leading you to the church. The Jimmys donât dare follow.Â
He takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
âIâm Sir Jimmy Crystal.â
You give him your name as you sit in a pew. He repeats it. He says it like heâs always known it, like itâs a realisation. Or a prayer.Â
He gestures for you to continue your explanation.
âI⊠I was out scavenging⊠we were looking forâŠâ
You choke on the words. You went out to look for any baby supplies. Liv is still pregnant. Still alone. Still waiting.Â
âWe?âÂ
âMy cousin, he⊠I had to-â
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
âAwful shame, that.âÂ
He leans in.
âLookinâ for what?â he murmurs, brushing hair from your face.
âB-baby supplies,â you manage to say, tears pricking at your eyes. âHis girlfriend, sheâs pregnant.â
You donât notice Jimmyâs eyes lighting up at that word.Â
âWhat a gift that is, to be with child.âÂ
âOh, God,â you cry, all your feelings hitting you at once.
Jimmy cradles you in his arms, and you cry into the soft, worn fabric of his tracksuit. You feel the cool metal of the cross touch your temple and feel shameful suddenly, pulling back. You shouldnât let a stranger hold you like that.Â
âIâm sorry, I-Iâm so sorry, y-you donât even know me-â
He says your name again, taking your hand.Â
âSo, yer only owed comfort if I know ya?â
You sniffle. He wants an answer.
âWell, n-no-â
âRight. You stay here with me and my lads, eh? Get ye right. Patch up that cut.â
âCut?â
You reach up and touch your hairline, feeling a sticky lukewarm substance you realise is your own blood. You spy a bloodstain on the white vest under his tracksuit where your forehead touched.
âIâm so-â
âYe apologise again and I wonât let ya stay,â he jokes.Â
âThank you, Sir-â
âJust Jimmyâs alright, lassie.â
âThank you, Jimmy.â
He grins at you.
âCanât leave a thing like you out there in the cold ân wet.â
His knuckle brushes the side of your face.
âYer too pretty for all that.âÂ
Jimmy leads you to a room, watching as you take every step. You peek into the Jimmysâ rooms, seeing that each of them sticks to their colour coordination very strictly.Â
You look around corners and glance behind yourself every so often. He knows the lads can judge correctly.Â
Not predators, scavengers.Â
Thatâs what you are. Cautious, calculated. Precise.Â
âNo infected here, love,â he says, almost teasing you.
You let out a small laugh and pause before you apologise again.
âIâŠâ
He raises his brows and you press your lips together.
âIâm used to being alert if Iâm not home.âÂ
âIâm sure ya are,â he hums, eyeing you as you walk forward.Â
You both turn into a simple room.
âThisâll do for now,â he says.Â
For now. You donât seem to catch it.Â
âItâs all mine?â you ask softly.
âUnless ye want company,â he flirts.Â
âIâve never had my own room.â
You always shared. First with Tom as kids, then with your aunty after Liv moved in.Â
The admission makes Jimmyâs head tilt. He has to hide a smirk. An animal thatâs used to the storm goes mad when itâs calm.
âWell, Iâll leave you to it.â
âTo⊠what?â
Jimmy looks at you funny. The lads are always begging him for a break.Â
âDonât you wannae⊠rest?â
âOh, I feel rested. Iâd like to help, if I can.â
He leans in the doorway, crossing his arms.Â
âWhat can you do?â
âI can sew and I can cook. Very well, actually.â
âWe need sewinâ. Ye would think those lads run through barbed wire half the time.âÂ
âAre they⊠what are you?â you ask cautiously. âTo each other, I mean?â
âTheyâre my flock. This is my parish, Iâm their shepherd.â
âAnd youâre all Jimmy?â
âRight.â
âWhy?â
âWhy not.âÂ
You blink at him.
âCan ye read?â
You nod.
âWe have a school in my village.â
âSchool,â he repeats. âWhat do ya learn at school?â
âTo read and write. We learn maths and we learn how to kill infected.â
That catches him off guard. Maybe you are a hunter.Â
âHave ye read the Bible?â
âIâve never read it, but I know the stories,â you offer.
He hums and pushes himself off of the doorframe.Â
âRight then. Follow me.â
You canât shake the feeling of emptiness here. Thereâs no old people, no babies, no dogs or sheep. Itâs like time is standing still, with just these strange track-clad people moving about in their trainers.Â
Youâre left to sew quietly, meticulously patching their suits. They were very particular about the scrap fabric matching the original colour as best you could. You see a few shirts stained with blood and you ask a passing Jimmyâ the lad unfortunately called Jimmy Shiteâ and he and Jimmy Fox bring you a washbasin you can clean in.
Jimmy Crystal watches you from a distance. Youâre so domestic. Women in this world donât have the luxury, but here you are. Sewing, patching, doting over his flock.Â
The word Madonna runs through his mind, only interrupted by you pricking your finger with the needle.
You wince and suck your finger in your mouth. He could almost groan at the sight.Â
âWhat happened?â he coos, waltzing over like he wasnât just watching.Â
âI-I just pricked myself. Itâs nothing.âÂ
âLet me see,â he says with the firmness of a father, extending his hand. He sees a tiny drop of blood on your index finger and clicks his tongue.Â
He presses his thumb to it with a slight pressure that makes you squeeze your eyes shut.
âOwâŠâ
âNot used to pain?â
âIâm not used to any of this,â you admit to him.
âAny of what?â
âThis.â
You gesture around you.
âI live on an island, we donât go anywhere.â
âAh, but ya did.âÂ
âI shouldnât have. Iâm not⊠I can shoot, yeah, but Iâm no hunter. Iâm a nurse, mostly. Or a midwife, whatever youâd call it. I help the pregnant ladies, the mothers with babies and wee ones. Itâs been a long time but we have a few babies now. More than we have supplies for. I just⊠didnât want Liv to be left out. Sheâll be such a good mummy, I just know it.â
Youâre sweet. He almost canât believe it.
âAnd youâll be an aunty?â
You smile at the thought, looking at your handiwork.
âIf sheâll have me.â
âAh, sheâd be mad not to.â
That makes your cheeks heat. He takes away his hand. Blood has smudged on the pad of your finger, but stopped beading.Â
âVoila. All better.â
âThank⊠you,â you say softly, trailing off as you watch him lick his thumb clean.Â
âYou feel like cooking for us?â
You nod, still a little dazed.Â
âLovely.â
After dinner, which was met with glowing praise in the form of mouth-full compliments from Jimmy and his Jimmys, you retire.Â
Jimmy walks you to your room and you thank him again before settling in to sleep.Â
Youâre cozy. Youâre warm.Â
Youâre not freezing or soaked to the bone or terrified like last night.Â
But you canât sleep. You canât sleep because nobody you love is in this church.Â
Nobody you know, nobody who cares for you.
Jimmy lays back and sighs, his hand undoing the ties of his tracksuit.Â
Youâre perfect. Heâll have to find some way to reward the lads for finding you.Â
Youâre kind, youâre gentle. You can cook and sew. You help mothers with babies.
Heâll make you the Mother of the flock. The lads are itching to worship you, and so is he.
He spits in his hand, jerking himself as he imagines you doing it. He imagines your soft hand on his cock as he pushes two fingers into your soaking cunt. He imagines leaving marks on you, showing the lads and the universe that youâre his.
He brushes his thumb over the tip and hisses, palm to his face.
âFuck, yes, câmon,â he growls.Â
He can imagine you on top of him, knelt at the altar as he baptises you in sweat and tears.Â
He can almost hear your cries, feel your hands pressed to his chest as you take what you need from him. When you cum for a second time heâll finally turn you over and drive his cock into you.
âFuck, fuck,â he mutters, shivering.Â
Heâll fill you with his seed again and again, heâll tell you how beautiful you are and what a good girl you are. And youâll thank him for it, because youâre just that sweet.
You are salvation, rebirth. Â
You are the mother they need.Â
You have a fitful sleep. You thrash under your blankets and kick them off. You dream of blood and drowning on the causeway and bodies running at you.
You wake in a cold sweat. Youâve been crying too, you find as you sit up and sniffle.
A knock at the door startles you.
âItâs me,â Jimmy says.
You donât have your trousers on, and you had taken off your jumper before bed.Â
âErm⊠hold on,â you call.Â
You pull on your clothes again and open the door, sock clad feet on the stone floor.
âSleep well?â
âNot at all,â you answer honestly, shaking your head.Â
Your candor surprises him.
âWhyâs that?â
âIt was too quiet. And⊠I had a nightmare. Or three, I suppose.â
âIâm sorry,â he coos at you. âYouâre welcome to keep sleepinâ.âÂ
You shake your head.
âI canât.â
You sniffle.
âIf I was home, I could just go help with the babies. Theyâre always awake, crying and wanting to be held.âÂ
âWould you ever want one?â
You nod.
âI just havenât been lucky finding someone. The men on the island⊠theyâre strong men, good men. They keep us safe. But theyâre brutish.âÂ
You look at your hands.
âFathers should protect, but⊠they should be gentle, too.â
âAye. They should,â he lies.
He eyes you.
âCare to go for a walk?âÂ
You follow Jimmy over the grassy hills behind the abbey. You stop to look out at the world that seems to go on forever. He looks back at you and sees your eyes wide and full of wonder.Â
âItâs so big,â you whisper. âI canât even see the water.âÂ
âIâm sorry we canât take you home,â he starts.
âNo, I⊠I couldnât put you lot in danger like that. Any of you.â
You sniffle.
âItâs my fault. Iâm stuck out here.â
You catch his eye.
âI donât mean to sound ungratefulâÂ
You wipe at a rogue tear and shake your head.
âIâm just homesick.â
âMaybe we can find somethinâ,â he tells you softly, putting a hand on your shoulder. He reaches up to touch your face, swipes the hair away from your cheek and brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. You shift in place, but you let him.
You let him, he thinks.Â
âHm? Tell us whatâd make this feel like home,â he murmurs, smiling at you.
He has to subdue the roll of his eyes as he talks so sweetly.
You sniffle.
âItâd be stupid to say babies,â you laugh weakly. âThereâs so many children on the island.âÂ
âOh, no. We want that. We want a community, a real village with families.âÂ
âThatâs not such an easy thing to get.âÂ
You think for a moment, trying to visualise your room. You have a toy rabbit made of some previously scratchy half-plastic fabric that has softened over the years.
You donât want to sound like a child, though.
âA fresh jumper?âÂ
âFresh jumper,â he repeats, his eyes on your lips. âWhat else?â
âI-I donât need-â
âIâm not askinâ about need.â
He cups your cheek in his hand.
âWant isnât a sin, love. Itâs human to want. Itâs natural.â
In the next few weeks, you fit well into this little group. You are not a Jimmy. He makes that clear.
You do not get a tracksuit or a name or a special weapon. You donât go out when the lads go scavenging or hunting or whatever it is they do out there. They always return dirty.
He doesnât want you leaving at all. Not without him. He takes you around the hills by the abbey, into every room. Youâre even allowed into his room.
He brings you that jumper, and so much more. Little toys and trinkets, jewelry, books, even a nice dress. He tells you how much he wants to see you wear it, and you set out to repair it and make it nice.Â
He is very hands-on. Heâs always got a hand on your shoulder, guiding you with his hand on the small of your back. He likes kissing your hands, like he did when you first met. Heâll sit by you and listen to you read or watch you sew.
You sit by him, reading an article from an old magazine the Jimmys managed to find mostly in-tact.
âI wonder what Iâd look like with that stuff on,â you say, pointing to the model with the strange paint on her face.
âYou donât need it.â
âI still wonder.â
After dinner one night, after everyone says their prayers and goes to bed, Jimmy catches your wrist.
âIs yer dress finished?â
You nod, smiling at him.
âI think I did a good job.â
âIâm sure ya did.â
You hesitate and feel your heart beating.
âDo you⊠would you want to see it?â
He tilts his head, grinning at you.
âWell, of course I would.â
You take him back to your room and show him the dress, holding it up. You point out the imperfections, and alterations you made and the patch you put in at the back.
âWould ye wear it for me?â
You blink at him.
âErm⊠now?â
âWhy not now?â
You shed your jumper and avoid his eyes as you undo your pants. You hesitate pulling them down and turn around to take off your shirt, left only in your bra.
âYou donât have to hide from me, love,â you hear him say.Â
It only feels wrong for a second. Then your skin feels hot. You shove down your pants and step out of them, stepping into the dress. Jimmy watches you do up the buttons at the back and struggle with the one at the top of your back. Heâs behind you instantly, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck as he buttons it.Â
âLook at ye,â he murmurs, taking your hand, lifting your arm and spinning you around.
âIt looks nice.â
âYe look nice.â
Your face heats and you smile nervously.
âThank you,â you answer his compliment quietly.
âYer fittinâ right in. Most other people we meet donât mesh with the lads so well.â
âTheyâre not as bad as they look. They needâŠâ
You trail off, seeing his gaze. He looks so wanting.
âThey need what?â he asks, tracing your face with his knuckles.
âA mother, I think. Theyâre like little children. They⊠do their chores and they scuffle and they shout and cry like children. They listen to father,â you explain, gesturing to him.
âThey listen to ya, too.â
âOh, theyâre just being nice.â
âThey are not nice. Theyâre dirty fuckers, they fight like hell and love every second of it. They want you to be their mother.â
You blink at him, lost again.
âIâm not-â
âYe could be,â he offers, meeting your eyes.Â
He holds your face.Â
âYâlike it here, eh?â
âI doâŠâ
âDonât you wannae stay?â
âWell⊠o-of course I do. I thought-â
âYer such a good help, love. But a man has urges.â
You pause. You can do everything else. Cooking, sewing, playing nursemaid. Playing wife would be different.
Your eyes flick down quickly and see a sizable bulge in his pants.Â
You try to move away from him, but your face is in his hands.
âYou wannae stay or not?â
âI can help,â you offer him weakly.
âOh, I donât know if ye would be any good-â
âLet me help you, please.â
Youâre getting teary-eyed, which makes his jaw clench.
âCan ya be a mama?â
You nod, tears rolling down your cheeks.
âPlease, I want to stay,â you cry, shaking your head in his grasp. âDonât make me go out there all alone, I-Iâm not strong enough-â
He shushes you, his thumb wiping the wetness from your cheek.
âSo pretty. Wouldnât ye just be so lovely with a baby?â
âYour baby?â you ask him, sniffling.
âWell, who else?â he jokes, grinning at you.
He leans in closer, his breath puffing against your lips.
âIâd never make ya leave, love. Ye would stay right here in this wee sanctuary.â
Youâre so cute, pouting as you think about it. He wants you so full of him that you canât think anymore. Youâll say yes.Â
You nod, eyes closed as you sniffle again.
He kisses you, and you donât expect it. The feeling of his lips crushing against yours and the firm grasp he has on your head make you wince.Â
He pulls back to admire you for a moment.
âIâll find you some more dresses.â
Jimmy claps to get the attention of the Jimmys.Â
âLads, Iâve some news for you.âÂ
They gather around him and he grins.
âOur lovely guest has agreed to play mother for you terrible cunts.âÂ
They grin and clap, cheering and whistling.
âRight, shut up. Now⊠everyone is gonnae fuckinâ behave tomorrow, that clear?â
They nod.Â
âGood lads. Weâll have a new member joininâ us very soon.âÂ
The next day, youâre told that Jimmy wants you to wear your dress again.Â
You do, but you pull on the too-big, plum-coloured jumper Jimmy gave youâ because, of course, it matches his own tracksuitâ over it. You walk to Jimmyâs room and knock on the door, trying to keep yourself from tearing up again. You fiddle with your sleeves and wait for him to answer.
âCome,â he calls.Â
You push the door open and avoid his eyes. His smile falls when he sees you in the jumper.Â
âWhy are ye coverinâ your dress?âÂ
âItâs coldâŠâ
Heâs done being nice to you. He knows what he wants and heâs going to get it.Â
âTake it off.â
You grip the hem and pull it off, holding it. He takes it and tosses it onto his bed.Â
âThere she is,â he coos, grabbing your face again. âCanât ye just see it?â
He presses one hand to your stomach.
âAll round⊠full of life.â
He grins at you.
âYouâll be makinâ new life in this world. Isnât that a blessinâ?âÂ
He kisses you, then your cheek.
âIâll bless you, love,â he murmurs, kissing your temple. âIâll bless you a hundred fuckinâ times.â
His hand moves from your stomach and undoes your buttons behind you. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you shakily reach for the zipper of his tracksuit.
âNeedy girl,â he chides you in a husky tone.
Your dress becomes loose around your shoulders and it slips down your body.
You undo his zipper, allowing him to shrug off the jacket, leaving him in that same white vest. You see a little pink spot where you had bled on him the first day.
He follows your eyes.
âThatâs where ye marked me, remember?â
He smirks.Â
He sits on his bed, tugging you down and settling you on his thigh, slotted between your legs as you kneel on the bed.Â
You gasp, feeling the pressure increase when he flexes his thigh.
âKeep making noises like that and I wonât last long,â he chuckles, cruelly joking with you. Â
His big hands grip your waist and you feel him push you down.
âOhâŠâ
âBeen a while?â
You really canât help the tears this time.Â
âI-I⊠Iâve never-â
He sits up straight, cradling you.
âNever?â
You shake your head.
âOh, why didnât ye say so? I have to make it special for ya, love,â he coos, sickly sweet as he sits you on the bed.
âNever been fucked⊠the lads have really got a keen fuckinâ eye. Lay back.â
You do as he says, staring up at him. He kneels at your feet and his hand skims up the side of your leg.
âIâm gonnae make ye a temple,â he vows, leaning down to kiss your knee.
He moves up your legs, knuckles tracing a winding path his lips follow diligently.Â
âAn altar to worship atâŠâ
His eyes flick up as he kisses your cunt over the fabric of your underwear.Â
âDonât ye wannae be worshipped?â
You swallow hard, panting as you do.
âSay, âyes, Jimmyâ,â he directs you, mocking a high voice.Â
âYes, Jimmy.âÂ
âSay âthank you, Jimmyâ,â he mocks again.
âTh-thank you, JimmyâŠâÂ
âGood girl,â he murmurs.Â
He kisses your stomach.
âGonnae put a baby in here. Fill you up right.â
He continues pressing sloppier kisses up your body, unhooking your bra and tossing it behind him. He groans, squeezing your breast with his hand and licking your nipple, biting the skin around it.
You yelp, jolting.
âJust imagine these all⊠all fulla milk,â he can hardly get the words out. âLeakinâ when the baby criesâŠâÂ
He groans, and you can feel his hips rocking against your leg.Â
âFuckâŠâ he mutters.
He sucks on your other nipple, lifting your hips up and putting them in his lap.
He tugs off your panties and holds them up to his face. He inhales deeply as he grunts, bucking his hips into you.
âSo sweet. Yer gonnae be so sweet for me⊠with your cute round bellyâŠâÂ
He slips two fingers between the folds of your cunt and drags them up and down, collecting the slickness from your hole.
You cry out, covering your face with your hands.
âCover up again and I wonât be so fuckinâ nice,â he snarls at you.
Your hands dart down and rest on your core, which tightens up as he pushes one finger into your now soaking hole. He moans, his eyes closing.Â
âSo tight, love. Gonnae hafta stretch you out real good.âÂ
âJ-Jimmy-â
He adds another finger and you wince, twisting your upper body like youâre trying to crawl away from him.
As if he would let you.Â
His cross dangles over your face as he pushes his hips against his hand, fucking his fingers into you.Â
âLook at me,â he commands.
You donât listen and he mashes his thumb against your clit. You sob, your hips bucking away from his touch.Â
âFuckinâ look at me.âÂ
You turn over again and meet his eyes, crying as you see his cruel smirk.
âSo fuckinâ pretty when ye cry⊠youâll be a weepinâ mess the whole time ye got my baby in here,â he presses a hand to your tummy, making you moan at the extra contact and pressure.Â
âThis cunt is a bloody weepinâ mess too, fuck me.â
You feel him spread his two fingers and stretch you, making you whine and squirm in his grasp.
âTh-that hurtsâŠâ
âOnly for a second. Then itâs gonnae feel like heaven.â
You grip the blanket on his bed as you cry, tears rolling down the sides of your face. His thumb brushes your clit again, gentle this time.Â
âSweet thing,â he coos at you. âYer gonna be such a good mama.âÂ
His thumb rubs tight circles on your slick clit, making you mewl and gasp for air. You hiccup as he fucks his fingers into you rapidly, pushing your frame into the squeaky spring mattress each time. The idea that the Jimmys can hear you is mortifying, but you can hardly feel shame when all you feel his Jimmy curling his fingers to stroke a spot inside of you that makes your vision white out. You screamâ worries for the Jimmys be damnedâ and scramble for purchase, something to grab. You grab his forearm and your nails poke into his skin as he grunts, still fucking you through your orgasm.
He grins at you and pulls his fingers out. You wince at the empty feeling, quickly satiated by the grind of his clothed cock against your clenching cunt. He licks his fingers clean, sucking on them and moaning at the taste of you.
âFuck, youâre so sweet, lovey⊠Iâm gonnae fuck ya so good, sweet thing. Yer not even gonna know yer own name after.âÂ
He laughs cruelly, eyeing your body with a greedy hunger.Â
âYe can have mine if ya like,â he teases.Â
After shoving down his waistbands and freeing his cock, harder than heâs been in years and red at the tip, leaking precum as he slips it through your folds.
âYe want it?â
If he asked you that before this moment, you would have cried and said no. But you need it. Youâre desperate, your body is screaming at you.
âYes, yes! Please, God- please, Jimmy,â you beg him, knowing thatâs what he wants to hear.Â
He chuckles and lines himself up, pushing into your virgin cunt.
A new sound rips through your throat. Something animal and unnatural at the same time. You sound wounded. You feel wounded, the stretch is a searing pain.Â
Until itâs a warm and welcome sensation.Â
âAh, yer so fuckinâ tight,â he pants, his hot breath on your neck.Â
He doesnât slam in, he fucks in and out as he works his cock into you inch by inch.Â
It pushes whiny, breathy noises out of you each time he buries himself in, and finally bottoms out with a particularly hard push, his balls meeting your ass in his lap.Â
He leans over you and snickers at the way your mouth falls open.
âSo big, huh?â he teases. âSo fuckinâ big. Feel me right there, lovey?â
He presses a hand over your tummy and thrusts out, then inâ feeling a slight change against his hand.
âThatâs where Iâm puttinâ the baby.â
Youâre so sensitive and heâs fucking you raw and hard, not caring about the way you cry out and grip his bicep.
âYou keep cryinâ Iâll fuckinâ give you somethinâ to cry about,â he threatens you, making you squeak and pout.
He scoffs.Â
âOh, is Daddy beinâ mean to Mama?âÂ
He sees something in your eyes change, hears your breath hitch.
âDid ye like that, Mama?âÂ
You moan, feeling him push in all the way again. He laughs at you, full-chested and mean.Â
âFuckinâ look at ye. Begginâ to get bred. Look, yer fuckinâ keeninâ for it! Ye want my cum? Ye want Daddy to fill up yer cunt?â
You canât speak, your mouth open as he fucks you, watching your breasts move as he slams into you again and again.
But Jimmy expects an answer.Â
âYes, Daddy,â you breathe, reaching for him.Â
He scoops you up in his arms, holding you close as he fucks into you. He kisses your collarbone, which is almost tender.Â
âYe needed this, didnât ya? A daddy to take care of ye.âÂ
He kisses you. Itâs sloppy and wet, and a string of spit connects you when he pulls away.
âAnd I needed a mama just as much. The lads just know the boot. They need some love.â Â
âJimmy, I-Iâm- ngh-â
You bawl, thrashing in his arms as you cum a second time. He continues to fuck you, his eye twitching at the feeling of you milking his cock.Â
He stares at your stomach again, biting his lip at the visual of you pregnant, your belly swelled with his child. His hips stutter and he grits his teeth, pushing in as deep as he can as he jerks forward, cumming inside of you.
You feel the spurt of hot seed against your cervix, making you whine. You have little energy left and your cunt is a livewire, sparking and shocking you as his rough strokes donât stop.
He keeps rocking until he twitches inside of you and pulls out.
âLook at that,â he murmurs, watching his cum dribble out of your hole.Â
He pushes it in with two fingers. You make a desperate noise, trying to twist your hips away.Â
âNo wastinâ all that. Thatâs fuckinâ salvation, love.âÂ
Your head is swimming.
âHuh?â
âFuckin' salvation and rebirth.âÂ
You try to sit up and he pushes you down.
âWeâre not done.âÂ
âB-but-â
âWeâre done when I put a baby in there.â
He leans down to give you a wet kiss on your cheek.
âSettle in, Mama. Weâll be at this all night.âÂ
Summary:Â Â You two get to spend some more time together and the connection between you is getting deeper.
Genre: definitely RomCom vibesÂ
Warnings: cursing, smut, nsfw
Age Rating: 18+Â
Author's note: hope y'all like this part... I had some fun writing it :)
In case you have some suggestions or just comments, let me know!
Â
Part one here / Part two here/ Part three here / Part four hereÂ
In the quiet of your room, after the shared intimacy, you and Carmen found yourselves nestled in the soft glow of fairy lights. Memories of exploring each other's bodies danced in your thoughts as soft music played in the background. Â
It's been a long time since I felt this good. I'm all yours tonight, you know.Â
His words echoed in your mind, while his kisses covered every part of you. His touch, different than before on the couch, grew more urgent and slightly more dominant. Between shared whispers and moans, Carmen delved into every inch of your being, his thrusts maintaining a slow, deliberate rhythm that heightened the intensity.Â
âFuck, you feel so amazing," he whispered, his big blue eyes filled with desire, locking onto yours as if to ensure you understood how he was feeling. For the first time in ages, you felt a sense of being truly desired, the pleasure too overwhelming for words.Â
Noticing your enjoyment, Carmen craved more from you. Guiding you to straddle him, his hands gently but firmly gripping your thighs and hips, he sat with his back pressed against the headboard of your bed. His eyes remained locked onto yours as he whispered encouragingly, "Ride me just like that... You beinâ such a good girl fâme."Â
Feeling exposed and vulnerable, you began riding him timidly. Encouraged by his words, your movements grew more confident until you took complete control, rocking your hips in a way that made him close his eyes in pure pleasure. Carmen's grip on your thighs tightened, and low groans escaped him. The pleasure intensified as you reveled in the intimate dance between you, the room filled with the sounds of shared desire.Â
âFuck me-⊠you're drivinâ me crazy... Wonât last long this way, y/n," he muttered, his desire evident as you deepened the connection between you.Â
You relished the sight of Carmen's chest and neck blushing from pleasure, a thin layer of sweat highlighting his skin, and his face responding to each of your sensual movements. It was evident that he, too, hadn't experienced a moment like this in a long time.
In a bid to make sure you felt truly cherished, he skillfully used his tongue to tease your nipples and his thumb to stimulate your clit while you continued to ride him.Â
"Carm, I'm close," you began to mumble when he silenced you with a passionate kiss, effectively muffling your moans of pleasure. The intensity of the moment reached its peak as another climax washed over you, simultaneously seizing his body. Both of you trembled, caught in the raw and overpowering intensity of the shared moment.Â
As you lay entwined, your bodies and minds tried to recover from the electrifying intimacy you just shared. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your skin, a content smile lingered on both your faces, revealing a blend of vulnerability and satisfaction. The atmosphere carried a dreamlike quality, shortly erasing the brief time you had known each other. There was a comforting sense of familiarity, as if the room harbored secrets only the two of you shared.Â
Carmen was still wearing a soft smile he began, searching for the right words, "That was..."Â Â
"Incredible," you finished his sentence, feeling a similar sense of bliss. Carmen chuckled softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. "Yeah, that's a good way to put it."Â
The playful glint in his eyes made you smile, and you traced the tattoos on his chest with your fingertips. The air was filled with a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the soft hum of the fading music in the background.Â
After a moment, Carmen's expression turned more thoughtful. "You know," he began, "I didn't expect any of this when I showed up at your door with dinner."Â
Your laughter bubbled up, breaking the quiet moment. "I'm pretty sure I didn't expect it either." He nodded, his fingers absentmindedly playing with a strand of your hair. "Life has a way of surprisinâ us, right?"Â
The room felt like a cocoon, shielding you both from the outside world. The warmth and vulnerability shared in those moments formed a bond that seemed to transcend the brevity of your acquaintance.Â
"Whatever it is," Carmen continued, "I'm glad I took that chance."Â
You met his gaze, a softness in your eyes. "Me too."Â
A wave of sleepiness washed over both of you, and you could feel your eyes growing heavy. The allure of a peaceful slumber tugged at your senses. Yet, despite the soothing pull, you found yourself resisting the embrace of sleep.Â
"I don't wanna sleep yet... Although we both probably need to wake up early tomorrow," you said, a playful glint in your eyes.Â
Carmen's expression mirrored a mix of amusement and understanding. "Yeah... well, the joys of adultinâ. Iâd have tâbe at the restaurant around 8. But itâs also not like I sleep much anyways."Â
You couldn't help but smile, feeling a connection that extended beyond the physical intimacy you had just shared. "Tell me something about you then. Like, about your time in Denmark."Â
A nostalgic smile played on his lips as he recalled, "My time in Denmark? Uhm... Definitely a, uh, a place I never thought I'd end up. Still, a chapter in my life that I wouldn't trade for anything, you know?"Â
You leaned in, captivated by his stories and the vulnerability he shared. "Tell me about it," you encouraged, eager to glimpse into the experiences that shaped the man lying beside you. Carmen's blue eyes sparkled with the memory, and he began to weave a tale that transported you to a different time and place, a journey through the unexpected moments that defined his life. He shared how he landed his job at Noma, the renowned restaurant that seemed like a distant dream when he first applied. As he spoke, you could almost taste the flavors of the dishes he described, finding yourself captivated by the world he had been a part of.Â
Then, he shifted to the time he lived on a boat with a cat, an invisible feline that became a part of his daily routine of feeding and watering. You couldnât resist laughing as he described how he's still not sure if this cat really exists, the unusual situation adding a touch of humor to the story. The absurdity of his experiences showed you that he was unafraid to embrace the eccentricities that life had thrown his way.Â
"And don't you miss this? Don't you feel like one day going back to Copenhagen?" you asked, contemplating his eyes, whose eyebrows formed an arch as a thoughtful expression crossed his face.Â
He took a deep breath before responding, "Uhm... as I was sayinâ, it was a nice chapter of my life,â he paused, gazing into the distance for a moment, "Right now, I wouldn't, but yeah, maybe if the opportunity appears. I have good friends there still, life was easier... but I like where I stand. The restaurant, family we made out of it."Â
You smiled, appreciating the honesty in his words. "It sounds like you've found a good balance between embracing the past and cherishing the present."Â
Carmen returned your smile, his eyes reflecting genuineness.
"How about you? Regret already cominâ back, or you happy?"Â
You took a moment, looking into his eyes before responding, "No regrets at all. Coming back has brought my family into my daily life again, new friends and... unexpected joys. It just feels right.âÂ
Carmen's eyes intensified with a mix of relief and desire. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, his voice taking on a husky tone.
In an instant, the fervor of his gaze grew, and before you knew it, he smoothly shifted, hovering over you. His lips met yours in a deep, passionate kiss, reigniting the flame between you two. Â
The room filled with the sounds of shared desire as Carmen pinned you against the mattress, your legs wrapping around his hips. Moans and whimpers escaped you as he moved in and out of you, the connection between you deepening with each rhythmic thrust. His movements were a perfect blend of urgency and tenderness, making you feel something beyond just the physical.Â
With his kisses tracing a path along your neck, shoulders, and collarbone, he repeated against your ear, âYou feel so fuckinâ amazing, y/n.âÂ
Carmen's soft words, a mix of desire and satisfaction, filled the air. In the peak of passion, both of you gave in to the powerful connection, lost in the timeless dance of two souls coming together.Â
After the intense and passionate moments, a calm and quiet feeling filled the room. Wrapped in each other's arms, you and Carmen felt the pull of sleepiness. As you lay there, the soft lights making everything cozy, your eyes got really tired. Your breathing matched each other, slow and steady. Eventually, both of you drifted off to sleep, carried away by dreams where time felt like it stood still.Â
---Â
The next morning, only a few hours after falling asleep, your alarm rudely interrupted the peaceful quiet of the room. It blared at 7 o'clock, signaling you had a mere hour to prepare for school. As you reluctantly roused from sleep, confusion clouded your mind, wondering if the passionate night before had been real. Glancing beside you, there was no sign of Carmen, and a pang of disappointment hit you. Â
Quickly, you slipped into your flowery robe and ventured into the living room. His clothes and shoes were gone, leaving your heart feeling heavy. Doubt crept in as you questioned whether, despite everything shared, he had left without a word. You searched for your phone, hoping for a message, but there was nothing from him.Â
Left with a mix of feelings, you decided to shake off the confusion with a quick shower. With limited time, you hurried to get ready. However, the unsettling and confused feelings persisted, especially as memories of the tenderness from the night before lingered in your mind. Distractedly washing your hair, you were lost in your thoughts when you heard a noise.Â
"Hey," he said, a warm smile playing on his face. Â
Peering through the foggy shower glass, there he was again, standing in the bathroom. The sight caught you off guard, and you blinked, wondering if it was a mirage. The warmth from his presence filled the room, dispelling the uneasy feeling that had settled in your chest. His unexpected presence left you momentarily stunned, almost forgetting to react to his greeting. You found yourself just looking at him as he began to take his clothes off, seemingly ready to join you in the shower. As he entered, he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, "Is it okay if I join you?"Â Â
You managed to nod, and as he stepped closer to you, you couldn't help but voice the question that had lingered in your mind, "Where did you go?"Â
You noticed Carmen's expression, a tad embarrassed, as he scratched his head while explaining, "I went to the bakery. Thought we could use something for breakfast." He seemed careful with his words, as if not wanting to offend you, making it clear that he left with good intentions.Â
You couldn't help but smile, feeling a warmth spreading through you. His considerate gesture touched your heart, and any lingering confusion from the morning dissipated. Â
"That's sweet of you," you said, your voice carrying a mix of appreciation and affection.Â
Carmen, with a gentle yet lingering kiss, pulled you closer, making your stomach swirl with a delightful mix of emotions. As he parted, a soft "Good morning" escaped his lips, leaving a lingering warmth in the air. With a playful grin, he took the bath sponge from your hand, a silent invitation to join in the morning routine. Together, you continued to share these simple yet intimate moments, washing away the remnants of the night and embracing the beginning of a new day in each other's company.Â
The chef's touch was gentle yet deliberate, his fingers tracing on your skin as he washed away the soap. The air was filled with the scent of the rose shower gel and a subtle mix of desire from the night before. As he reached for the shampoo, he glanced at you with a soft smile, and you couldn't help but return it, your hearts speaking a silent language that only the two of you understood.Â
The sound of water and the shared laughter echoed in the bathroom, creating an intimate bubble that enveloped you both. Carmen's presence felt like a warm embrace, and you marveled at this moment of simplicity and connection, a beautiful contrast to the passion that had unfolded just hours ago.Â
As the shower ended, you stepped out, feeling the cool air on your damp skin. Carmen followed suit, wrapping you in a towel, grabbing another one for himself. Â
With the sweet aroma of breakfast filling the air, you quickly dressed in one of your favorite dresses â the red one adorned with small white flowers. You could hear the clinking of plates and the rustling of utensils coming from the kitchen, indicating Carmen was busy setting the table and brewing some coffee.Â
As you finished your light makeup, just a touch of blush and some mascara, you couldn't help but feel a mixture of surprise and gratitude for the effort he was putting into the morning. Making your way to the kitchen, you were greeted by a delightful sight. The kitchen table transformed into a lavish buffet, adorned with croissants, bagels, and even some doughnuts, creating a tempting spread. Two cups sat side by side, accompanied by fresh grapes and a pitcher of orange juice.Â
Carmen, wearing a casual smile, looked up as you entered, and there was warmth in his eyes that made your heart flutter. "Hope you're hungry," he said, looking proud of himself.Â
 "Very much hungry... Thank you so much, Carm," you said, coming closer to him for a hug. "And I'm sorry for not having anything in my fridge," you added, a bit embarrassed but chuckling.Â
Carmen's arms wrapped around you, returning the hug. "Hey, no need to apologize, alright?" he said, his voice warm and reassuring. As you pulled back, his hand gently brushed against yours, and he gestured towards the spread on the table. "Let's enjoy this... before we get late."Â
Unfortunately, Carmen was right, and you both had to be quick if you didn't want to be late for work. Nevertheless, you two had a nice breakfast together, savoring the pastries he brought. Carmen even shared some secrets about baking the perfect doughnuts. The secret, as he explained, lay in the precise balance of ingredients and the patience required for the perfect rise. He went on, telling you about the ingredient that makes the glaze perfect, and the joy he felt when a batch of doughnuts turned out just right. His animated descriptions had you smiling and developing an even bigger respect for his work. Â
"Sorry... I, uh, tend to get excited talkinâ about this stuff," he admitted with a brief pause, looking a bit flustered. "If I'm annoying you-" he began, but you quickly stopped him, reassuring him that everything was all right. "You're not, chef. I like it when you talk about it."Â
As you exited the building, Carmen graciously offered you a ride to work, and you gladly accepted. While sitting in the car, savoring the delightful aroma of freshly baked pastries that you brought for the break, he turned to you with a warm grin. "You know, next time, I might bring something from the restaurant, okay? Marcus's doughnuts are practically legendary. Life changinâ."Â
Your playful eye-roll was met with a chuckle, and he added, "I'll hold you to that promise." A silent hope lingered within you that he would indeed keep it. The turn of events had caught you by surprise, and now you found yourself lost in a wave of feelings, starting to develop something for Carmen. The last few hours spent together were amazing, leaving you yearning for more time with him. You wanted to unravel his secrets and share your own. Maybe it was all happening a bit too fast, but it felt undeniably right. The intensity of your connection also brought a hint of fear, a mix of excitement and trepidation.Â
Approaching the school, Carmen found a convenient parking spot. The engine's hum softened as he turned off the car and faced you. Unexpectedly, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a sweet and lingering kiss. As he pulled back, his face turned a bit more serious, his eyes searching for yours. "Take care, alright? And don't forget to stock up that fridge of yours," he said, a tone of genuine concern in his voice.Â
You responded with a teasing smile, "Alright, alright. I'll stock up, mom." He shook his head, chuckling in response to your playful comment.Â
"Have a good day at the restaurant, chef," you said, this time cupping his face for another kiss. You didn't want to part, savoring the warmth and connection between you two.Â
As he drove away, you couldn't help but watch him go, a mixture of emotions lingering from the unexpected morning filled with sweetness and laughter. The soft echo of his advice and the warmth of his lips on yours stayed with you the whole day and you couldnât shake the need to see him again.
_____
âOkay, chefs, letâs hold up on three and four, we are up on the grapes, and letâs pick up that first course and push up the focaccia, please,â said Sydney, her voice cutting through the bustling kitchen noise. Carmen was working intently beside her, leading the kitchen team through the orchestrated chaos of a busy dinner service.Â
Since service started an hour ago, Carmen had been focused on the intricate dance of preparing and plating each dish with precision. He moved seamlessly between stations, checking the progress of dishes, ensuring quality and presentation met the high standards of the restaurant. His communication with the kitchen staff was a mix of precision and urgency, ensuring everyone was synchronized in delivering a flawless dining experience.Â
"Okay, chefs, I need hands, alright?" Carmen started, opening space for service to take the flavorful dishes to the customers on the other side of the wall. "Y'all are doing a great job tonight; let's keep it up," he said to his deserving crew.Â
"I guess Jeff is in a good mood today, right, Jeff?" said Tina out loud to the other chefs. Listening to this made Carmen give a half smile, remembering the reason that brought him this great humor.Â
Even being occupied all day, the chef couldn't stop thinking about the time he spent with you. While planning service this afternoon in his office, his mind floated back to the tender moment you had together, remembering every smile, laugh, and touch shared. On an impulse, he grabbed his phone, opening his contacts list. Initially wanting to give you a call just to check on you, he ended up writing you a short message.Â
Hey, done with work for today? Â
He was pressing send, as Richie showed up in the room, distracting him. His cousin strolled into Carmen's office with a playful smirk, eying the chef who was preoccupied with his phone.Â
 "Yo, big shot, what's cookin' in that brain of yours?" he teased, leaning casually against the doorframe.Â
Carmen glanced up, annoyance flickering in his eyes, "None of your business, Richie. What d'you want?"Â
The tall man raised an eyebrow, undeterred by the curt response. "Well, I was just wonderinâ where the esteemed chef disappeared last night. Left the restaurant earlier than usual and now shows up later than usual, looking all fresh..."Â
The tattooed chef shot him a sharp look, "Again, none of your business, cousin."Â
Richie chuckled, "Come on, don't be such a jagoff. I bet you were with someone special. Let me guess, you were with y/n?"Â
Carmen's eyebrows arched as a warning sign, "Fuckinâ Drop it, Richie."Â
Not one to let go, the general manager of The Bear grinned wider, "Alright, alright. Changinâ the topic, then. I'm takinâ Saturday evening off. Got a date with Alice, your girl's friend, okay?"Â
Carmen's mood shifted, his annoyance growing. "You what?"Â
"Yeah," Richie continued, oblivious to his cousin's plans. "Thought I'd take her out, grab some dinner, maybe catch a movie." Noticing Carmen's squinted eyes, always a sign of irritation, Richie smirked, sensing an opportunity to tease his cousin, "What? Whatâs the big deal about it?"Â
The other one scowled, "No, you can't fuckinâ have Saturday off. I need you here, alright?"Â
Mr. Fun raised an eyebrow, "Well, tough luck, cousin. Alice is a force to be reckoned with. I can't say no to her."Â
Carmen, feeling even angrier, retorted, "Well, you haven't said anything before. Can't just- just fuckinâ change shift plans, Richie!"Â
He laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself, "Okay, okay. Enough with the tantrums. Iâll try to find somebody to cover fâme, alright? But I'm out tomorrow, cousin."Â
Carmen, irritated beyond measure, shook his head. "Fine, go. Just donât expect any sympathy when Alice realizes she's missinâ out on a night with the famous Richie."Â
Richie chuckled, "She knows how to appreciate a good time. Unlike someone I know who's probably gonna spend Saturday night alone with a TV dinner."Â
Carmen rolled his eyes, "Don't flatter yourself, cousin. I've got plans, and they don't involve frozen meals."Â
Richie, giving him a sly grin, quipped, "Well, well. The mysterious chef has plans." Heading for the door, he added, "Alright, Chef Casanova. Enjoy your mysterious Saturday night."Â
As his cousin left the room, Carmen couldn't help but feel a mix of frustration and anticipation. The banter with his cousin had only heightened his eagerness for Saturday night, even if Richie's presence had put a wrench in his original plans.Â
----
The clock on the wall at The Bear struck almost 11 o'clock and the bustling kitchen began to wind down. The last orders were served, and the crew started wrapping up the service. A few customers lingered, sipping on their final drinks, while some employees diligently cleaned their stations.Â
During this controlled chaos, Carmen meticulously checked the final details. He moved between the stations, ensuring cleanliness and order. His experienced eye surveyed the kitchen, and with a nod to his team, he acknowledged the collective effort that defined another successful night at The Bear.Â
Sydney eventually joined him in the post-service routine. "Smooth sailing tonight, right Chef?" Sydney remarked, with a hint of pride in her voice.Â
Carmen smiled, a rare expression for him during work hours. "Yeah, the team nailed it. The energy was good tonight."Â
Sydney's eyes twinkled with curiosity, and a knowing smile played on her lips. "You... seem in a particularly good mood, Carmy. Anything special going on? That I should know at least."Â
Carmen, usually guarded about his personal life, found a level of trust in Sydney. They had become good friends, and he felt comfortable sharing a bit more with her. "Maybe I've, uh, got some plans for the weekend. A break from the usual... you know?"Â
Sydney raised an eyebrow, "Plans, huh? You never spill the beans. What's got you stepping out of the shadows, Chef?"Â
Carmen chuckled, appreciating Sydney's playful approach. "Uhm, well, thinkinâ âbout takinâ Sunday off. Gotta enjoy life outside these kitchen walls."Â
Sydney grinned, knowing the chef wouldnât share more details, "Alright, I won't snoop further." She made a pause first and then continued, with a more concerned look, "But I hope it involves something... good this time, you know... And that you also allow something good to happen too."Â
Carmen ran his fingers through his hair, knowing exactly what she meant. Nodding, he said in a more serious tone, "Yeah, yeah... It's-, uh, it's a good thing this time."Â
"Good, Chef. Then let's wrap it up," the chef de cuisine said, giving him a motivational look, and making her way out of the kitchen.Â
 "Yo, Syd," said Carmen, getting her attention back again. "Don't worry, I won't let you down. Not again, I promise."Â
Sydney just nodded and headed to the back part of the restaurant. As Carmen left the kitchen, he slowly processed Sydney's words, and for a moment, the echoes of her concern reverberated in his mind. It was as if the past had momentarily caught up with him. Her hope that he could allow something good to happen brought him back to a period of his life she was implicitly referring to.Â
The time of The Bear's opening, the beginning of his last relationship with Claire, flashed vividly in his memory. It wasn't a pleasant memory for Carmen. His mind had been elsewhere during that crucial time, and he hadn't been able to uphold the partnership he promised Sydney, leaving her alone in some crucial decisions. The chaos of the opening night, where he got stuck in the walking freezer, was a stark reminder of his inability to handle the pressure. His behavior in the aftermath wasn't something he was proud of either.Â
It took Carmen a while to recognize how erratic he had been during that period â not just with Sydney and Richie, but with himself. To be where he stood now, in a position of respect and trust, had been a journey of self-discovery and growth. Sydney's wish for something good in his life reflected not just their friendship but also the distance he had traveled from that tumultuous time. And he couldn't help but appreciate the camaraderie he shared with Sydney. Her concern was a testament to their deepening bond, and he silently vowed to himself that he wouldn't repeat the mistakes of the past. The memories served as a reminder of how far he had come and the importance of cherishing the good moments life had to offer.Â
Another hour slipped by, and Carmen found himself back in his office, immersed in the world of notes and recipes for the upcoming changes to the menu. Despite the bustling day at the restaurant, thoughts of you persisted, a welcomed distraction from the demands of his culinary domain. He wondered how your day had unfolded, each replay of moments from the night before bringing a soft smile to his face. The tender exchanges, shared laughter, and the sparkle in your eyes under the dim lights revealed a side of him rarely exposed â a softer, more intimate side. The contrast between his professional demeanor at the restaurant and the vulnerability he felt with you intrigued him.Â
Not yet done with work, he couldn't resist the urge and reached for his phone to check if you had responded to his earlier message. Your reply had indeed arrived, sometime by the end of the afternoon:Â
Not yet, still wrapping up. How about you?Â
Carmen grinned at the screen, savoring the anticipation building with each exchanged message. He swiftly typed his reply:Â
Just going over some recipes. Done with service now. Went to the supermarket? :PÂ
Setting the phone down, he stole a glance at the clock. Despite the late hour, the prospect of engaging in conversation with you, especially on a Friday night, energized him. To his pleasant surprise, not even two minutes later, your response popped up:Â
Wow, sounds exhausting. Aren't you tired? And yes, went to the supermarket and bought some things... waiting for that cooking lesson, u know? ;)Â
Carmen enjoyed the playful banter and teasing tone in your messages. Your last playful comment emboldened him, and a spontaneous idea crossed his mind. Fingers dancing across the screen, he crafted his next message.Â
Cooking lesson? :P
Planning to take Sunday off. What do you think?
Better put those groceries to good use before they get forgotten...Â
His anticipation heightened as he waited for your response. Not long after, a reply popped up on his screen:Â
ha-ha-ha, very funny! :P
And yes, Sunday sounds good.Â
Carmen could see that you were still typing something. He felt a rush of relief with your confirmation, and the earlier frustration at not being able to take Saturday off was replaced by the excitement of seeing you again soon.  Â
Still at the restaurant?Â
Her last message finally arrived, and the chef smirked, quickly typing his response:Â
Just leaving. Why?Â
Your reply came swiftly:Â
Just checking... I mean, you gotta get up early tomorrow, right?Â