I have literally zero thoughts

Nothing can quite compare to the stolen glances and the soft accidental brush of fingers against fingers, or when there are only two seats left somewhere and you have to sit right next to him. 

Best of all, nothing could compare to the feeling you get every night fantasizing about holding his hand and falling asleep to the thought of the two of you together, happy in love. 

And you’re lucky, because your crush is your roommate and you get to see him every single day. 

And one of your favorite things to do is curl up in the couch while your roommate, Clark Kent, the tall and strong but nerdy farm boy from the middle of nowhere in Kansas, is doing the dishes. You offered, of course, but he refuses to ever let you touch water (he found out you have eczema and has been adamant ever since not to let you do anything that could cause your skin to flare up again, including but not limited to him doing the dishes for you, doing the laundry for you and other things you can’t remember right now because you’re too busy staring at the muscles of his back that were so defined they shone through his shirt), which is why you’re on the couch right now doing nothing but drawing while he’s busy being the perfect crush in the world. 

Only your pencils and your sketchbooks know about the crush you have on your roommate. When Clark asks if he can see your drawings, you always pull out a sketchbook you haven’t touched since you met him, because it’s your only sketchbook that isn’t filled to the brim with drawings of Clark Kent. If he notices how you never show him recent drawings, he doesn’t tell.

The thing is, lately you’ve only been drawing him. He was your muse, in a way. You’d been in a drawing slump for years before he replied to your Craiglist ad about a roommate and you first took a look at the adorkable gentle giant that was Clark Kent. 

The first day you guys met and you saw the shy dimple on his left cheek, your fingers itched to pick up a pencil again, and you haven’t put it down ever since, two years ago. 

“What are you drawing?” he asks while putting glasses in the drying rack. His glasses were slightly falling off his nose, and he kept failing to push them up with his wrist. You took pity on him and stood up from your nook in the couch and approached him. You used one finger on the bridge of his glasses to push them up.

“I was drawing the kitchen,” you lied, because you can’t exactly tell him you were learning the anatomy of his back and capturing the slopes and tendons of his muscles. 

He perked up. “Can I see?”

“Mhmm… only if you let me see you without your glasses,” you reply because it’s easier when it’s him who says no. He never accepts for some reason. He says he’s too insecure about his looks without them.

He instantly pouts. “You do that on purpose.”

Oops, he noticed. 

“My sketches are my glasses,” you tell him wisely. 

“That… that makes sense. You’re really smart,” he then says, completely out of the blue. Your entire body goes red. Not just your face or your ears or your neck. You can feel the blush travel all the way down to your chest.

“Says the actual reporter who’s about to win a Pulitzer prize anytime now.”

It’s his turn to flush and you wish you could use the shade of his blush to paint a portrait of him. 

“When are you gonna let me do the dishes too?”

You never thought you would ask that one day. You usually hate doing the dishes but it’s because Clark who does it for you, you feel bad and you want to help him.

“When you’re cured of eczema. And don’t try to tell me it’s getting better, because I see your hands everytime you shower.”

You didn’t know that.

You grin. “Been keeping up tabs on me, big boy?”

He splutters. “Ah, I, no, it’s… gosh darnit you, stop making fun of me.”

“I would apologize if I sincerely felt bad but unfortunately for you, I don’t.”

See? Having crushes wasn’t so bad.

Or maybe you should specify that it’s only not so bad when the object of your crush is Clark Kent. 

“Hey, do you wanna order takeout for tonight? That way you won’t have to do the dishes again. At least for tonight.”

Clark smiles, like he always does whenever you offer to do something with him. He’s always surprised that you actually enjoy spending his time, as though you haven’t fell in love with him the moment he held you all night long after a really bad date. 

“Ah, can I get a raincheck please? Tomorrow?”

“Sure,” you reply easily. “You gotta go to the office again later?”

He blushes, and smiles sweetly as if he wasn’t about to crush your heart with an elephant’s foot. “Ah, no. I, uh… I have a date tonight.”

“No way!” you say, trying to sound excited for him, because he really does look happy and excited about it. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“I’m the lucky guy, to be honest. She’s a colleague at work.”

You instantly know who he’s talking about. “Lois Lane?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” he asked with a timid smile.

You have nothing against her, really. She is breathtakingly pretty, has a smile that only rivals the moon in its beauty, and is as kind as a tree. Don’t ask why, you just think trees are the world’s kindest creatures, even if they’re not really creatures. And she’s always so sweet to you whenever she comes over. You like the way she drinks her sugar with coffee, instead of coffee with sugar the way literally anyone else did. She was— well, perfect for someone like Clark Kent. If he was the sun, she was the moon. And she was so nice to you, so pretty, you drew her, and she was so happy she hugged you and asked if she could keep the drawing. 

And most importantly, she is a Pulitzer prize winner. For all intents and purposes, she is perfect. 

And you’re such a horrible person for hating her right now. She didn’t do anything to you, so why the rodent inside your stomach chewing on your intestines like they were battery acid?

“I hope you have fun.”

“I know I will. I always have fun when I’m with her.”

And really, deep down, you’re happy for them both. You’re just even sadder for yourself, and it’s hard to feel anything positive about this right now.

So yeah, maybe people weren’t wrong about having crushes. Nothing was positive about it. 

When he’s gone and he says not to wait for him and he asks you to wish him luck (and you do), and you’re left all alone with just you and your twenty-thousand sketches of him, you feel really stupid. Really silly. Like a clown. 

It’s not like you even held some foolish hope that he would be yours one day. You just foolishly thought that he would never go out with other girls. You were just fine with being his friend, as long as he wasn’t also interested in other girls. You’re insane, you know, but it worked for you for almost two years. So in a way, he was just yours. You were the only who got to see him just as he wakes up or right before he goes to sleep. You were the only one he did the dishes for, and the only one he applied cream against your rashes whenever it got too bad. 

But now, you weren’t the only one anymore. 

In a way, it feels like a breakup. Because you were being crazy, if you’re honest with yourself. Maybe this is a good thing. 

Watching him come home the day after spending the night with his girlfriend with mussed hair and that shy smile that always betrayed what he’d been up to (he looked like he’d been caught saying a bad word but he was too satisfied to feel bad about it), was like picking up a dagger and stabbing it inside your chest every single day. 

And he sleeps over at hers a lot. And when he doesn’t, she sleeps over. And then it’s worse. Because sometimes, not always, you hear them. 

It’s been almost three months now. Your crush was a slender sharksucker that stuck to your leg and refused to let go. You were its home now and it wasn’t even paying.

“Hey, you okay?” Lois asks you with a crease of worry between her beautiful eyebrows. Clark was in the shower, and you didn’t know Lois was there when you came out to the kitchen to eat breakfast. 

“Uh… yes, totally, thanks.”

You must look really bad if she asks. Unlike her, who looked picture ready. “You, uh, you look really good. Is your skin just naturally flawless or do you use something for it?”

She lets out a delighted giggle. “No wonder Clark likes you so much. You’re so nice.”

You smile confusedly. “I wasn’t being nice, I was just saying the truth.”

“I’m flattered, but I have to confess it’s all the work of hyaluronic acid. And, between the two of us,” she whispers low, “a little bit of after glow.”

You laugh, because it’s funny but then later that day you remember what that entailed and your stomach churned.

“Whatcha drawing?” 

“Cats,” you reply. 

“Can I see?”

“Sure.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to– wait, you said yes?”

You can’t help but laugh. You’d pavloved him into thinking you would always say no whenever he asks you if he can see a drawing. 

“Yes. Come see before I change my mind.”

He’s rushing towards you in two big strides. “This is so exciting. You never let me see your new drawings.”

Yeah well, that was because all you drew was him. But not anymore. 

“These are really good. I especially love the torti one. Could I have it?”

“Sure, I’ll draw you another and give it to you.”

“Okay,” he smiles happily. “Thank you. It’s really cute. Tortishells are Lois’ favorite cats.”

Oh. that’s fine.

You draw the cat anyway and because you love to hurt yourself, you drew Clark and her as cats too. In nice drawing paper, and even add a little bit of watercolor. It’s, ironically enough, one of your favorite work in a long time. 

They love it too. Clark makes a copy of it. 

You try to move on. You meet someone. He’s not as nice as Clark, nor as tall, or as handsome, or as kind. But he likes you. At least you think so. 

The first time he sees your hands when you’re having a flare-up, he recoils like you have the plague.

“That’s fucking gross, dude.”

Clark never swore. And he didn’t find it gross. He didn’t even care. His hands never flinched when he helped you apply cream.

“It’s just, it gets like that when it touches water. I told you.”

“Please don’t touch me until it’s gone.”

As far as distractions went, this was a really good one. It was like hurting yourself to distract yourself from a pain somewhere else. 

It hurts, yes, but you no longer hurt because Clark broke your heart. 

So you stay. 

You’re stupid, you know. But you’re in too deep. And quite frankly, this guy feels more familiar than Clark. Clark, with his true kindness and smiles, and his quiet support of your condition, was an anomaly in your life.

Josh, however, was just like any other man you’d ever met. Your brain felt safe in his unsafety. He found stability in his ghosting, the standing you up, the uncareness. 

How foolish of you to think you could have something good in your life for once. 

You see Clark less often. You’re no longer at home as much. He calls and texts but you reply less and less.

You think you’re spiraling but knowing it doesn’t do anything. If anything, it makes it even harder to stop. 

Clark once proposes to do a double date.

“You don’t draw anymore,” Clark notices. How did he? You guys barely see each other anymore. 

You hide your hands behind your back. You’re so stressed lately your body was in constant state of breaking out. And Josh didn’t help. You can’t grab a pencil anymore.

“I’m in a rut,” you say. He thinks you’re talking about being in a rut creatively.

“Jesus, it’s gotten all over your body now too. I can’t even get hard anymore. Just…”

You’re standing there naked, feeling more exposed than ever. Beneath your skin, your muscles, your bones. 

At least you were good at this, but not anymore. Even Josh didn’t want to see you anymore.

Josh leaves you behind.

You break down, you call Clark. You don’t think, you can’t even breathe. You just want to get out of your skin. 

You know Clark was supposed to be at Lois, but your mind doesn’t care about that anymore.

“Can you come home, please?” you ask him, sobbing into the phone. 

You don’t even realize he’s home only minutes after calling him. Nothing registers inside your mind except the feeling of wrongness that’s now spread all over your body, not just hands. 

It’s only when Clark enters your room, hair mussed from wind and a look of pure horror on his face that you finally realize how you must look. 

Curled up on the floor, in just your lingerie — the worst part of it all was that you were trying to be desirable, sexy, pretty and even when you make efforts your skin is all people can see and it’s all you can feel — crying and hyperventilating and scratching your skin so harshly you could feel blood all over. 

Your entire body hurts and itches and every movement you made tugs at some part of your skin and it felt like you were being torn apart.

“Oh my darling,” Clark breathes out and you can barely hear him over the sound of you breaking down.

He doesn’t ask what happened, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even recoil at the sight of your skin peeling and bleeding and aching and looking so wrong you wish you could shed it all. 

He just approaches you, touches you gently, and instead of feeling like someone’s pressing a hot iron against your skin, his hand is warm and soft and it’s like silk against your agonizing skin, and you choke on a sob as you lean towards him like moth to flame, like sunflower to the sun, like someone who’s never known softness before. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay my darling, I got you, I got you,” he says and some part of you settles down at his words but the rest of you — the majority wants to cry and scream at how unfair everything is. 

He doesn’t even judge you because you’re in lingerie, he doesn’t make fun of you for trying to make yourself pretty when it’s just not possible. A pig’s still a pig even when you put lipstick on it.

You cry harder. 

“Why can’t I ever be enough?” you ask him in between sobs but you don’t see the way his face openly breaks at your heartbreak, and he tugs you closer to him, pulling you against him, dragging you over his lap and it’s weird, he should feel wrong but he just feels like the only thing in your entire life that’s right. 

You blink once and he’s gone, and you blink again and he’s back and he’s got moisturizer, and you know that brand, it’s the one you use, with no scent and fragrance-free, except it’s not yours because yours isn’t as big and then he’s lathering some in his large hand and he warms it first before he starts gently applying it on your skin in slow circles and the softness of it all breaks you more than harshness ever could. 

“I’m sorry for ruining your date night,” you whisper brokenly. You’re apologizing but you can’t bring yourself to regret calling him. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

“You can always call me, darling. Anytime and whenever. I’ll always come for you.”

“But Lois… I don’t want…”

“Lois understands,” he says. “And this is not about her or even me. This is about you, okay? Worry only about you, and I’ll worry about the rest.”

You feel like there’s no tears left to cry inside your body but you keep surprising yourself by crying again and again, like a leaky faucet. 

“How are you not disgusted?” you ask him.

He’s still applying the thick cream in your arms and now he’s holding your left hand and he’s slowly massaging the ointment in. 

“Because there’s nothing to be disgusted at,” he replies simply. Like the truth was always this simple. He replies quickly, confidently, without hesitation. As if it’s a truth as uncontested as the color of the sky.

You want to believe him so badly. 

He’s done with both your hands. “Can I touch your chest and stomach?”

It’s where the flares are the worst. “It’s disgusting,” you tell him.

“Not to me,” he replies. 

It’s hopeless. Your crush is hopeless, because it’s not going anywhere. You knew it right there and then. 

Neither of you talk about that night. You know Clark wants to, but you don’t, so he doesn’t say anything.

Your skin condition gets considerably better after Josh leaves your life. He left it just as quietly as he got in it. He’d never been the right one. He was just the right one to distract you.

Clark starts saying home more often. At first, Lois comes by too. She’s kind. She’s gentle. She always has the right thing to say. Your heart breaks as much as it heals. 

Then, she slowly starts showing up less. Clark is always smiling when he says, she’s busy. But you know. You know you’re the reason they’re growing apart. 

You don’t know what the hell you’re doing with your life anymore. You don’t have to work because you’re a trust fund baby and you only got a roommate because you were lonely, not because you needed the money, so there’s nothing to structure your days. Nothing to keep you responsible. You don’t work, you don’t draw anymore.

You know it’s not just your unrequited crush on Clark that caused all this. But it was a catalyst. You don’t know what’s going on anymore. 

Clark still doesn’t let you touch the dishes. Still doesn’t let you clean with products that burn and dry.

He still eats takeout with you. Still enjoys your food.

He’s still with Lois, but there’s something else. You’re breaking them up, or you’re just their catalyst too. You hope it’s not you. You would never forgive yourself. 

Clark still helps you put ointment on your hands. He’s so gentle it makes you want to pick up a pencil again, just to carve against paper the softness of his touch.

Your drawings become all the words you couldn’t say. 

You draw Clark’s hands and his smile, and his gentle eyes. 

You draw yourself, made out of scars and blood and acid. 

The two of you could never work out. 

It slowly starts getting better. It starts with Clark coming back home to you to celebrate his first page in the Daily Planet.

You’re so happy for him you throw yourself at him to hug him, because he looks so happy and so bashful and so excited and you’re so proud of him. You always knew he was destined to greater things.

You guys eat out that night. 

You’re worried about Lois, he says, don’t worry. We ended things amiably. We’re still friends, we just didn’t work together. His head wasn’t in the right headspace for a relationship.

You look at him, trying to say whether he was being truthful, or if he was just trying to spare your feelings.

He laughs, and shows you his latest messages from Lois. 

Your heart settles then. You hadn’t realized just how worried you were until now. Until your heart’s been put at ease.

Deep inside, your heart roars one last time with hope. You tell it to shut up. You’re never ruining this friendship again. 

But everything else is quieter. Tamed, settled. Your skin doesn’t scream at you now, and with Clark helping you with your treatment, it’s better than it’s ever been. You still have some scars from where you scratched too hard, but you almost don’t mind it — most days. 

Clark talks you into starting therapy. So you do, because there’s nothing you can refuse Clark. You know that’s unhealthy, but that’s what therapy is here for. 

One day, Clark tells you that Lois is asking about you, and that she wonders if you take commissions. She would like to commission you for a piece she’ll use for her latest article.

It’s an honor. You say yes. 

You find that having to do something keeps your body and mind busy. 

“I have something I want to show you,” Clark says and you look up to him with bleary eyes. You’re barely awake, and he’s already looking fresh and proper for the day ahead. It’s so unfair.

“Can it wait later?”

“How long?”

You think about it. “Ten hours?” you offer reasonably.

“I’m afraid it can’t wait that long, but I’ll give you two hours. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Two hours until we have to be there or two hours until I have to start getting ready? It’s not the same thing.” 

“Two hours until you have to get ready. I know how you operate, spoiled princess, don’t worry.”

“Cheers, you speak my language.”

(You were almost late anyway despite his best efforts.)

“No,” you say, once you both get at destination.

“Yes,” he replies, smug. 

“No fucking way.”

“Yes fricking way.”

“The waitlist’s a year long!”

“I know.” he looks even more smug now. “I got tickets at work.”

“I could kiss you right now,” you say very seriously.

He got tickets at work and thought of you? Your heart’s doing things you swore you were never going to do again. 

He blushes at your fervence, but smiles anyway. “I’ll take it you’re happy?”

“Happy? I think my excitement could fuel a spaceship right now.”

Van Gogh is (one of) your favorite artist, and you’d been trying to get tickets for it for so long, but admittedly you weren’t trying too hard. You were always too worried of failing to get them so you sabotaged yourself. It was more of a chimera than anything else. And you’d only talked to Clark about it once, one year ago, and he remembered. 

“Clark, you’re the best creature that has ever existed. And the bestest friend I’ve ever had,” you tell him seriously.

He chuckles nervously. “Why do you sound like you’re about to promise me your first born?”

“Because I am.”

“No, please don’t,” he says, looking so distressed at the idea that it makes you giggle.

“Okay fine. I’ll give you the second one.”

The immersive experience was out of this world but you still think it’s Clark who makes it so special. 

During lunch hours, he buys lunch for the both of you even though the food here is overpriced, and you can more than afford to, but he insists on paying, saying he was the one who invited you here. It feels so much like a date you have to remind yourself every minute that it’s not one. 

Everything is great. Perfect, even. Even if you’re afraid of that word.

Clark Kent makes it so easy not to be afraid of hope. One look at him and you think— no, you know everything’s gonna be okay.

Maybe having a crush isn’t so bad, after all. 

Lois starts coming over more often again, purely as a friend. Barred Clark, she’s one of the best people you’ve ever met. She sees how you look at him, and when you look at her in panic at having your best kept secret discovered, she just winks at you and puts a finger over her closed lips.

Your secret’s safe with her. You smile at her gratefully.

“You know,” she tells you. “Clark makes an amazing boyfriend.”

“Then why did you guys not work out?” 

The question’s out of your mouth before you could stop it. 

Lois laughs. “Because it turned out we were both using each other to lie to ourselves.”

At your puzzled look she adds, “I found out that good boys are nice and all, but I prefer a little edge. And an entirely different gender.”

“Oh,” you say. “Congrats?”

Lois snorted good-naturedly. “Thank you.”

You find yourself opening up too. “I found out that I liked girls too when I was thirteen.”

“Girls are the dream, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But then I met Clark.”

“And then you met Clark,” Lois repeated. “He does that, doesn’t he? He’s not even aware of it.”

“Yeah. I’ve been trying so hard to forget him but it won’t work. It’s like he’s embedded in my neurons.”

“Then maybe it’s because you’re not meant to forget him yet.”

“Don’t get my hopes up please,” you tell her laughing.

You mention off-handledly missing homemade lasagna one day and the next Clark is making you one from scratch. He even got a pasta machine out (you didn’t even realize you had one) and everything.

“This is overkill,” you tell him while dipping your finger into the bechamel sauce and licking it and then begging him to let you roll the lever.

“Clearly,” he replied dryly. 

Then, later, once the lasagna is in the oven, you look around the kitchen. “This is a mess.”

“Remind again who started the flour fight?”

Clark decided he was going to do a deep clean day so he told you to leave the apartment because of the dirt and dust and allergies.

“Are you kicking me out of my own place, the one I paid for with my hard earned pedigree?”

“Yes, yes I am. I don’t want your allergies to get worse.”

“You’re so kind it borderlines on cruel sometimes,” you tell him darkly before going out. You were thinking of going to visit the ducks. Before or after the movies. Lois said she’ll join you. Girls day, she said. 

The apartment is spotless by the time you come back and it really makes you want to start another food fight, but you don’t.

“Clark?” 

“In here!” he calls back from the living room. He sounded winded. Poor guy must have tired himself out. 

“Hey,” you greet him, taking off your shoes in the living room because it’s fun. But then you look up and you’re not having fun anymore. “What’s that?” you ask him, dreading the answer.

He has the decency to look bashful. “I was cleaning up the couch when I found it wedged between the two seats.”

Oh no. Oh no no. 

“Whatever you saw, it’s not me,” you say quickly.

“And what do you think I saw?” he asks. He looks so red and so flustered. He must have looked through the whole thing. Oh God, he saw the drawings of him shirtless after a shower. You hadn’t even needed to draw it because the sight was etched onto the back of your eyelids.

“I think you saw hallucinations. I think you ate a bad shroom today.”

“How would you even know what I ate today?” he says, comically offended. 

You shrug. Good, he’s getting distracted from the fact that he found your sketchbook where all you did was draw him, and him only. And writing embarrassing stuff like ‘oh he was so pretty today, i almost asked if i could kiss him’ or worse things like, ‘he’s so handsome!!!!! Kill me now’.

“Can I have that back, please?” you ask him, totally nonchalant and suave. He has to think you don’t care you found it, so he would lose interest.

“No, I have a few questions first,” he says with a smug grin, standing up and lifting the sketchbook high up in the air. It’s futile trying to get it, unless you tried to climb him, but that would only make everything worse. 

My blood turned to ice in my veins. “Before you ask, no, it’s fine, I’m over it, I’m over your crush, please don’t hate me.”

But instead of looking relieved, he looked… crestfallen? “That’s not what I was going to ask, but is that true? I mean, I don’t blame you for moving on, it must have been so hard for you but… is it true?”

“What were you going to ask?”

“I don’t that matters now anyway, since you said you don’t like me anymore,” he says with a gentle smile but you can see the heartbreak behind his eyes. 

Lois’ words come back to mind. 

“I… I lied,” you say. Honesty is always better, wasn’t it? “I still like you. A lot. I think I’m in love. But I don’t want it to ruin our friendship, so I tried to move on, but it didn’t work. It never did. Please don’t think this has to change anything, I won’t let it ruin what we have.”

“What if I want it to?”

Your heart falls through your stomach. 

“No,” he continues, shaking his head, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” He lowered his hand, still holding onto the sketchbook. “What I meant is, I like you too. I really like you too, and I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I almost messed everything up, didn’t I? Please tell me it’s not too late, darling.”

Nothing is never too late for you, Clark.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

Clark was never the kind of person who said things they didn’t mean, but that didn’t mean your brain knew that. “I…” 

“I love you, and I think I have ever since that first week of me living here where you tried your hardest to find out what was my breaking limit. And you never found it, because I never had any around you.”

You remember that week. You were trying to see what type of person he was, and if he was prone to anger or violence. You were testing the ground for bombs, and you never found any, because this was Clark. The human equivalent of a weighted blanket and a hug after a heartbreak. 

“I bought your groceries for a month straight after to apologize for my behavior,” you say.

“I know, and it only made me fall harder, but I was too blind to see it, and I’m sorry. I really am. For being the world’s biggest idiot. Who almost missed the chance of his life to be with the woman of his dreams. Please, tell me. Have I messed everything up?”

You didn’t even need to think to know the answer. Of course he didn’t. He never did. He wasn’t even capable of that. 

“No, of course not. I just… I spent so long thinking that I was foolish and stupid for hoping, that this just seems like a dream now.”

“It feels like a dream to me too,” he confesses. “A dream come true. Say you’ll have me, and I’ll make you the happiest girl in the world. I swear on everything that I stand for.”

You don’t reply. You get on your tiptoes instead, and kiss him.

Instantly, he leans down slightly and wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. “Wow,” you whisper against his lips. 

“Wow indeed,” he replies right back against your lips. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks in a husky voice. 

“You have two years of kisses to catch up, so you better start now.”

“I know,” he replies, sounding pained. “And I fully intent to pay you back in full.” A kiss. “With interest.” A kiss.

Your smile is swallowed by another kiss. 

Yeah, you think to yourself. Having a crush on Clark Kent is definitely the best thing ever. 

You’ve been roommates with Clark for approximately… seven months. 

It’s been great really. No complaints, especially since he’s never home long enough to be annoying. He does the dishes, he takes the trash and recycling down every Thursday, and he usually makes enough food that there’s leftovers for your lunches the next day. The friendship between you two is easy, but not intimate. Clark, to you, is personable, but not personal.

You do know that he moved in with you after moving out with his ex girlfriend, and that the relationship ended as amicably as possible for “professional reasons.” Clark also works at the Daily Planet and being a writer may or may not be why he needs a roommate in his thirties. He grew up somewhere not Metropolis to your knowledge and he goes back home usually one weekend a month. 

And that’s it. That’s all you know about your roommate of seven months. It’s kind of nice to live with a dependable man, especially when he’s not just kind but also sort of intimidating. Your last roommate was a young woman around your age, and though she was fun, you were always a little worried about the weird neighbor down the hall. He really liked talking to you when you’d take the recycling down, or god forbid, when you’d have to do your laundry in the basement of your building. As soon as Clark found out about that he made a point to start taking the trash down for you and coming with you to do your laundry. The weirdo neighbor backed off pretty quickly when you began walking around with a 6’4 grown man who gave him the stink eye any chance he got. 

Obviously you’d rather be living alone, or with a romantic partner, but neither of those things seem like they’re in your cards at this point. Clark is a good alternative. You get plenty of alone time when you have a day off since Clark is at work until five most days, and on top of that sometimes he goes out with his friends. Alternatively to the time you get to spend alone, you also get to feel just a smidge safer at night. Metropolis is nowhere near as dangerous as Gotham is, at least not at night, but you can never be totally sure. Superman can handle whatever huge creature is toppling buildings over, but you can’t really call Superman if there’s someone trying to break into your apartment. You can call Clark though, or rather, knock on his door. Usually.

Tonight Clark is out. He’s actually out a lot later than usual, which is strange. He said something vague this morning about having to go to a meeting later tonight with his friends after work and he’d “be back aroumd smghmsgh.” His voice muffled at the end of his sentence because he had stuffed a cinnamon swirl eggo in his mouth. Helpful! 

Around ten you finally peel yourself off the couch. It feels strange to get ready for bed without Clark being around. You aren’t dependent on him, but like, it’s routine by now. You brush your teeth, he brushes his teeth, and then you both go to bed. Sometimes he showers, but that’s not your business to think about. At all. Clark is your friend and roommate. Your kind, dependable, tall, handsome, buff, protective, roommate. You walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water, telling yourself you aren’t prolonging the time before you get ready for bed sans-Clark.

The water pools in the sink as you run the tap for a moment before sticking your glass under. It fills a little too quickly. You chug it, pour more water in the glass, then let your eyes flit to the overhead cupboards. A notice is taped to one of them, one which you taped up. 

NOTICE: Fire alarm inspection

Dear valued tenants,

This coming Saturday the MFD (Metropolis Fire Department) will be entering your apartments to test your fire alarms. These tests will happen between 8am-11am. If you are unable to be present this Saturday please let me know by e-mail so we can rearrange a time. 

Thanks.

Ugh. Your landlord is a nice person but is it necessary to start fire alarm testing at 8am on a Saturday? You were kind of hoping Clark would get home early tonight so he could be the one to let the fire department in tomorrow morning, but you guess not. He’s going to end up sleeping in late if he’s not home soon, so you better set your alarm. 

— 

It’s 7:59am. And they’re already here. 

You had woken up to a strong knock on the door of your apartment that had you gasping for breath as you stumbled out of bed, throwing a more presentable shirt on. Thank God the fireman that you opened the door to looked worse for wear than you did. If you had opened the door to a sexy fireman while wearing your somewhat holey Snoopy sleepshirt, which you’ve had since middle school, you might have lit yourself on fire to test the alarm.

Now you’re sitting on the couch backwards, staring at the fireman as he stands on a ladder in the kitchen. You’re kind of wondering if the fire department needs to do this. You’re pretty sure Clark could check the fire alarm without using a ladder, which you’re tempted to tell the fireman, but he seems nice enough. It’s just early, you’re grumpy. 

“I’ve been doing this for almost a decade now,” the fireman says. You hum in an interested tone, watching as he uses a screwdriver to unscrew the panel of the fire alarm. It falls down into his other palm and he checks the batteries.

“Expired,” he says disapprovingly.

Okay fire alarm guy. 

He takes a couple batteries out of his shirt pocket and replaces the old batteries. Then he screws the panel back on. It kind of feels like watching you dad or uncle fix something, which would be sweet if you weren’t sleep deprived and annoyed that somehow this guy made his way to your fourth floor apartment before these tests were even supposed to start. 

The fireman puts his screwdriver back into his toolbelt and then looks back at you from where he’s standing on the ladder. 

“Might be loud,” is the only warning you get.

A shrill beep screeches through the apartment as he presses the “test” button on the alarm. It wakes you up all over again, making you jolt upwards. You’re close to cussing, but then you hear a different loud noise. Two loud thuds echo from behind Clark’s bedroom door.

Oh shit, he was still sleeping.

A couple more thuds sound out before Clark’s door is ripped open. There’s a wild look to him as his chest puffs anxiously.

“Fire?” He asks at the same time the fireman says “alarm works now!” Proud as ever.

No, there’s no fire. But it’s starting to get warm. 

You’ve never seen Clark straight out of bed. Typically he showers at night, after you go to bed, so that you can have the bathroom in the mornings. That means that by the time you see him each morning he’s already dressed for work, curls tamed, and he’s all put together. Right now though, he’s the least put together you’ve ever seen him.

His hair is somewhat screwed up, the curls flat on one side of his head from how he sleeps, and his glasses are a little crooked from how hastily he must have shoved them on. Clark is also shirtless, which is surprising. You kind of took Clark as the kind of man who has old fashioned cotton pajama sets considering he wears a suit to work everyday. You very much wish he was right now.

Clark is obviously a strong guy. He’s got great arms that you’ve been able to admire multiple times over the last seven months, and sometimes you’re able to see how big his chest is when his dress shirts strain just right. But right now, you’re getting a full view of everything, and he’s so, terribly, attractively, big. Clark’s arms are much bigger than you thought they were, but so is everything else. His stomach pushes against the stretchband of his pajama pants just right, making you think of the time that he had shared the fact that “Ma fed me well,” over dinner. Fuck yes she did. Thanks Ma. His stomach looks dense with strength, like he’s been bulking his whole life, and his tits… Lord. Never in your life have you ever thought that a man having tits could be attractive, but Clark Kent doesn’t seem to be able to be unattractive. They look heavy and the skin looks soft and for a split second you think about what it would be like to run your hands up his body and cup them. 

You notice that you’re staring at him, but he doesn’t. Instead, Clark seems to realize that the guy in your apartment isn’t an intruder, but is actually checking the fire alarm. He walks over quickly, and in typical Clark fashion, strikes up a conversation with this guy. He’s distracted fully, giving you more time to kind of drool over the new angle you’re getting of his arms.

Normally you wouldn’t do this. You’ve purposefully been avoiding being attracted or generally objectifying Clark no matter what because when he moved in with you he was sorely broken up over his last relationship ending. Clark was much too sweet for you to think about in that way, no matter how delicious he is to stare at. But it’s been months now, and he seems more okay, and damn it he’s shirtless and it’s 7:30 in the morning and you’re pissed! You deserve a little eye candy, no? 

You let your eyes drop back to his stomach as he stands while talking to the fireman. The profile of his tummy almost hanging over the waistband is making your whole body heat up, but then your eyes drop lower and it gets worse.

He’s not wearing underwear.

There’s literally no possible way that he’s wearing anything beneath the pajama pants. You can see the outline of what you think is morning wood, but you aren’t entirely sure. If he had a boner that big right now he wouldn’t just be casually talking to a stranger in your apartment, right? But then again, there’s no way he’s packing something that much. It wouldn’t be human to be that big soft. He must just be oblivious. Fuck, you’re perving out right now.

It’s pressing against the plaid pattern of his pants in a way that maybe is camouflaged to the poor fireman who now looks like he’s trapped in a conversation with Clark. You watch as the fireman slowly packs up his ladder and moves unsubtly toward the door in an attempt to drop a hint that Clark isn’t picking up. It, yes it, isn’t camouflaged to you though. You watch from the couch as his pants tent around it, the thickness of it pressing against his leg as he moves toward the door with the fireman. Sweat starts to form at your brow as you swallow dryly. 

Maybe his last girlfriend just couldn’t stand the hospital trips after they had sex? That’s the only plausible reason you can see someone dumping Clark. He’s suffering from the success of all those inches. 

The fireman finally shuts down the conversation Clark had started with a gentle “I have to go test other alarms now,” and slips out the door. Clark turns to you now, still clearly oblivious to the third leg he seems to be showing off.

“I totally forgot about that inspection, geez.”

You are braindead. His words don’t even seem like words anymore as you get another full frontal view of his less-than-normally-clothed body and the inside of your skull feels fuzzy. It’s too early for all of these emotions of frustration and then sudden insatiable heat. Maybe you’re getting close to ovulating or something, but Clark is triggering you badly.

“Are you hard?” You ask.

Clark instantly reaches his hands down, covering his crotch.

“What? No, I just– I just threw these on. They must be too small.” He sputters. 

Just threw those on? Your brows scrunch together in confusion. If he just threw those on before coming out of his room and he’s not wearing anything else (other than his glasses…)

“I sleep naked,” Clark admits flusteredly. Your eyes widen just as your mouth hangs slightly open in surprise. This is not something that you thought Clark would ever say, nor admit if it was the case. His ears are turning pink as his hands cover his crotch area still, though you doubt he’s actually covering all the square footage of his downstairs property. 

“I started sleeping naked when I moved away from home. It was like a freedom thing, I think.”

Oookay. Coolio. Packing that tidbit of info into your brain and saving it for later when Clark isn’t home and you have a certain something charged. You nod with your mouth still open, then swallow back the dryness on your tongue before speaking again.

“Why do you…” you start speaking but then he moves toward the couch and your voice trails off. He sits opposite you, looking a little ashamed as he shoves a pillow over his lap. “Why do you still sleep naked?”

He can’t make eye contact with you now, he’s too embarrassed. It almost seems like he never really thought about the fact it might be strange to still sleep naked, and now he has to face the music. 

“Clothes just… restrain stuff,” he admits quietly. 

Stuff.

“Stuff?” You reply. “What stuff?

He shakes his head, says your name quietly like he wishes you’d forget this. “You know what stuff. My stuff.”

This is insane. There’s no way he’s that big all the time. That’s not something you believe. 

“You’re seriously not… that’s not just morning wood or something?” 

Clark shakes his head again and seems even more embarrassed now. His fists push into the throw pillow on his lap nervously. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I know it’s strange. Or scary, I’ve been called scary.”

Aw. You feel kind of bad for him amidst all your curiosity about this newfound limb on your roommate. The best comfort you can offer in this awkwardness is a shrug.

“It’s okay, Clark,” you attempt a normal voice, “it’s just a surprise.” 

He laughs quietly, thank goodness. His smile is always a ray of sunshine but right now it breaks up the insanity of the situation. “Golly, it’s a surprise to you? Imagine growing this thing,” he chuckles. Like it’s normal.

The honesty is somehow scarier than the fact that his dick is really that big. That’s just Clark’s life, he has to have that in his pants all the time, and now you have to know that he has that in his pants all the time too. What the fuck? What is this morning?

Clark finally works up the courage to look at you again, though you can still see the remnants of his flustered expression from moments before. His eyes stroll over your face and he seems to realize your befuddlement. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. You raise your head to nod, but then feel the tug of a question caught in your throat. 

“How big is it?” You ask. The tables turn again and Clark is back to being the one caught off guard. He sputters some breaths and attempts words but you shrug. “I’ve already basically seen it, Clark. I’m just curious.”

The last thing you say seems to ease him some more, as silly as it is. It’s true, you’ve basically seen the outline of the whole thing now, so he has less reason to be shy. Clark, again, nods. Then he picks the pillow up off his lap and places it on the ground beside his feet. This gives you a chance to see the way his stomach pouts out from his body while he sits, and the way his tits sit. They still look so soft, but you can’t make Clark any more uncomfortable than he already is, so you try your best to maintain eye contact.

“Eight and a half inches,” he manages to spit out. God, he sounds ashamed of it. Why is he ashamed? 

You gawk at him. “I don’t even think I could fit half of you in my mouth.”

Why did you say that? Oh my god, why did you say that? 

“That’s… fair. Nobody ever has,” Clark admits shyly. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

It sounds like a challenge. Your eyes drop back to his lap, searching for a moment until you can finally focus on the visible outline against the worn fabric of his pajamas. 

“I could try,” you suggest. Clark’s head tilts down a little as he tries to meet your eyes that are currently feasting on the sight of his lap. He starts to say “what” but you stumble out more words. “Like just to see. Not in a sex way, but in an experimental way. Just to see.”

He seems a little speechless, his mouth forming the shapes of words that don’t come out, seldom for a shocked whisper of your name. Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and then  leans back against the couch, nodding.

“Not in a sex way,” he repeats as you slide off the couch and maneuver yourself between his legs. “Aw geez.”

Stupid cute man with a stupidly big cock. You aren’t technically breaking the “roommate rule” of don’t-fuck-your-roommate at least. You’re not fucking him, you are both just trying to see how much of Clark’s dick is humanly possible to suck. 

He lifts his hips for you as your hands reach up and slide his pants down his legs, pulling them off with little struggle. It exposes his thighs to you, the hair that feathers out from his pubic area into a softer dusting around the outer area where his dick lays. It’s too heavy to even stand up on its own, it just lays against his thigh. He’s uncut but the foreskin is pulled back slightly, exposing the deep pink of his tip and how it’s starting to drool pre-come. 

“Sorry, it’s um, been a bit. I’m a shower so don’t worry about,” he swallows nervously again, “about it getting any bigger than this.”

It is a little comforting to know you won’t have to deal with any more than you signed up for, but mostly you just want to soothe him. Clark seems so ashamed of how big he is, which isn’t totally unfamiliar. He always seems awkward in social situations, like a mega block in a world of lego bricks, but this is something you can help. You’ll prove to him that he is suckable.

But you’ll prove it in a moment. First you focus on what your mind, what’s left of it, wants to do.

You lean down and nudge your nose against the side of his cock, inhaling a little bit. He smells clean, just like the rest of him, but also a little different, a little more Clark than everywhere else. Your eyes meet his as you let your tongue loll out of your mouth and drag up his shaft, then lap at his tip as his head falls backward.

“Y-you said it wasn’t a sex thing,” he protests weakly. 

“It isn’t,” you protest. It’s not a total lie. “I’m making sure you’re as hard as possible. You have to be fully hard for me to–” “Please just put your mouth on me,” he blurts out. “Please? You wanna figure this out too, right?”

Holy needy. You weren’t really expecting Clark to be this submissive. He’s probably just desperate because, as he said, it’s been a little while, but he’s already begging. 

“Yeah,” you mumble against his tip, “yeah okay.”

He’s so much more than a mouthful. You were expecting it to be a lot, but you can’t breathe at all once his tip is fully in his mouth. Clark isn’t just long, but he’s thick too. It feels like you bit off more than you could chew, literally, and you’re just desperately swallowing around him. It’s especially hard to focus on not choking because he keeps making these little sounds and grasping at the arm of the couch. Clark clearly doesn’t want to push you at all. The hand that isn’t on the arm of the couch is gripping the couch cushion ferociously and his hips keep trying to buck up but he resists it, though just barely.

It isn’t a sex thing, it’s an experiment, you need to focus.

Your eyes slide shut as you decide to lock in, tuning out the noises and movements he’s making. Most of your focus goes into relaxing your jaw to fit more of him in. You know you’ll ache later, but it’s worth it. He’s so heavy in your mouth and in your hands as you hold him. The wetness of your mouth doesn’t seem to be enough and so you keep drooling out more and more saliva, trying to lube your throat so he’ll slide in easier, with less resistance. It doesn’t feel humanly possible, he’s completely right.

You attempt to say his name, but just gargle around his cock. He struggles back a “yeah?” and that’s when your eyes open again.

You’re far enough down on his dick now that when you open your eyes and look up at him, you’re met with a slight underside view of his stomach and tits. Clark looks back down at you with clouded eyes and a sweaty brow, meeting your own accidental doe eyes. It’s hard not to look pathetic and needy when you have a dick in your mouth, it’s just what happens. You maintain eye contact as you work your throat, attempting to open it up more to take him further and he whines while looking into your eyes. 

Clark breathes your name once, then shuts his eyes tight as his chest heaves.

“Are you trying t-to make me come?” He asks. His voice sounds pained, but his cock throbs in your mouth as he asks the question.

Well, are you?

He looks close already, even more wrecked than five minutes ago when this “experiment” began. Obviously you want him to come, you’re sucking his dick for gods sake, but he’s just making sure. He’s just being good and making sure that he’s allowed to come. The two of you are losing any inhibitions about this pretense of an experiment and you’re ready to fully let loose.

You can’t respond to his question without pulling off his cock, and you sure as hell don’t want to lose the progress you’ve made on his length, so instead you give in. Reaching up from the floor with your hand, you trail your fingers up his body and then cup his left tit in your hand. His breath catches as he looks down at what you’re doing, and that’s when you rub your thumb over his nipple. It hardens immediately and he lets out a rough moan as you nod, resuming bobbing your head up and down his cock. 

Yes you’re going to make Clark come. You want to make this big, delicious, kind, man come his brains out, either in your mouth or on you, or both.

Whatever efforts you were making previously tenfold as you start to start to jerk off whatever you can’t fit in your mouth with your free hand, the other one still entirely focused on groping the soft fat of his breast and toying with his nipple. Clark starts to let his hips buck up more as he begins to repeat your name, whining each time you stimulate his nipple just right. Drool leaks out of your mouth and onto your balls as you let the back of your throat get pummelled relentlessly. It feels like your brains are melting in your head each time you feel him throb or taste him leaking a little more pre-come. “I’m gonna come,” Clark warns. He says it again, but makes no move to pull you off him. 

Your eyes meet his with some sense of determination, and you hope the bob of your head and the nod of your head don’t look too similar as you try to reply with a nod of “yes, yes, come.” The message, thankfully, is received. Your hands work relentlessly to stimulate him fully through his orgasm as he spills down your throat. You try to keep up with swallowing but it starts to feel like if you don’t pull off of him you’re going to have come drip out of your nose. Finally you jerk back, watching as his cock doesn’t slow down at all, shooting ropes not just on your face and neck, but dripping onto his own thighs too. He’s so noisy as he comes, on top of all the things in motion he’s moaning your name and thanking you.

“Thank you, thank you,” he whimpers, “m sorry it’s such a mess.”

It is such a mess. You didn’t take into account that him having a big dick might mean him having bigger balls, which you certainly won’t neglect if the two of you ever do this again, but now he’s coming so much. Some of it is already half dried on your sleepshirt by the time he’s finished.

Clark’s head rolls back again, his legs falling even further apart, as he catches his breath. He has half a mind to hand you the pants you peeled off him earlier, apologizing for not being able to clean you up properly. It’s a sweet gesture, and you’ll excuse his lack of aftercare since it seems like he just emptied his entire bloodline down your face and shirt. After somewhat cleaning the come off you, you’re surprised as he lifts you up onto the couch, moving his spent cock out of the way so you can sit on him. 

“Thank you,” he says again, pushing his nose against your shoulder, “sorry I ruined your experiment.”

It seems that despite what just happened, Clark will always be the considerate, sweet, guy that he’s always been during his time as your roommate. His breath is soft against your shoulder as his eyes flutter and look down.

“And sorry for ruining your shirt.” 

A giggle pushes its way through your chest and past your aching jaw. “It’s fine. I’ll just take off my shirt next time we try.”

Clark’s posture goes a little rigid at the mention of a next time. He pulls his nose away from your shoulder and looks at you a little curiously. “Next time?” 

You’re quick to respond, shrugging it off casually to avoid the many questions and considerations you’re sure Clark will chatter away at you once his brain rebuilds itself from his orgasm.

“Yeah, next time. I only fit like… half of you in my throat. I think I can do better than that,” you say defiantly. Clark huffs a laugh of disbelief out. “I just need more practice.”

“More practice. Sure,” he agrees softly.

>///<

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“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

But then came a fourth tap. Just one. Sharp enough to make your headache throb like it was answering.

”Y/N…It’s Bob…Can I come in?” You winced at the sound of his voice, even though it was always super gentle and timid.

Bob.

Of course it was Bob.

You’d almost forgotten in the haze of your sickness that you were technically on Bob duty. Because apparently being half-dead with the flu made you the least threatening option to keep an eye on the world’s most powerful man while the rest of the team went on recon. Bucky had said it so casually, like the fate of the planet couldn’t possibly unravel while you were tucked under three blankets with a thermometer hanging out of your mouth.

“All you gotta do is check in on him every hour or so,” He’d told you. “Make sure he eats. Make sure he’s not spiraling, and doing something to keep himself occupied. Y’know. Normal people stuff.”

It had been simple, at first. When the worst symptoms you were experiencing was a runny nose and a dull headache, you’d shuffle past Bob every so often with a thumbs up and a mumbled “You good?” While he nodded earnestly over his book, asking you the same thing back.

But once you started coughing so hard you felt like your ribs were breaking, and the chills that you were experiencing gave way to night sweats and dry heaving, keeping tabs on Bob Reynolds fell hard to the bottom of your to-do list–somewhere below “don’t die” and “get a new tissue”.

“…It’s open,” You rasped, your voice raw and thin from all the coughing you had been doing.

The doorknob turned slowly, like he was still asking permission even after you gave it. Then Bob stepped inside with that careful kind of energy that people only reserved for hospital rooms or museums–like one wrong step might unplug or break something important.

He hovered in between the doorway, not coming too close–being mindful that you had told him a few times to keep his distance because you didn’t want him getting sick, even though it was nearly impossible for him to catch anything. His baggy navy sweater hung off him like a weighted blanket, and the sleeves were stretched over his knuckles, worn from the way he would always pick at the fabric. He looked small in it–even though he was quiet muscular underneath all the layers. His posture was slouched, and his shoulders were drawn up like he was nervous about something. On top of all that though, he was wearing his new wardrobe staple–a dark brown beanie that he shoved his bleach-blonde hair under, he never came out of his room without it.

You stared at his figure through half-lidded eyes, watching as he avoided looking directly at you.

”You okay?” You croaked, reaching up to your face to rub the sleep off your face, attempting to sit up to get a better look at him. He glanced over at you, nodding quickly.

”Yeah. Of course…I mean…I’m good, I just…” He trailed off, the sentence losing momentum halfway through as his gaze drifted around the room.

He wasn’t just avoiding your eyes anymore, it was like his attention had been dragged elsewhere–behind you, beside you, and all around you. His brows twitched slightly as he took in your space for the first time, and slowly you connected the dots that Bob had never actually been inside your room before– the first time was always an experience for people who didn’t know you were a secret collector of everything.

His eyes swept over the cluttered desk in the corner that sported wires, pliers, circuit boards and half built gadgets, before going to the large overstuffed bookshelf beside it, which was packed tight with thrifted novels and comic books that were still in their original plastic sleeves. There was a milk crate of vinyls on the floor near your speaker, with the old record player you insisted on fixing instead of replacing, even though you would complain every few days about it.

There was a flicker in his expression–surprise, maybe. Or something quieter, like he’d just stumbled into a part of you that he didn’t expect to find. You saw it in the way his jaw went still and the way his shoulders shifted slightly, like he was dying to ask you questions about everything you had, but he was holding himself back.

”…Bob,” You said hoarsely, trying to draw his attention back to you. He didn’t blink, his eyes were fixated on something in the far corner where your posters were. You reached your hand up over your head, waving slightly, and snapping your fingers, “Earth to Bob. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He shook himself out of his trance, and glanced over at you.

”Sorry…Sorry,” He said quickly, his voice a little higher than usual, as he cleared his throat, “Didn’t mean to, uh…Y’know, snoop or anything. I’ve just never seen your room before, you’ve got a lot of cool stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at him with a small smile on your face.

”You’re lucky I feel like death. Otherwise I’d be giving you the grand tour right now…I also include a quiz at the end.” Bob let out a nervous laugh and looked down, picking at the loose thread on his sleeve.

“I’d definitely fail…So I’m kind of glad…Well I’m not glad you’re sick, I’m just glad I don’t have to do a quiz.” Your lips twitched, amused despite the ache that was still clawing at your skull.

”Very smooth recovery Bob, very smooth.” Bob made a quiet noise–somewhere between a breathy laugh and a groan–keeping his eyes pinned to the floor as his cheeks turned a soft pink. You pushed yourself up a little more than before, elbows trembling from the effort of holding yourself up.

”So…What’s going on? Why’d you knock on my door at…” You paused, glancing over at your alarm clock, “Seven fifty three in the morning?” Bob sighed.

”Well…I need to go to the drug store,” He admitted, his voice sheepish, “And I know Bucky’s not really a fan of me going out alone so…Thought I’d ask my babysitter.” You squinted at him through your blurred vision, feeling the room tilt slightly, as you brought your hand up to your face, pressing gently at your temples.

”Are you getting sick or something?” He immediately shook his head.

”No, no it’s nothing like that. I haven’t really gotten sick since I took the Sentry serum…” You quirked your brow at him.

”So…What’s the reason for the drug store trip then?” Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him loudly as he did so.

“I um…I need to buy something. For myself.” He responded, dancing around the truth. You stared at him.

”Is it serious?”

”No,” He said quickly, “It’s not like…Health-serious or anything, I’m fine physically, I just…” He paused, clamming up again, not knowing how to explain himself. You narrowed your eyes at him, coughing into your arm, clutching your ribs when a dull ache pulsed through the area.

”You do realize I’m gonna find out anyway if I go with you , right?” Bob sighed and dragged his hand down the side of his face, like he was physically wiping the resistance off of himself, letting his hand drop down to the hem of his sweater.

”Fine…Fine…I need to buy…Hair dye.” He mumbled under his breath. You tilted your head slightly, blinking through the fevered haze that clouded your vision.

”Hair dye?” Bob winced at the way the words left your mouth, even though you didn’t mean for it to sound like you were judging him.

”Mhm…” You stared at him for a second longer than he could handle, as his eyes began to wander again, his hands wringing the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling it.

“You woke me up at seven-fifty-three in the morning…For hair dye?” You asked again, trying to confirm what you were hearing once more, hoping that you weren’t experiencing an odd version of delirium at this point.

”It’s not just–“ He started, then shut his mouth again, biting the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, “I mean…It is…But I just…” The sentence fell apart in his throat, as his cheeks began to heat up. He looked genuinely embarrassed, and you could see himself curling even more into his sweater, “I just don’t like what it looks like anymore.” There was something raw about the way he said it, and you couldn’t help but feel empathy for him, your heart clenching at the way his words cracked in the air.

“The bleach… The whole look,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor, “It was for him. For the Sentry. That’s what they said, anyway– they said that it would help. That it would make people see someone new. Something brighter…Like it would somehow separate us…But I still have to live in this body when he’s not around.” Bob continued, his throat swelling with a lump, “I still have to see myself…And the longer I look like him, the harder it is to remember who I am when I’m just…Bob.” You didn’t say anything at first–not because you didn’t want to, but because there was something about the way he was talking about himself that made your chest cave in a little. The words hung in the air like mist, as he bowed his head even lower, keeping his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at you or anything else in the room.

“It’s not stupid.” You could see his hands stop moving at your words, watching his eyes glance up at you hesitantly. You gave him a tired but sincere look, hoping that it was enough for him to understand that what you were saying was coming from a place of care, “Wanting to see yourself again isn’t stupid Bob…It’s just you trying to cling to the one thing you have control of…I get it.” His mouth parted, like he was going to thank you, but no sound came out. He was relieved that someone was finally understanding what he meant, it was like he had been running around talking to walls when he would speak about how he was feeling, but with you in this moment…It was like he felt seen.

”So I’ll help…But I need to see what we’re working with first.” You added, motioning to his head. Bob looked like a deer in the headlights when you said it, caught off guard by your suggestion, but also scared to even follow through with it.

”W-What?” You sighed.

”That hat Bob…Just take it off…I haven’t seen your hair since we moved you in here and you’ve been hiding it like it’s some sort of radioactive test subject.” He felt his heart gallop in his chest a little bit, as the nerves began to build up in him.

”I-I really don’t think that’s necessary,” He stammered, already figuring out a way to retreat out of the conversation, eyeing the hallway that was in the far corner of his vision.

”Bob, you dragged me out of a flu coma to ask me for help…So let me help you…Let me see it.” The gentleness in your voice was always something that got to him. Even on your toughest days you would use that tone with him, and for some reason it was the only thing that truly had him melting like putty in your hands.

You could see the conflict playing out within him, like he was weighing out the risks, until a look of resolve appeared on his face, a small sigh escaping his lips as he gave in to your request.

Bob’s fingers trembled as he slipped them beneath the edge of his beanie, hesitating for a second before slowly tugging it off his head. The static cling made the knit fabric resist him just a little, like even the hat itself didn’t want to let go of the safety it provided him.

The moment it came off, a curtain of hair fell across his face. You blinked through your fevered haze, eyes widening slightly–not in shock, but in recognition. His hair was longer than you remembered–shaggy, uneven, the ends fried from months of bleach. The top was still harshly pale, the yellow-white of it stark under the low morning light, but underneath, near the roots, his real hair was coming back in–soft, and light brown, just like you recalled from the brief glimpses you got of him before it all got changed. But the line where bleach met natural color was harsh and jarring, cutting across his scalp like a bad decision frozen in time.

He looked like someone in between versions of himself, not quite Bob, not quite Sentry–just…Stuck. You studied him for a moment, your body heavy with exhaustion but your chest buzzing with quiet sympathy. There was something so tender about the way he stood there, hair falling into his eyes, his beanie clutched in his hands like a comfort object. He looked younger somehow. Not in age, but in vulnerability–like this was the version of himself that never got the chance to just be soft and carefree.

“It’s not that bad,” You started, the rasp still thick in your throat, “Really. It just needs some love, patience…Maybe a deep condition…And the right shade of brown.” Bob’s head immediately shot up to look at you, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying.

”S-So you’re actually going to help? Y-You didn’t just try to trick me into showing you my hair right?” You shifted yourself down to the edge of your mattress, groaning at the way your bones protested and pulsed with each movement.

”No I didn’t try to trick you… I’m going to help, but first, I’m gonna need you to come here and make sure I don’t fall, because I think my legs are going to wiggle like they’re made of jelly.” For a split second Bob wasn’t sure if you were serious or not about needing actual help, but he moved anyway, shuffling towards you with his socked feet sliding across the floor. He opened his arms hesitantly, elbows bending like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go, offering himself up into your space.

”Alright…Whenever you’re ready I g-guess.” He said softly, his voice cracking a bit on the ‘guess’ like he was more nervous about touching or dropping you than you were about falling on your own.

Your hands found his forearms instantly, fingers curling into the soft, worn cotton of his sleeves, watching him brace himself. He looped one arm under yours, while steadying the other against your back as you pushed off the mattress, feeling your knees buckling beneath you like a baby deer on ice.

“Woah–woah, okay.” Bob muttered quickly, tightening his arms around you without a second thought. He adjusted himself accordingly, trying his best to be gentle while still being secure enough to hold you upright. You ended up closer than either of you really expected, with his chest pressed against yours, and your cheek inches away from his shoulder.

Despite everything—the fever baking your skin, the chills clinging to your limbs, and the flu that had knocked you down hard enough to rattle the walls—you still smelled…Good.

Bob noticed it the moment you got within his arms reach.

It wasn’t some kind of artificial, pampered scent. It wasn’t perfume or lotion or anything curated. No, it was just you–fresh soap, soft worn cotton, and that barely-there trace of eucalyptus from the body wash and shampoo combo you swore by. He heard you muttering something about it being the only thing strong enough to trick your sinuses into opening, and Bob had thought it was actually going to work because the sniff you gave him from the bottle made him have a sneezing fit, but he heard your frustrated grunt in the shower when it had not been the case.

”You alright Bob?” You asked, feeling the tension in his body against yours. He let out a short breath, which fanned across the crown of your head. He didn’t say anything right away, he just gave you a quick nod.

”Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” You could feel how careful he was being, feeling his arms flexing around you, not too tight, and not too loose. He was warm, and steady, while trying so hard not to be in the way, even though you requested his help. You couldn’t help but think about how strangely nice it was to be close to him, despite the situation.

You stood like that for another moment longer, your body leaning against his, the rhythm of your fevered breathing matching the rise and fall of his chest. Even through the blocked sinuses you had you could smell his laundry detergent on his sweater–fresh from the dryer, another thing you seemed to like about the moment.

Though you snapped yourself out of your self-induced daze once the floor felt less like a rocking ship beneath your feet. You pulled back just enough to glance up at him.

”You can let go now,” You whispered, startling Bob with the cue. Quickly he stepped back, like he just realized he was touching a hot stove or something, trying not to seem like he had been enjoying the odd moment of closeness. Despite the warmth of his body leaving yours, his hands still hovered around you just in case.

”I’m good,” You reassured, wobbling slightly but managing to keep yourself upright, “Just give me a few minutes to brush my teeth and get my bearings so I don’t scare the public by looking like a corpse.” Bob nodded immediately.

”Yeah, of course, I’ll just…I’ll wait in the hallway. There’s no rush or anything, uh…Just take your time. Seriously, I mean it.” He said, backing away while he clutched his beanie in his hand, “Just call me if you need anything.” He added, slipping out of your room and pulling the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, you sat back down on the edge of the bed with a slow, rattling breath. God. Your whole body felt like it had been microwaved–sweaty, sore, and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes for a second, trying to reboot your nervous system. Not just from the fever, but from how close Bob had been. How soft he’d been. How good it had felt to be held with such warmth and gentleness even if it was for a fleeting moment.

You let out a sigh, before getting up again, dragging yourself into the ensuite bathroom you shared with Yelena, flicking on the bright fluorescent light. You let out a hiss, catching your reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, the damage was minimal, sure your hair was an absolute mess from spending the night tossing and turning, but you looked half-awake at least.

Quickly, you got yourself ready, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, fixing up your hair, and changing into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you were done, only fifteen minutes had passed–your new personal best. You cracked the door to your bedroom open, finding Bob sitting on the floor waiting with his back against the wall and knees drawn up. He looked up quickly when he heard the creak, and gave you a soft smile.

“Let’s get outta here.”

——————

Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder in front of the painfully fluorescent wall of boxed hair dye in your local CVS.

It was still early, so thankfully not a lot of people were in the store. You actually thought that it was just you and Bob who were customers and the rest of the people there were employees and managers. On the overhead speakers there was a faint crackle of old 2000s music groaning throughout the store. The air smelled like plastic and dryer sheets, which was an odd mix for a drugstore of all places.

Bob stood stiffly beside you, his hands jammed into the front pocket of his jacket, eyes wide as he took in the absurd variety of brands and colours in front of him. His mouth was parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide on what panic stricken sentence he was going to go with. So you spoke first.

“Well…We know what row we need to look at.” You said, motioning toward the more natural leaning colours–rows of caramel, ash, chestnut, and espresso–pushing the cart gently in that direction as Bob trailed behind you like a nervous shadow. Your eyes scanned over the various boxes and brands, trying to find ones that would do minimum damage to his hair while actually doing the job.

“I didn’t think it was going to be so complicated…” He murmured from behind you, “I just thought there would be straight forward choices…” You looked up from the boxes, seeing the way his jaw was clenched.

”It’s just overwhelming because all the companies who make this stuff create different versions of the same thing. See…” You pointed at one box “This one is ammonia free, and is semi-permanent,” Then pointed to the other one right beside it,”While this one is permanent and has argan oil infused in it so it doesn’t do a lot of damage, but they’re the same colour.” Bob squinted at the wall of labels, then back to the boxes you had motioned to, visibly confused, shaking his head.

“Alright…But what if I just want…Normal dye?” You looked up at him, one brow arching in mild amusement.

”Bob…This is normal dye.” He turned a sharp shade of red, as the heat rose to his cheeks, taking over the paleness.

“W-Well yeah but–but you know what I mean don’t you? It doesn’t have to be so complicated, just have one of every colour.” You let out a small laugh.

”Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, Bob. You want brown? Well, first you gotta pick from thirty-seven kinds of brown. Do you want cocoa chestnut or honey almond toast? Because those are apparently different.” Bob took his hand out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck.

”Okay…I guess you’re right.” He replied nervously.

”We’ll find your colour, I promise.” You said calmly, continuing to look over the boxes in front of you.

“Should I, uh…Take my hat off? Would that help?” You tilted your head at him, and nodded.

”It would definitely make this a much quicker process…But if it really bothers you, I’m pretty sure I could go off of memory.” Bob shrugged a little, his eyes flicking around the store for a moment.

”I don’t mind, it’s basically just us in here anyway.” You nodded, watching him remove the beanie again, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He tried to not make a big deal out of it, but you could tell he felt exposed, so you were going to attempt to make things quick.

”Alright,” You said, stepping a little closer to him, grabbing a few boxes from the shelf, “Bend down a bit, I need to get a good look at the roots so I can compare.” He obeyed, ducking his head so you could see the top of his hair properly. In doing so, he stepped closer than you expected—closer than he expected, probably. Your foreheads were nearly aligned, noses maybe a breath apart. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to get the right angle, and Bob found himself frozen there, inches from you, not sure where to look. So, he looked at you.

You smelled like cherry cough drops–sickly sweet and medicinal—and it hit him instantly, like a quiet little exhale in the space between you. He remembered the moment you popped one into your mouth earlier, halfway to CVS, saying it was the only thing keeping your throat from giving out. And now the scent lingered on your breath, mingling with the warmth of your skin and the faint trace of eucalyptus from before. Bob swore his brain short-circuited for a second.

You were focused, eyes narrowing slightly, as you held one box up beside his roots, then another. Your fingers brushed through the longer strands near his crown, gently separating pieces to get a clearer view of where the bleach ended and his real colour began. You were so precise about it, so tender, and Bob didn’t know where to put his hands or how to keep breathing without accidentally inhaling you.

Then you paused, lips turning up as you caught the way his chest rose a little faster, how his fingers curled and uncurled in his sleeves

A soft rattling sound reached your ears then–the kind of nervous, involuntary vibration that sometimes came from him when he was overwhelmed. You smirked slightly, brushing your thumb against his temple on purpose as you pushed a few more strands aside.

“Is the Sentry getting a bit flustered?” You teased, your voice still raspy from the flu but still playful. “Or is that just you rattling like a soda can?”

Bob made a noise–half sigh, half laugh–ducking his head a little more like it would hide the warmth that continued to spread over his skin, all the way down his neck. “It’s definitely just me. He’s, uh…He’s fine.”

“Good,” You hummed, still close, eyes flicking between the swatch and his roots. “Because I don’t think he’d let me manhandle his hair like this.”

“You’re not…Manhandling anything,” He mumbled, trying to cover up the wavering tone. “Feels…Kinda nice, actually.” You paused at that comment, your eyes glancing down to his, seeing little glints of sparkling orange through the sea blue that his irises normally sported. For a second, neither of you said anything. The store had faded by that point and all that was left was the faint scent of cherry and the feel of your fingers still resting lightly in his hair.

“…This is your shade,” You said finally, voice soft, motioning to the box in your hand. He didn’t move at first, it was as if his brain hadn’t caught up to the moment yet, or his ears were ringing so much he didn’t hear what you had said. Then you shifted your weight, easing back slightly, giving him some space as you cleared your throat, dropping the box into the cart with a clunk. He quickly slipped the beanie back on, shoving his hair up into it, sealing away the moment beneath it.

“Now we need to get you one of those conditioning treatments, and after that I’m grabbing some snacks, cause I’m getting hungry.” He looked away from you, nodding.

”Yeah, okay…Conditioner and snack. Got it.” You glanced up at him, seeing the way he was avoiding you eyes again, before turning back to the cart, pushing it down the aisle with him following close behind. You turned into the next section without fanfare–the shampoo and conditioner area–and skimmed over a wide array of labels until your eyes landed on the exact jar you were looking for: the rich brown packaging, the heavy text that scrawled out all the promises of repairing and restoring.

“This one,” You muttered, reaching up for it and dropping it into the cart with a soft thunk, “Will do miracles for the damage, you’re gonna love it, smells like sweet coconuts.” Bob glanced at the package.

”Does it…Sting?” Your eyebrows drew together.

”Bob…It's conditioner, not acid.” He bit his inner lip.

”No, I-I know, I’m just asking cause when they bleached my hair it really really burned…Then my head was super sensitive for like a whole week after, j-just don’t want to go through that again.” You could hear the way his voice tapered off, like he didn’t really want to talk about it, but he just wanted to let you know.

“I promise this will be way less abrasive.” You said, with a small smile tugging at your lips, nudging the cart forward again, “Now let’s get to that snack aisle before my stomach eats itself.” Bob chuckled softly at your words, following you again as you turned into the next section, noticing the sharp fluorescent lights had dimmed just slightly. The sterile smell of the store had completely faded by that point, being replaced with sweet confectionery items; gummy snacks, granola bars, marshmallows, anything you could think of really. You stopped your cart, feeling Bob’s chest bump into your back, as your eyes began to skim over the shelves, squinting at the shimmering bags, the look of contemplation drawing up into your eyebrows.

“So…What’re you craving?” He asked softly, watching your eyes dart around the wide variety, “Sweet? Salty?” You hummed.

”Might buy the whole aisle to be honest…” He laughed under his breath, the sound quieter than the store’s staticky music, but warmer than anything you’d heard in days.

”Seems like your appetite has come back.” You turned to look at him, letting your body sway slightly toward the cart to brace yourself.

”Yeah, I think the fresh air has put me on the road to recovery…Just don’t touch my lower back…It’s a little sweaty.” There was a beat of silence, before you continued “My stomach might also be trying to fool me into a false sense of security and I’ll end up throwing it all up after I eat it.”

“Well that took a turn…” You shrugged, plucking a bag of sweet chili chips, throwing it mindlessly into the cart.

”I like to keep you on your toes Bob.” You replied with a smirk.

—————-

Back at the compound, you retreated into your room to change, making quick work even though you were feeling a faint headache coming back, but it was more manageable than your prior ones.

You swapped out your clothes for a pair of beat-up black compression shorts and an old t-shirt from your days at training camp–frayed at the collar and speckled with faded bleach stains from when you touched up Yelena’s hair. The crooked letters on the shirt were faded but you could make out the words “I SURVIVED CAMP HAMMOND” on the front of it, a great memory of how long it’s been since you were actually training.

You grabbed your dye bowl and one of the brushes from under your bathroom sink, tucking them against you as you headed down the hall. Your bare feet padded softly against the cool flooring of the compound, reaching the bathroom that Bob shared with Bucky, seeing the door was already cracked open. You gave it a slow push with your knuckles, poking your head in.

Bob stood in the middle of the tiled space like he wasn’t sure where he was going to sit, clutching the CVS bag with both hands, wringing it in his grip, the sound crinkling plastic echoing off the walls. He already had taken off the beanie, fully prepared for what was coming.

“Alright,” You announced as you stepped inside, “Your hair hero has arrived.” Bob looked over at you quickly, his shoulders dropping slightly when he laid eyes on you and your outfit. The tension in him bleeding out of him in small waves.

”You brought your own bowl?” He asked, trying to cover up the fact he was staring at your bare legs for longer than he intended.

“Of course I brought my own bowl,” You replied, holding it up slightly before setting it down on the porcelain counter, “What kind of amateur do you think I am?” You asked jokingly, earning a small smile from Bob, motioning for him to hand you the bag.

You unpacked the contents onto the sinks edge–the dye, the conditioner, the gloves, and a couple of CVS coupons that the cashier had stapled to the receipt.

“Okay,” You said, flipping the box of dye around to double-check the instructions even though you were seasoned enough to know what you were doing without them, “Let’s get you situated hm?” Bob hovered behind you awkwardly, watching your hands move with precise, and practiced ease. You pointed at the closed toilet lid.

”Go sit on the makeshift barber chair, hope you like stiff seats.” You joked, watching him go over to where you pointed, sitting down without protest, seeing the way his long frame compressed itself into the small space. He looked over at you with a soft smile, his hands clasping together, as you slid on a pair of gloves.

“Uh…Just wanted to say thank you for doing this, especially with being sick and everything…I didn’t mean to be a bother.” You cracked open the box of dye, flipping the flaps back and pulling out the developer bottle and aluminum tube of colour, the gloves squeaking slightly as you did so. You opened the cap with a satisfying pop and reached for the dye bowl beside you.

”You’re not a bother Bob.,” You said, glancing over at him as you squeezed the thick brown sludge into the bowl, “I don’t mind.” He blushed a bit at the softness in your voice, letting out a sheepish laugh, nodding before taking his eyes off you, his fingers finding the hem of his sweater.

You turned and flipped the small ceiling fan on, letting it whirl to life with a soft click and hum, it was your little attempt to keep the room from smelling like a chemical spill before you started stirring in the developer with the dye.

It was quiet for a moment–peaceful almost. Just the faint humming of the fan and the soft scrape of the plastic bristles rubbing against the inside of the bowl. Bob’s eyes drifted down toward your shirt absentmindedly, reading the faded words that were scrawled over the fabric that was clinging to your frame.

”What’s…Camp Hammond?” He asked quietly, with genuine curiosity in his voice, as he looked down to his hands. You didn’t look over at him immediately–still focused on making sure the mixture reached that perfect pudding-like texture–but your mouth twitched slightly.

”Did you think I was born with the skills of a mercenary?” You asked, glancing over at him with a teasing glint in your eye, “Hate to burst your bubble, but I wasn’t that cool.” Bob felt his cheeks heat up as it spread to his ears and down his neck.

”So what is it? Like…A boot camp or something?” You shrugged, looking down at the bowl again.

”Kind of. It was a training facility for recruits who showed promise in their assigned roles. I was a teenager when I got scouted, actually. They stuck us in bunk beds and we ran drills at five in the morning. Sometimes we were able to go home to see our families but I spent about three years there just learning the ropes and honing my skills.” He leaned forward a bit.

”Was it…Bad?” You paused the stirring for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek when you heard the way he asked.

”No. Not always. It was intense, but not all of it was horrible. I met my first team there actually, so that should tell you something about the experience.” At the mention of your first team, the conversation had faded, because true to Bob’s nature he was observant enough to catch on that you weren’t going to answer any questions about them. He just nodded, and sat still, with worry tucked beneath his lashes. You cleared your throat, breaking the silence.

”Before I forget–you should probably take that sweater off. This stuff is probably going to stain it and there’s a really low chance you’re going to be able to get it out.” You said, motioning with the brush, “Unless you actually want brown splatters all over it.” You added, seeing him look down at himself.

“Oh…Uh…” He said, curling his fingers into the hem of it, hesitating, “I’m not…Wearing anything under it.” You paused.

”You could go find something you don’t mind ruining, I can wait.” Bob shook his head, not looking at you, avoiding your eyes.

”I don’t really have anything…I wear pretty much all of my clothes, and donate the ones I don’t.” You put your hands on your hips, biting the inner side of your cheek.

”Guess we have a dilemma then.” You said jokingly, looking around the bathroom for a towel–a solution of sorts.

”I mean…I could take it off, I just…Just promise me you won’t laugh.” You stopped your movements immediately, looking back at him, raising your eyebrows.

”Okay. I won’t laugh.” You said, feeling your chest tighten. Bob nodded once, his fingers finally tugging up the hem of the sweater. It caught slightly on the undersides of his arms—he had to peel it upward with a bit of a twist—and then suddenly, it was gone, crumpled in his hands and resting in his lap.

You froze.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught somewhere in your throat, stalling completely as you took him in.

The heat that burned inside your body hit you like a second fever.

He was…Lean. But solid. Not showy or overly built, but undeniably strong. His chest and shoulders were broad in a way that looked natural. There were fine lines of definition that carved down his sternum and stomach, soft traces of light and shadow where his muscles rested. His skin was fair, with scattered freckles that dotted across his collarbones and shoulders like sunspots. A small scar cut just under his left rib–thin and silvery and healed long ago–and there was a faint stretch of color along his ribs, a faded birthmark maybe, or it was the aftermath from the serum he was given. Tying it all together though were the very very small stretch marks that were scattered around the expanse of skin, which made your brows raise a bit in admiration…

And his arms–Jesus Christ, his arms–were gently corded with strength, biceps not flexed but still clearly shaped beneath smooth skin, dusted with barely-there hair in the hollows of his elbows. The veins on his forearms sat just under the surface, pale blue and almost glowing under the harsh light of the bathroom.

He wasn’t perfect. But you didn’t want perfect. This–this was so much better.

The heat rushed up your neck and onto your cheeks so fast it was like your body had short-circuited, and you were suddenly very aware that your own shirt was threadbare and clinging to your frame. You tried to clear your throat quietly, to ground yourself, but the sound came out shakier than you liked. Bob caught it immediately, and his cheeks went a dark hue of pink. Now you were able to see the pale skin of his chest matching the same colour.

You felt nauseous looking at him, but for all the right reasons. How the hell were you supposed to get close to this man now without passing out? And how the hell was he able to hide this so well from you– Or anybody else for that matter?

“Wow…” Was all you could say, and you didn’t even mean for it to come out of your mouth. Bob’s head tilted up at you, noticing the way your eyes were glued to him like he was some sort of museum exhibit. He clutched the sweater in his lap a little tighter, curling in on himself a bit as if he was trying to hide, looking down at himself.

”Yeah I know…” He muttered, tone awkward and clipped, like he was attempting to defuse the silence before it got worse, “I know it’s bad…The serum kinda…I don’t know made me grow a little too quickly, and-.” You raised your hand to stop him.

”Woah woah…Don’t even go there Bob. I wasn’t saying wow in a bad way.” He looked up at you instantly, his eyes glistening in the lighting, the soft blue still shimmering with those little flecks of orange.

”…You weren’t?” He questioned, his lips parting a bit.

”Bob…You’re built like a fucking house.” You said bluntly, the edge in your voice softening from the next wave of nausea that sloshed in your stomach. Bob made a noise like he was suppressing a laugh, his throat closed a bit.

”That’s…A very generous interpretation, but you don’t have to lie to me…” Your expression twisted slightly, not in offense, but in something rawer than that. It was as if his words scratched at a place in you that was already tender.

”Bob, I’ve never lied to you…And I’m certainly not starting now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered like he was processing your words, like no one had ever said something so plainly true to him in a long time. You could see the way he swallowed hard, almost like he was choking back his words, “You look amazing, and I mean it.” That was when you heard it again–the faint rattling sound, you assumed he was shaking something in one of the cabinets, it didn’t really matter at this point though. He drew in a shaky breath to quiet it, his fingers tightening around the bunched-up sweater.

Then you stepped towards him, taking up the space between his knees. You were close enough to feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, to see the smallest cluster of freckles that laid just beneath his collarbone, and to feel his breath against you. Bob tilted his head up, slow and steady, his eyes finding yours immediately, seeing more orange taking over his irises.

“…You’re really not going to laugh at me?” He asked, almost like he truly couldn’t believe it. You sighed, tucking a piece of bleached hair behind his ear.

”Bob, the only thing I’m going to be doing right now is wondering how I’m supposed to function with you sitting in front of me like this…Does that make you feel any better?” Bob let out a soft, startled breath–almost like a laugh or like he didn’t know what to do with the surge of warmth that spread through his chest.

His hands, still knotted around the sweater in his lap, flexed–then unclenched. The tension there began to melt, bit by bit.

“I…” He started, then stopped. His voice caught, his tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was trying to steady himself. His eyes searching your face, shining under the light “I think that makes it so much worse, actually.”

“Worse?” Bob nodded faintly.

“Yeah…Because now I’m trying really hard not to kiss you...” His voice was barely above a whisper when he said it, and all consideration for the flu you had been battling was thrown to the curb.

The rattling came back. Louder this time. Almost a tremor that ran through his chest–not violent, not dangerous, but charged. Like there was a wire humming under his skin that was just barely holding.

And still, somehow, he smiled.

The kind of smile that only showed up when he was trying to hide how badly he wanted something.

You swallowed. Your hand was still in his hair, fingers brushing at the soft edge of his temple. You could feel his warmth, his nerves, the small, careful gravity that existed between his body and yours. You let your gaze drop to his mouth, just for a second, and then back to his eyes.

“Well,” You said, keeping your voice low and playful, in an attempt to mask your heart beating out of your chest “You’re gonna have to wait until after your hair’s done. I’m not making out with someone mid-dye job–this stuff stains.” You added innocently, a smirk drawing up on your lips. You could hear Bob’s breath catching in his throat at the sheer mention of making out.

”Right, right, of course.” He said, trying to cover up the excitement that bloomed in him.

”Now, be a give boy and stay still, so I can work my magic.” You whispered tilting his chin up even more with your gloved hand.

”Y-Yes, ma’am.” He responded breathlessly, without even thinking–so soft, and so automatic that it made your pulse spike. You cleared your throat a bit before dipping the brush into the bowl, letting the creamy dye coat the bristles, then gently you began to cover the stark blonde lengths of his hair in the dark brown colouring. The scent of it—chemical but faintly sweet—mingled with the warm air drifting down from the little ceiling fan, and you tried to keep your breathing steady as you worked. Bob’s hair was softer than you expected, silken even after all the damage. And the way he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access made your chest ache.

He closed his eyes at the first touch, his jaw going slack as you parted the strands with careful fingers, keeping your brush strokes slow and methodical. You could see his throat move as he swallowed, the faintest tremble still present in his frame–but now it was quiet, more soothed than shaken.

You worked in silence for a little while. It wasn’t awkward—just thick with the kind of tension that lingers when two people are trying not to break a moment that’s humming with too much energy. You kept your movements fluid, coating each section with care, your free hand occasionally grazing the side of his neck or the curve of his temple to steady him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath.

“…Can I touch you?”

The question barely made it past his lips. His eyes were still shut, but his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t sure if he should open them yet. You paused, brush hovering midair.

“Touch me?” You asked, like you were confirming what he just said. He nodded, just once.

“Not in a weird way I just–I need to…To do something with my hands.”Your lips parted, the heat returning in full force, knowing that he was probably making an excuse to put his hands on you, to feel you, to take you in, but deep down inside, you didn’t mind one bit.

“Yeah,” You said quietly. “You can touch me.”

The second you said it, you felt his hands move. Slow, careful. The sweater slipped from his lap and landed with a soft thump on the tile floor. Then his palms came to rest on the sides of your thighs, just above the hem of your compression shorts.

They were warm. Gentle. And a bit shaky.

Bob exhaled like the contact untied something in him, his fingers curling lightly around your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold you like that. His thumbs swept slow arcs along the fabric, and then you saw it–his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes still closed like he was savoring every inch of sensation, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his palms.

You could barely focus on the hair in front of you. Your hands just kept moving, but your entire body was tuned to him–how he sighed when your knee brushed his, how he flexed his hands slightly when your knuckles grazed his cheek. How he chased what little touch he was getting from you.

“You okay down there?” You asked, voice low, and tinged with amusement. His eyes finally opened–heavy-lidded, and flushed with emotion, as his fingers stayed firm on your legs.

“Yeah,” He breathed. “Just…I think this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.” You couldn’t help but smile at the softness of his voice.

“Well, I’m glad I could contribute to that…Even though now you’re going to have to wait thirty minutes for this to set in.” He wet his bottom lip with his tongue, nibbling on the inside of it, as you placed the empty bowl and stained brush onto the counter, taking off your gloves and letting them drop in the garbage all while staying in the space between his knees. You set a timer for yourself on the speaker radio that was near the conditioner.

“…What could we possibly do to make the time go by faster?” He asked shyly, almost like he already knew the answer, but he just wanted you to initiate it, because he was too nervous to do it himself.

You weren’t going to give in that easily though.

“Oh I’m sure we could think of something.” Allowing your voice to be a bit more breathier than before. He blinked up at you, hopeful and unsure all at once, but he still didn’t say anything, he Just kept holding you like he was afraid that any sudden shift he did would scare you off.

You didn’t move much at first–just enough to lean a fraction closer. Just enough to let your shirt brush his bare chest as you planted your palms on the edge of the shelf behind him, caging him in without pressure, while also being mindful of his dye coated hair. Bob inhaled, and you felt the tremble of it, the way his breath shuddered as your faces moved closer.

You dipped in–slow, and teasing–until your lips were just above his. A hair’s breadth away from connecting.

But then you stopped.

Bob was dazed. His lips parted, breath warm in anticipation, waiting for you to do it…But you just stayed there, close enough for him to swallow the air you breathed out into him, and to smell the faint hint of cherry that was still clinging to your lips from the cough drop.

“…Y/N.” He whispered, his voice almost breaking off into a whimper. You tilted your head with a knowing smirk.

“What?” You asked quietly.

“Y-You know what…You’re driving me crazy…” He tried to lean up but you moved back just enough for him to lose the air you were giving him.

“That’s the point.” You replied, brushing the tip of his nose with yours. His fingers tightened a little on your thighs, but he didn’t move you closer, even though he could’ve. He stayed obedient. Soft. The way he was in his everyday life and you smiled down at him, leaning in again to brush your lips across his bottom one, feeling him shiver against you.

Bob let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering half-shut from the close proximity of your mouth. His palms on your thighs shifted upward, sliding under your baggy top so they could rest against the waistband of your compression shorts, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips.

“…You don’t know what you’re doing to me…God…You have no idea.” He said, his voice aching and on the verge of spilling over into begging.

”I think I have a pretty good idea,” You murmured back, trailing your lips across his again, feeling the wetness of his saliva this time before going to the shell of his ear “You’re the one shaking, Bob.” You whispered, your breath hitting against his skin.

”I’m t-trying my best to be good for you…But you’re making this so hard.” The heat between you curled together, tightening in your belly. You drew back just enough so you could look him in the eyes again. “…You can do whatever you want to me…” He whispered, “Just please…Please don’t stop touching me.” Your breath caught at his word, not just because of the desperation that laced them, but because of the truth that hung below them.

It was the kind of truth people usually only say in the dark, or when they were half-asleep or drunk, but Bob was fully sober, wide-eyed, and trembling beneath your hands as if he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. It was like you were pulling a loose thread from a shirt and it was completely unraveling the whole thing. You stared at him for a long moment.

”…The timer is going to go off in about twenty minutes,” You said softly, “And I think we’re both a little overheated, aren’t we?” Bob’s eyebrows knitted together, almost like he was preparing himself for you to stop this from going any further.

”W–What do you–“

”I think we should take a shower together when the timer goes off,” You interrupted, tilting your head to the side, “That okay with you?” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a choked little nod, as Bob’s fingers gently pressed into your hips on reflex.

“I’ll rinse out your hair, get the dye out…Then maybe–“ Your voice dropped into a whisper, “–I’ll let you kiss me…Think you can manage to wait?” Bob let out a small broken sound–between a laugh and a groan.

”I-I can try,” He whispered, not even sounding convinced by his own voice.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a kind of suspended quiet. You didn’t step away from him entirely–just retreated enough to clean the brush, rinse out the bowl, organize the conditioner and the towel you’d need for later. But the whole time you felt his eyes on you. And every time you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye, he was still perched on the makeshift barber chair, elbows on his knees, trying not to look like he was counting the seconds.

With five minutes left on the clock, you went over to the shower and reached in, twisting the handle on the built-in panel. The pipes groaned quietly as the water surged out, spraying onto the shower floor. Within seconds steam was curling out from behind the frosted glass enclosure. The room warmed fast, the mirror fogging slightly at the edges, the air heavy with moisture and the faint scent of developer and dye.

The heat from the shower stuck to your skin as you turned your head back to look at him–still seated, trying to play it cool like he wasn’t about to explode from the anticipation. Bob leaned back against the tank, making room for you without hesitation, his knees parting instinctively like muscle memory, like his body already knew what was coming. You crossed the tiled floor with quiet, deliberate steps, the steam from the shower weaving between you both, making the bathroom feel smaller, more intimate–like the air itself was folding in to watch.

You stepped between his knees again, standing tall in front of him, the light of the ceiling fan casting a warm haze on your skin.

Your hands found his shoulders again, fingertips skating lightly along the curve of them.

“Want to undress me?” You asked, your voice like a secret you were offering just to him. No teasing this time–just heat, thick and warm and sweet in your chest. He exhaled like you punched the breath out of him.

”Y-Yeah, o-of course I do.” He said, barely above a whisper. You took his wrists into your hands, and guided him to the hem of your shirt, giving him the signal to do it.

He took his time with it–not from hesitation but from wanting to tease you back just a little. His knuckles brushed against your stomach as he gathered the worn fabric up, pausing briefly just beneath your ribs, looking up at you just to make sure you were still okay with this. You gave him a nod.

He peeled it up off you, slow and careful, taking in the way the shirt slowly revealed everything he wanted to see in short increments. Your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts, your collarbones, your shoulders, all the way up until he was able to take the shirt off entirely. He let it drop to the floor behind you.

Bob’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, letting his eyes roam over you like he was witnessing something holy–like he wouldn’t blink in case you suddenly vanished. His mouth parted for a moment as he audibly gulped. He was silent, his expression flickering between awe and hunger, tangling up in the open and stunned way he drank you in.

He was memorizing every inch of your skin. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft curves and defined edges. Every freckle, birthmark, scar, or stretch of the skin, it was all there in his head, committed like it was a sacred text. You were completely unhidden, and you trustingly offered yourself to him with nothing but openness, and it was breathtaking to him.

“Jesus…” He said quietly, like your body was rewriting something inside him. He reached up and touched the soft skin of your stomach, the tips of his fingers tracing along your navel, before his eyes met yours again, revealing the beautiful haze of blue blurring together with the specks of orange that lived there. You brought your hand up to his face, caressing his cheek carefully, running your thumb just below his eye.

“You’re so beautiful…” You whispered, feeling Bob’s fingers curling beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“And you’re immaculate…” He responded, slowly tugging your shorts down, his eyes never leaving yours as he did it. He just wanted to look at you, to take you in, to hold you close until you didn’t want to be held by him anymore. He wanted you so bad he felt like he was going to explode, and the heat in the washroom wasn’t helping him control that. The shorts dropped around your ankles with a soft flutter, and you stepped out of them slowly, brushing your hand down to his jaw.

“I’ll meet you in the shower,” Your voice was low and soft like a promise. Then you turned, and walked behind the frosted glass, sliding the door shut in one swift movement. Steam swirled around you like a second skin as you stepped fully beneath the stream of water. It hit your scalp first, then your shoulders, pouring down your body in comforting waves. The warmth soaked into your tense muscles and melted along your spine, rinsing away the leftover ache of your fever and the lingering hum of restraint you’d been nursing for the last hour.

From beyond the frosted glass, you saw movement. Bob had gotten up and walked over to the alarm, clicking it off with a single beep–because what was a minute going to do for him. Then you heard the shuffle of bare feet on tile, followed by the soft rustling of clothes dropping. You could see his shadow moving, leaning down then straightening up again, seeing him step out of his sweatpants and his underwear before reaching for the handle.

He slid the door open and stepped into the steam. You could see him squinting at the change in scenery, until his eyes caught yours. Under the dimmed lighting that the shower had you looked ethereal, like a siren calling to him to come closer. You tilted your head at him.

”Remember, we gotta wash your hair out first.” Bob nodded silently, too stunned to speak or protest, and stepped closer to you until he was right against you, letting the water cascade down his body. You reached up without hesitation, brushing your fingers along the slope of his neck as you cupped his jaw gently, feeling the very faint stubble against your fingertips.

”Close your eyes,” You murmured, and he obeyed immediately, trusting you with all of him. You reached for the bottle of shampoo, flipping the cap open with a soft click. The scent was clean, crisp–something like cedar and citrus–and you poured a generous amount into your palm before lathering it between your fingers. He hunched forward slightly to help you because of the height difference, the muscles in his back bunching as he bent, his hands braced loosely on his thighs.

Your fingers found his scalp and began to move, slow and deliberate, massaging through the dye-stiffened strands with practiced ease. His breath hitched at the first touch–soft and barely audible over the rush of water–but he relaxed into you, the tension easing from his shoulders as you worked through his hair, your nails dragging along his scalp gently, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth of the shower that was smothering him.

He tried to peek down at you through his lashes, but flinched the moment some suds landed on his brow. You caught the twitch of frustration in his mouth and grinned faintly to yourself.

”No peeking,” You teased, your voice low and sultry, “You’ll get soap in your eyes, and that’ll just prolong the process.” You added, with a smirk.

”I-I’m not peeking,” He muttered back, clearly lying.

But while he couldn’t see you, you saw everything.

Your eyes dropped as your fingers moved through his hair, and your gaze caught on the rest of him–completely, gloriously bare under the water’s fall. And it hit you like a weight to the chest.

He was hard. Completely, achingly hard.

It curved upward from between his thighs, thick and flushed and dripping from the spray. Your breath caught in your throat involuntarily. He was…Big. The kind of big that made your pulse thrum deep in your core, the kind that made something flutter behind your ribcage. The kind of big that made you a bit nervous. His thighs were braced, strong and trembling slightly as the water poured down over both of you, and yet he stayed still–eyes closed, waiting, unaware of just how deeply you were watching him.

You swallowed, trying not to stare too long–but your fingers slowed in his hair for just a beat before you lathered more shampoo and brought it back to the roots, working it all through. You focused on your task, rinsing gently, letting the water carry away the suds and the last traces of harsh dye. As the dark rivulets streamed down and swirled at your feet, the natural color beneath began to reveal itself.

The soft brown, the colour that belonged to him, and only him. Not the Sentry.

You smoothed your hands through the damp strands with a smile on your face, and you could feel him relax further at the calmness of your touch.

”There you are,” You whispered, more to yourself than to him, “Back to you…” You could see his brows lift slightly at your words, still not opening his eyes.

”…W-What does it look like?” He asked softly.

”Like it’s all you…It’s perfect Bob…” You responded, seeing his eyes slowly flutter open, the soft blue still burning with those beautiful flecks of orange from the Sentry. When they locked on yours, something in him snapped completely, and he blinked a few times, steadying himself against you.

”…Can I kiss you now?” He whispered, breath catching in his throat.

You nodded.

And the second you did, he surged forward, his hands finding your face like he’d been aching to hold you there for days. His palms were warm and a little shaky, fingers threading gently into the damp strands of your hair as he tilted your head just right. He kissed you like it was the only thing that would quiet the trembling in his chest–deep, and full of the kind of hunger that had nowhere else to go.

His lips parted against yours with a soft sigh, molding to your mouth like he already knew every shape of it. You responded in kind, letting your hands press flat to his chest before sliding up, feeling the slick heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. One hand drifted upward to cradle the back of his neck, the other anchoring at his side.

Bob shifted, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping gently as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore–only quiet desperation, the need to be close, the need to feel you pressed against every inch of him. His thumbs rubbed slow, anchoring circles against your ribs as he kissed you over and over, his breath catching between each one like he couldn’t quite get enough.

You felt your knees wobble when he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, and he steadied you instantly, one hand sliding down to the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg to lift so he could hold you open against him.

You gasped softly into his mouth when he did it–because now you could feel all of him. His length, hot and heavy, brushing between your thighs. But he didn’t push it. He just held you there, breathing hard through his nose as his mouth broke from yours for a second, bumping his forehead with yours.

”I-I have to touch you…Can I p-please touch you?” His words vibrated against your chest, shaky from the kiss he had just pulled away from. Immediately you nodded, drunk off of the way he held you, the way he kissed you so desperately. You were his, and you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

He dropped his hand from your thigh, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he guided you back, each step careful, like he was afraid to rush a single second of this. The warm tile met your spine gently, as the steam curled around your shoulders–like it was dying to be part of the moment too. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the anticipation tugging at you like a puppet.

Bob’s hand, still curled gently around your hip, gave it one reassuring squeeze before sliding away. The loss of his hand made you let out a desperate sigh, wanting to feel him again. He looked down at you as he brought his fingers up to his lips, his tongue darting out of his mouth to coat the tips of them slowly, not for show, but for purpose. For you. His gaze never dropped from yours as he did it, and when his hand fell again between the both of you, he didn’t hesitate.

His knee eased your thighs apart gently, and then his fingers found your clit. The first contact made your knees buckle slightly, and he caught it, pressing in with his knee to steady you, his free hand braced against the wall beside your head. His touch was gentle at first–soft circles, slow and attentive. You gasped, head tipping back, exposing your throat without thinking.

That was all the invitation Bob needed.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the base of your neck, just where your collarbone met your shoulder. The kiss was wet and open-mouthed, like he needed to taste you and the saltiness of your skin. He breathed in like he could anchor himself in your scent. Another kiss, and another, working up the side of your neck as his fingers circled your clit with more confidence now, slick from the water and his spit, moving with practiced pressure.

”So…So soft,” He whispered into your skin, voice shaking, “So goddamn soft…” Your breath caught as his pace shifted. You could feel your body responding–arching into him, a wet heat building between your legs. You whimpered, and that sound nearly undid him. His teeth grazed your neck but didn’t bite, his lips returning to kiss it better as if he could soothe the tremble in your body.

Then his fingers dipped lower, and he felt it immediately.

You were soaked–slick, warm, and pulsing beneath his touch. His breath hitched at the sensation, at the way your body welcomed him without hesitation. And when he eased two fingers inside of you ever so slowly you gasped, arching into his hand like your body had been waiting for that very moment.

“F-fuck,” You breathed, the word slipping out as your nails found purchase in his shoulders. You clawed at him instinctively, dragging across the muscle there, needing something to anchor you while he pushed them in deeper. He didn’t flinch at the scratch–he moaned. A soft, broken sound that came from the back of his throat like he liked the way it felt, like it made him feel wanted in the most primal sense.

His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his mouth kissing along your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted the stretch of his fingers inside you. He mouthed at the skin there–kissed it, licked it, sucked until it was sensitive and bruised. He pulled back looking at the little love bites, each one tinged with hunger. Bob wasn’t the possessive type but there was this ache in his chest to mark you as his, and even if the water washed it away, he wanted to be sure he left something on your skin.

“Y-You feel so warm…” He said, his voice fraying at the edges. His fingers curled gently inside you, causing your knees to buckle again. Your body shuddered as the pads of his fingers dragged against that spot inside of you that made your entire frame light up. Bob’s hand moved to your hip, keeping you steady as his other hand worked in smooth, slow thrusts, each one more confident than the last. He found a rhythm, watching you, studying every moan and gasp like it was gospel.

And when you whimpered his name, when your body clenched around him so tight he had to grit his teeth, he gave a quiet, shaky laugh–utterly wrecked by how responsive you were.

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” he asked, lips brushing your ear, breath heavy and hot. “I can feel it…God, I can feel you squeezing me…”

You nodded, unable to form a word, your nails biting into his shoulders again as your hips rocked against his hand.

Bob adjusted his angle, changing the pressure, and that’s when you saw stars.

Your head dropped forward, forehead against his collarbone, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of him—clean, masculine, tinged with desperation. His fingers moved faster, wetter, the slick sounds between your legs obscene and perfect, echoing between the tiles. He was muttering praise now—soft, reverent things that fell from his lips like prayers.

“Just like that, baby—so good for me… You’re doing so good—feels like heaven—fuck, I want to see you fall apart…”

You felt it hit like a wave rolling up your spine.

A tight, burning coil of pleasure twisted inside you and then snapped. You gasped—loud, broken, as the climax ripped through you. You trembled, back arching hard into him as your thighs clenched and a rush of wetness gushed out around his fingers.

Bob stilled for a second in awe.

“…Oh my God,” He breathed, stunned, his eyes wide as he held you through it. You collapsed into him, breath heaving, skin flushed and shining under the steam. He kept his fingers buried inside you, not moving, just holding you close, letting you ride it out as you trembled against his chest.

He looked down between you both, seeing the slick mess on his hand, the way your body had responded so violently to him–and his mouth dropped open slightly. Not because of shock, but because of wonder and awe.

”You…You did so good.” He praised, his voice barely holding together under the weight of what he just experienced with you. His lips brushed your temple first, then your cheek, before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t hungry nor urgent, it was adoration in its purest form. His lips moved like they were tasting something he’d only ever imagined–careful and soft, like he was trying not to overwhelm you. He trembled against you, being crushed from everything unspoken between you. His hand was still between your thighs, cradling you like something precious, and you could feel how hard he was, pressed just barely against you, restrained only by the shivering line of self-control that hadn’t yet broken.

When he finally, carefully, slipped his fingers out of you, you let out the tiniest gasp from the absence–but before he could fully draw away, you grabbed his wrist.

He was still in his movements.

Your eyes met his, holding steady as you lifted his hand–and then you took his soaked fingers into your mouth.

Bob made a sound that almost didn’t make it out of him–a soft, wrecked sigh that died at the back of his throat. His lips parted slightly, eyes darkening as he watched you suck him clean, your mouth warm and wet, tongue dragging along the pads of his fingers slowly, like you were claiming every last drop of yourself from his skin.

He could barely breathe.

You kept eye contact the whole time. It wasn’t a power play–it was intimacy. Connection. And it unraveled him.

Once you were done, you let his fingers slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and he dragged them–slow and reverent–down your chin. Then your throat. The hollow of your chest. His fingertips were wet with saliva, and he trailed it down like he was painting you–smearing it across your sternum, over your ribs, and finally down to your hips.

“Y/N…You’re so…So perfect,” He whispered, in disbelief, shaking his head as his hands ran down your waist, going straight to your thighs, before lifting you effortlessly. You let out a soft breath as your legs bracketed around his hips instinctively, your arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the middle of your chest, and his voice came out barely above the noise of the shower

”Do you want to…Still have sex with me?” You looked down at him, caressing the side of his neck.

”Of course I do,” You responded instantly.

Your lips found his right after–soft and sure. You kissed him with everything you had, as if answering his question with your entire body. His breath caught, his hands clutching at your thighs with a startled need, grounding himself in the reality that you weren’t going to vanish, that you really did want this–want him.

As the kiss deepened, you felt one of his hands slowly slide down your thigh, tickling the skin, but this time there was a purpose in his touch. He shifted beneath you slightly, and then you felt it–the soft brush of his tip against you. Hot. Heavy. And trembling in his grasp.

You broke the kiss for just a breath, resting your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering shut as he lined himself up. His hand shook slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like he was terrified of getting it wrong. But he didn’t rush. And neither did you.

“I want you,” You said, your breath warm against his mouth. “All of you.” Bob let out a wrecked whimper from his mouth, before kissing you once more.

Then slowly he began to push in, moving his hips gently.

Your mouth parted in a silent gasp, your eyes flying open as your body stretched to take him. It was so much–thick and deep and slow. He paused when he was just a couple inches in, his forehead still pressed to yours, panting.

“Is that okay?” He asked, voice cracking. “I—I can stop if it’s too much…”

You shook your head immediately, curling your fingers into his shoulders, drawing him closer.

“No. Please don’t stop.”

Bob exhaled a breath that shook all the way down to his spine, then kissed you again–slow, sweet–before sinking deeper inside.

You both moaned at the same time, and your tongues met in between the space your mouths made.

It was like he was imprinting himself into every inch of you. His hands gripped your hips with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache, guiding your body until he was fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush against yours.

“Oh…God.” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, trembling as he held still. “You’re so…So perfect… I can’t–God–”

You kissed his jaw, whispering against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. “You’re okay, Bob. You’re doing so good…”

He began to move–shallow at first, rocking his hips into you in slow, reverent strokes. Each one pulled a quiet gasp from your lips. The water cascaded around you both, steam curling at your shoulders as you clung to him, your body humming in time with his.

He found a slow and steady rhythm, thrusting as deep as possible with each movement of his hips.

He kissed you everywhere he could reach–your cheek, your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder and his praise was neverending. Whispered fragments between kisses and gasps.

“You’re so beautiful…”

“You feel so good around me…”

“I want to make you feel everything…”

Your hands were tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet every thrust, until your forehead was pressed to his again and your breaths mingled in the tight space between you. Each slow movement of his hips sent sparks crawling up your spine and you rocked against him, chasing every moment, trying to keep it from ending too soon.

Bob looked completely undone in front of you though. His mouth open, cheeks flushed, hands gripping your waist like you were his lifeline.

Then his thrusts started to falter.

You felt it in the way he gasped–sharp and helpless–the way his hold on you tightened and his voice pitched higher.

“I—Y/N, I—oh God, I’m—”

You kissed him, hard, your voice hot against his mouth. “It’s okay. Let go. I’ve got you.”

He came with a broken gasp.

The lights flickered.

Just once–flicker, flicker, black–and then back on again. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, a hum that matched the pulse of his release as his hips jerked forward, holding deep inside you while his whole body tensed. You could feel the warmth filling you in thick ropes, his body instinctively pushing up into you as if he was trying to keep it from spilling out.

And then he went still.

Completely, and utterly still.

He stayed buried in you, face tucked into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged as the water pounded softly over your bodies. You felt the way he trembled, felt the heat of his skin and the wild thud of his heart against yours.

He didn’t move for a long time, he just stayed there, clutching you like you were the one thing that was bringing him down slowly.

And then you felt it–the slow exhale against your neck, the soft tremor that followed. His voice came out low, cracked with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, still breathless. “That was so fast. I didn’t mean to-God, I just couldn’t hold it…”

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, his brows drawn together with worry, his mouth still parted from the weight of what just passed between you. And yet, even flushed and wrecked, he looked beautiful. Lit up from the inside out, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

You shook your head gently and brought your hand up to brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear with the same tenderness he gave you. “You didn’t finish too fast, Bob.”

He blinked, lips parting like he didn’t believe you.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered against his skin, “You were perfect. I loved every second of it…Because it was with you.” His features softened at your word, that shy smile blooming across his lips, one you felt in your ribs. You saw the glow of it before you felt his body move. He kissed you again, this time gentler, slower–like he wanted to say thank you with his whole mouth.

Then, carefully, he pulled out of you. You both shivered a bit at the sensitivity, and you caught the way his brows knit together, like he didn’t want to stop touching you. But your body welcomed the shift, and your legs dropped from his hips as the moment passed, leaving behind only warmth and steam.

He reached for you instinctively, his hands skimming your waist like he was still trying to keep you close, like he couldn’t quite accept that you were separate again. You smiled at him, brushing your fingers along his jaw, watching the way he leaned into the contact, like it was his oxygen.

”You really like touching me, huh?” You teased lightly, watching his cheeks turn a deeper red, the corners of his mouth curling up shyly.

”…Yeah…I really do.” He admitted. You let out a soft laugh, then looked toward the water still streaming from the showerhead behind him.

“As much as I’d love to stay in here and get all wrinkly,” You said, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, “If we don’t rinse off soon, the compound’s water bill is gonna bankrupt Valentina.” Bob let out a breathy laugh, head dropping against your shoulder for a second.

“I guess you’re right, but once we get cleaned up…I want to just lay on the couch with you and hold you for a little while…If that’s okay?” You nodded.

”Of course it’s okay.” You replied, guiding him under the steady stream of water. You each took turns, helping the other wash up. He was gentle when he touched your body as if you hadn’t just taken him completely inside you minutes ago, and he ran his hands over the marks he had made on you, smiling proudly at his work. You matched his care, running soapy fingers down his spine, over his shoulders, through the strands of his newly darkened hair, rinsing the last of the evidence down the drain.

And when the water finally cooled, you stepped out first, digging around the towel closet for a spare. Bob followed right after, grabbing the one that he usually used, with steam rolling off his shoulders, making the air thick and warm as he wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing by the foggy mirror, wiping it off with his hand.

You watched from the side, pulling your towel around you gently, as he lifted his gaze slowly–like he wasn’t sure what would be staring back at him. When he caught his own reflection, something shifted in his expression.

A smile. One of relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

You stepped behind him, and gently kissed his shoulder, looking at the small little scratch marks you had left on him.

He turned toward you slightly, reached out, and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your lips–barely more than a breath, but brimming with emotion.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You smiled into him, nose brushing his. “Don’t thank me yet,” You whispered. “I hope you don’t get the flu from all of this.”

He laughed, his eyes shining as he bumped his forehead against yours.

“If I do,” He said, “It’ll be worth every damn minute.”

It makes kissing him a little tricky. Or rather, it would, if he didn’t hoist you up against him on every occasion. Early on, you’d raise onto your toes and he’d bend down and meet you halfway. But once the courting’s over and the reservations are gone, every kiss is an excuse to pull you to him. It seems to cost him no effort at all.

He’s an active guy, he doesn’t sit down often. But when he does, you take every opportunity to perch in his lap. To sling your arms around his shoulders, sloped like a fine wide mountain range, and lick into his mouth to taste the pleased little sounds he makes. You feel inadequate sometimes, with your small hands trying to map out the whole expanse of his skin, all the freckles and veins and muscle-hard ridges. But he lets you touch your fill, even when you smooth over scars. He lets you touch until he’s hard underneath you, and if he sees the face of shock you make the first time you realize the size of him, he doesn't comment on it.

You're very insistent that you can take the whole him, but he's equally insistent that you take it slow. Because he's watched you wince with just two of his fingers--if only you could make him understand that it's the sweetest kind of ache. All the same, you promise to pace yourself when he finally agrees. He gets two orgasms out of you first--one by tongue and another by fingers. Then and only then does he lay back and let you have your way.

You'd be lying if you said it doesn't appeal to some part of your ego, mounting the biggest stallion in all of UNSC. Knowing that you snagged him. But god, it takes effort. Effort to breathe and relax your muscles, effort not to contort your face lest he start to worry. Halfway down, you tip your head back and close your eyes and suddenly his godawful big hands are firm and steady on your hips, "you got this." Surprised by his voice, you open your eyes and they lock onto his--it's your John, of course, but it's the field leader in him, too. Determined and full of encouragement. You nod and he nods with you. You blush a little at the sight of him, massive and sprawled out beneath you, and he grants you a rare, warm, self-satisfied smile. You imagine yourself made of liquid and slide the rest of the way down, and even though your eyelids flutter at the overwhelming fullness, you can see his whole body strain--tight tendons and flexed muscles and the tips of ears blazing pink.

You swear you can feel him in your fucking lungs. He puts one massive palm to your belly, where the whole of his cock seems to have disappeared, and the unstoppable reflex to clench around the intrusion knocks a groan out of both of you. Neither of you lasts long--it's too much, too full. But it feels like victory as you pant and laugh in awe together.

You wanted to be every dark thing, you ached to be threads in his hands, to be created- or rather recreated by him. You wanted to be his medium, and allow him the moment to be the artist.

You adjust your body, covered by a fluffy robe, a modest bikini underneath. You’d been feeling a little self conscious as your cycle rolled around, the uncomfortable bloating was familiar around this time, making you feel exposed, even under the thick robe.

Yet still, you found yourself wanting him

The beach chair was reclined at a comfortable angle, the umbrella above sheltering you from the occasional sun.

With your eyes on him, watching him work quietly, cutting a wedge of orange for your glass, you lift one side of your robe carefully, pulling it open.

He pauses, knife halfway into the orange.

The corner of your lip twitches, reaching at the bond between you, flooding it with your arousal for him.

You watch his shoulders lift as he heaves in a large breath.

He hasn’t looked at you yet, and you know he’s going to try his best to seem unaffected, because reminding him of your power over him, makes him want to assert his power over you that much more.

It’s a fight you know is coming, somewhere in your future, where maybe you’ll pull at him, and he’ll pull back.

You push the other side of your robe off your body and he doesn’t react, you watch him pour your drink into a tall glass, garnish it with the orange slice and some cherries and turn to you.

You smile as he approaches, placing the drinks on the table beside you before fitting himself into your seat, angling his body so that you’re facing each other with no substantial space between you.

You hum, pressing your face against his clothed chest humming.

“You smell like oranges, Billy.” You take another deep breath, captivated by the smell, pressing your face deeper, “You smell so good.”

They really do smell delicious, the citrus filling your nose, flooding the back of your throat.

He raises a hand to cup your cheek, the heavy fragrance of it clinging to his hands. It makes you feel impossibly euphoric, and you don’t really understand why.

You look up at him, his dark eyes on you, he leans forward a little and you close your eyes, expecting a kiss.

“Careful.” He says softly, “You're playing with fire.”

You groan internally, excitement warming over your skin, clenching around nothing, your arousal being pushed down your bond unintentionally. 

You feel his fingers twitch against your cheek.

You open your eyes, looking up at him, finding the same desire in him that you feel.

“Does ‘fire’ want me to suck his cock?” You offer cheekily, blinking slowly at him in what you hope is a seductive way.

His expression is stern, but you simmer with delight as you feel his arousal returned through your bond. Like a hand, sliding over your skin, you grin at him when you realise he's not as unaffected as he tries to seem.

He doesn't say a word, instead his hand drifts over your shoulder, down to settle on your hip.

“You're such a little brat.” He hums, and you laugh, leaning into his chest.

After a moment, you feel him tug at the robe.

“Aren't you warm?” He asks.

Truthfully you were a little, but God, your body did not want to cooperate with you today.

“I'm alright.” You hum lightly.

“You're lying.” He informs matter-of-factly.

You make a frustrated grunt. Cursing the bond.

“Bloated,” you try to explain quickly, “I just feel out of it today. I might have gained weight.”

“I don't understand the problem.” He says, his tail snaking around you to keep you close.

“Just uncomfortable in my skin, it happens sometimes.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

You smile fondly.

“I'll be okay, I just feel a little insecure about my body, you know?”

“Not really.”

You look curiously up at him.

“You've never felt self conscious about the way you look?”

He thinks back for a moment, before shaking his head.

“I've never had to worry about it, my whole human life I'd always been told how good I looked.”

“Lucky bitch.” You say with mock spite.

He lets out a breath of amusement.

“I think I was more insecure about my wealth back then, none of it was ever enough. I'd be dressed as nicely as everyone else and still feel like I didn't belong.”

You reach out to squeeze his hand in comfort. There really was no way to reassure him. You couldn't even tell him his life was better now, he was literally a demon from Hell.

You wanted to tell him that he belonged with you now, but maybe the reminder of his ownership wouldn't help.

“Growing up,” You offer, “literally everyone had something to say about my body. I was either too skinny at one point, too chubby, too muscular, my thighs were too thick, my stomach- honestly the judgement carried out on women's bodies is ridiculous.”

He nods beside you, raising a hand to run his fingers over your cheek.

“The judgement is awful,” he agrees, “but I hope you know that you've always looked beautiful to me.”

You give him a thankful smile.

“And you, have always been the most powerful man in the room to me.”

You feel your stomach flip, it makes your smile grow wider.

“I'm not more powerful than you though.”

You glance away, looking at the shimmering pool.

“Well, if you wanted to be, I'd let you.”

He grips your chin, turning your head back so that your eyes meet his.

“What do you mean by that?”

You swallow, voice barely above a whisper.

“If you grew tired of me, and wanted your freedom, I'd give it to you.”

His grip on your chin tightens.

“Are you saying you'd die for me to be free?”

You blink, a slow incline of your head.

“I'd rather die than force you to be here if you didn't want to.”

He takes a moment, looking for the right words, trying to read you like words on a page.

“That's your insecurity talking,” he says, a minuscule amount of anger curls at the base of your spine, “There's no universe where I don't want you. Serving you for the rest of my life would be a privilege, mistress.”

You let out a shaky breath, pushing your body up so that your mouth meets his.

Your lips blister with the sparks of his touch, arousal swelling like a wave, desire pulling at you, grabbing at your ankles to take you in its current.

He sits up, hovering over you, eyes ablaze with fiery passion.

He tugs at your robe and it evaporates in a puff of purple, you gasp as your body gets the cool air it's been needing.

You look at him, as his eyes look over you, studying your body, wrapped in the modest swimsuit.

You watch his tongue dart out, licking slowly at his bottom lip, a strand of hair threatening to fall between his eyes.

“You are very, very beautiful.” He finally says.

You feel your nether regions pulse at his words, willing him to say more through the bond, trying your best not to look down, to shy away.

He leans in, hands gripping at your thighs, squeezing the flesh of your hips.

“I'm so glad you're made the way you are.”

A seed of hope settles within you.

“Why?” You ask.

“Because it's your body, and your body is perfect, but also…” He trails off.

You push yourself into a sitting position expectantly.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a dangerous grin, leaning in till his nose touches yours.

“I can fuck you, however hard I want, and you won't break so easily.”

Your mouth parts in surprise, going dry, so much desire packed into your head, making you feel like you're swimming in cotton.

“Does this mean you're going to start teaching me how to take you?”

He takes a sharp breath, eyes going ruby red in the span of seconds.

“Yes,” he says on impulse, his cock, rock hard and aching, “let me give you your first lesson right now.”

He grips your hips, switching your positions until you're straddling his midriff.

“Get naked for me.” He orders, and you obey, stepping away from him to eagerly peel your suit from your skin. When you turn back, you find that he's lost his shirt and his pants, his cock standing up in the open air.

Your mouth waters.

“C-can I-”

“-No.”

You pout.

He gives you a sharp grin.

“Come sit.” He says, patting his thigh.

You swallow nervously, approaching him, trying to figure out his plan of action.

When you get close enough, he reaches to grip your hips, he kisses your stomach before guiding your knee over his body until you're straddling him, his cock fitting snugly between your thighs.

You stiffen for a brief moment, a little worried that he would enter you before you were ready.

“I'm not-”

“-I know,” you cut him off with an apologetic smile, able to read him, understand him so easily now with almost no effort, “It’s only a reflex.” 

He lets out a soft breath, raising a hand to smooth the tips of his fingers across your cheek, you close your eyes as you feel the tingles spread across your face.

“That's the first lesson. Don't be scared of taking me.”

You blink several times, refocusing on him, trying to figure out how he could possibly know something like that. 

You'd never given it a name, or even thought about it, but you were scared, scared of letting someone in, scared of the pain it might cause.

He holds your hips, pushing them back a fraction, to pull them forward again, your mouth drops open as pleasure erupts from between your legs as his cock glides against your sensitive centre.

“I know you, mistress, I can feel that small touch of fright everytime I get too close. I want it gone. I want you to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” you pant as he continues rocking your hips, “It's just a little bit of paranoia kicking in, my brain just makes me worry about the ‘what ifs’”

“I understand sweetheart, but if you're taking me, and you get scared, it'll only make you hurt worse. So I need you to trust me, I need you to relax for me. I need you to understand that I'd choose Hell over having you be afraid of me.”

You groan, tipping your head back, your hips beginning to undulate on their own.

“Good, mistress, rub that little pussy on my cock, don’t worry about anything else.”

“Feels s’good.” You whisper, doing more and gasping in surprise when the tip of his cock bumps your clit.

“Yeah?” His hands tighten their grip, “You like using me, mistress? Do you think you can cum like this?”

You're not even sure if the answer is yes, but you nod anyway, with Billy, anything is possible.

His hands on your thighs, over your hips, you hear him grunt, feeling an immeasurable amount of want in the back of your head.

“You’re so fucking soft,” He grits out, hands gliding up to cup your breasts gently in each hand, “Every part of you is divine.” 

You whine, aching for more of his praise, wondering, if his words are more effective than your motions are.

You beg him silently to continue.

His fingertips brush your shoulder, trails down your arm.

“Every time I look at you, I’m thinking about how much I enjoy touching you, and tasting you, and feeling your perfect body shudder and shake. Those sweet eyes, begging me, always fucking begging me- “ You feel him tremble below you, before his fingers grip the flesh of your behind firmly, manipulating your hips into moving faster, the head of his cock gliding right over your entrance, a surge of bliss washing through you with such suddenness that your back straightens in surprise.

The temptation of being full of him, the nearness of this sinful act, feels euphoric, pleasure filling your head as he catches on the rim of your cunt for just a moment. You whine, wanting to hear him speak more, no fear in your body as he glides easily between your legs, your arousal coating his cock evenly.

“You have no idea how desperate you make me,” Billy continues, almost rambling, your soft cunt eager on his cock, he feels himself throb, body begging, unable to get what it wants.

“Nothing will stop me from having you, nothing will keep me away.” He grits. “I don’t care how long it takes, or whatever changes. You’re mine. This thick, perfect body is mine. You belong to me, and I am going to relish claiming you when the time is right.”

He comes at the same time you do, ropes of his own spend splashing against his lower abdomen and all between your thighs and cunt. You gasp, looking down at the mess you’ve made, feeling it smeared onto your body, shared fluids mixing together between your thighs as you both breathe heavily in an attempt to catch your breath.

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, watching his cum be wasted like this. You swipe a shaky finger through the mess, bringing it up to your lips. He groans as he watches you taste the evidence of his pleasure, sitting up suddenly till you're face to face. 

“From the moment I saw you, I knew I wanted you. There's never been any doubt to me, of how beautiful you are, mistress.” You look into his dark eyes as his hand comes up to cup your cheek. You swallow, hypnotized by the depth of the emotion in his eyes, feeling it seep into you, intoxicated by him.

Your eyes flutter closed as you lean in, vulnerable to him, unable to stop until your mouth meets his.

Your demon.

You smile against his mouth, something… something you can't put words to enveloping every sense you have, his kiss, mouth melding perfectly with yours until you swear that all you can feel is him.

You break the kiss with a gasp, head against his chest, a hum of satisfaction leaves you.

His tail loops around your waist, keeping you still, your naked bodies pressed tightly to each other. You tug at the bond, and you smile when he gives his own pull in response.

“I'm glad you're here with me, Billy- and I know that sounds selfish, you've been through so much- but just the thought of us never meeting each other-” you cut off with a frown, not wanting to make it seem like you were happy that he went through what he did.

“I'm- I'm glad we met.” You murmur finally, looking up at him apologetically for your words.

He lets out a slow breath of amusement, watching you stumble over your words.

“You're acting as though you haven't suffered as well. Suffering is a part of life, mistress, Hell is everywhere. Some people suffer through life and never get close to what you and I have.”

The words are hard to say, but you manage to find the strength.

“What do we have?” You ask cautiously, hoping to hear him echo your own feelings.

He breathes, wrapping his arms tightly around you, crushing your body to his.

“Each other.” Is his simple response.

.

Each other.

You smile, the words echo in your head. Beside you, he sleeps soundly, one arm over his middle, your legs tangled together beneath the sheets. 

You sigh, curling into him, wishing you could sort through the chaos in your head. All the things that have happened, the things that brought him to you. You were not happy they occurred, but you wouldn't change anything, if it meant you would lose him. How could you hate your past and be glad it happened? It was a very strange place to be.

If they had summoned any other demon, you would be dead or worse now. 

Instead? 

You sigh, half asleep and reaching for him in your head.

Instead you were here, warm and safe and protected from anything the universe could throw your way. All because of the man, the demon, sleeping in bed beside you.

“You're one pretty kid.” a gruff voice says. 

You gasp, eyes springing open. You're not in bed anymore, standing in the doorway of a locker room, a little boy a few feet in front of you. You can see his face in the mirror, one of confusion and mild fear. 

Beside him, a man places a hand on his shoulder. It looks affectionate at first, but you soon realise that there’s no love there, only perversion.

You take a step forward, wanting to separate the figures from each other. You move faster when you see the man's hand raise to cup the boy's face. No matter how fast you move, you're still in the same spot and after a few moments, you stop, realising that you're not getting anywhere. 

Everything flashes next, like a video game with a low frame rate you see flashes of the boy being advanced upon, watching him fight back and hold his own for a few moments, before the man finally gets angry.

You scream when the boy is thrown to the ground, fighting whatever force holds you back, trying to get to the little boy, his blood splashed on various items around the room. When the man is done, he simply washes his hands and leaves. It's only then, that you're allowed entry into the scene you're watching.

You get to the little boy, lying on the ground, just as he shifts, and your breath stutters in your throat as he turns into the man you know today, right before your eyes.

“Billy?” You whisper in horror.

He sits up, his eyes have gone fully black, blood still splashed on his mouth and hands, face already bruising from his previous ordeal.

He stands, not sparing a glance at you, he stalks out of the room.

You follow, unsure of what's happening but knowing you were safest with your demon, regardless of whether he could see you or not.

The man is older now, when Billy grabs the back of his shirt and lifts him as though he weighs nothing, you note that his hair has slivered and his skin has wrinkled.

Billy's voice is rough, angry, he presses the man against a wall, fingers around his neck.

“How many?” He asks, the horns on his head getting larger, his nails getting sharper.

The man's face goes red, he kicks and cries, eyes wide as he watches Billy's demonic face.

His nails sink slowly into the man's neck. You gasp, turning away, unable to look at the horrors happening.

You hear it, the screams, the gushing of blood. Your breathing speeds up, you raise your hands to cover your ears as the sound echoes, multitudes of screams fill your ears, panic in your heart, wishing you were home, away from all of this pain and suffering around you.

You say his name, a quiet whimper, wanting your demon more than anything.

Hands wrap around your wrists, forcing your hands from your ears, you look up with tear blurred vision, to find a terrifying version of your demon looking back.

“Wake up.” He says to you, his voice cutting through the multitudes.

You gasp awake, sitting up, heart racing in your chest. Beside you, he sits up too, making you jump in surprise.

He looks normal now, no trace of the terrifying demon from before, you gasp loudly, struggling to breathe.

“What the hell-” You gasp, trying to articulate your thoughts.

His hand brushes your arm, you jerk in surprise, turning to look at him. He blinks, drawing back, feeling rejected by you. 

You grab his hand before he can retract it all the way, you find difficulty in speaking, shoving your tumultuous feelings down the bond so that he knows none of it is directed towards him.

He blinks, inclines his head in understanding, keeps his hand in yours.

Your heart is still racing, trying to understand what you've just seen, wondering how you've seen it.

“Did all of that really happen?” You ask softly.

“Mostly.” 

“That kid… that was you.”

“Yeah.”

You turn to look at him. He looks back with cautious vulnerability, an expression that you can tell is hanging on to your every word.

“That's why too much attention makes you uncomfortable. Those scars on your shoulder-”

He nods, confirming your suspicions.

Your face twists into one of pain, eyebrows drawn, mouth curved into a frown. You lean in, wrap your arms around your demon’s shoulders and you squeeze tightly.

He lets out a puff of air, hands wrapped around your waist to crush your body to his.

Your hand grips the back of his head, fingers carding through his soft hair, you turn your head, kissing his cheek, his temple, trying to apologise to him for something you didn't do.

You don't know what to say to him, what will make this better, you know that he's probably thought about everything you could possibly say.

Still, you have to say something, knowing that he has to hear it from someone that's not himself.

“I'm sorry.” Is what you finally settle on.

Muffled into your neck, he shakes his head.

“It's okay.”

“It's not. You didn't deserve that, no one does. I'm sorry it happened.”

He's quiet for a long moment.

“For a long while, I really thought I did deserve it.”

You feel a sharp pain spear into your heart at the thought, you squeeze him tighter. 

“You were just a kid.” You whisper, voice cracking, “You were so small, you couldn't be more than ten. This was not your fault.”

You feel the anger overtake you next.

“Did you kill him?”

He says your name softly, and through the bond, you feel his reservation to disclose details that might unsettle you. 

“Tell me, demon. I won't run.”

“When I was older, he passed me in the street, didn't recognize me. My left shoulder doesn't settle properly and he didn’t even remember my face.” 

“I broke in, waited for him to see me, for him to remember who I was, but he'd done it so many times all the faces of his victims blurred together. I shoved a bat through his chest, and when I found him in Hell, I didn't have any mercy.” 

You bend your head, kissing the first piece of him you can get to- his horn- his hands tighten around you.

“I'm proud of you.” You say into his ear, and you feel him shudder, warmth wrapping around your spine, feeling him reach for you, and eagerly, you reach back.

What do you and I have, demon?

We have each other.

.

In the morning, after a luxurious breakfast in a pile of pillows on the jetty, you lie beside him, sated and full, finally finding the willpower to ask the questions you've been wanting to ask.

“Last night, how did I see those things?”

He breathes out a slow breath of air.

“You were in my dreams.” 

You blink, deep in thought.

“How did I get there?”

He makes an amused sound.

“Hell if I know, mistress. This thing between us, I've never had one for this long. I don't know how far it can go.”

You look up into his dark eyes, tugging playfully at the link you share until the corner of his mouth twitches, and you feel your pull reciprocated. 

“Do you think- could we visit Father Matt again? Just to see what he knows?” 

Something burns in your chest, the feeling is sour, similar to the symptoms of acid reflux.

“We don't have to.” You clarify, figuring that this sensation wasn't your own, but belonged to your demon.

“No, we should, he might have books on demonology that could help.”

You give him an apologetic smile, leaning to kiss his cheek softly.

“That's my good demon.” You praise.

You hear his deep intake of breath, and when you peek at his face, his eyes have gone full black, veins of dark blood spread from his eyes, fizzling out across his face.

“Mistress.” He says roughly, His voice having dropped a few octaves, a deep and unfamiliar sound that makes your lips part in surprise. It's a warning, you realise, that you've said something to elicit such a potent reaction.

It reminds you of the dream, of the way he looked- a monstrous version of himself.

He turns his head to study you, your heart pounding faster in your chest as you feel an enormous amount of arousal seep into you through the bond.

Your nether regions warm in response, eager to push his limits, to really see his full demonic capabilities.

“Which part of that excited you?” You whisper softly, aching for friction between your thighs, “That I called you good, or that I called you mine?”

He growls, a deep grovelling sound that leaves his throat, one of frustration, of endless desire, of warning. 

Both, you assume, when the black veins worsen, spreading down his neck and into his shirt. 

You study the beautiful veining, the way they spread like branches of a tree over his skin, you bite down on your bottom lip, excitement beating in your heart.

“You like being good for me?” You ask, reaching up to tug the collar of his shirt down, examining the veins further.

He doesn't answer, breaths laboured, his hands curling into fists, fighting himself.

You reach down, gripping one of his hands to bring it to rest on the space below your ass, skin simmering with delight at the feel of his hot hand.

“Answer me demon.” You prod.

He grunts, tipping his head back, closing his eyes.

“If you don't stop. I'm going to ruin that little cunt.” He warns.

“You don't scare me.” Your voice holds a hint of defiance, “You're always telling me that I'm the most powerful person in the room. You're my demon, and I want an answer.”

His eyes open, zeroing in on you, he reaches for you with his free hand, tangling it into your hair, pulling you forward until you're practically in his lap.

“Call me your demon one more time.” He growls, “I dare you.”

You swallow, having never tormented him in this way, excited to see where this would get you.

With your cunt achingly wet, you lick your lips.

“Fine.” You say softly, with an appearance of giving up. You pull from his hold, rising to your feet. He watches you carefully, no doubt that he can feel the mischievousness hidden beneath the surface of your skin.

Standing on the jetty, the sea breeze blowing through your hair, you begin to walk away. When you're almost to solid ground, you turn back with a grin.

“You're my demon, Billy Russo!” You shout, to be heard over the din of the ocean. 

You expect him to stand and chase you, but when you turn to run from him, you gasp in surprise as you crash right into him.

It's so much worse now, the veins have spread to cover his hands, and you wonder absentmindedly if they've spread over his cock too.

He looms over you, somehow feeling significantly larger than you, even in this open space. 

His breaths are laboured, and when he parts his lips, you catch a hint of sharp canines.

This, was the demon you'd seen in your dreams.

You take a step back hesitantly, you can feel the phantom touch of his arousal moving around you, your skin sensitive and warm, sparking at your desire in response.

“Where are you going, mistress?” He reaches for you, gripping your hips in his hands to bring you closer. You look up at him with wide eyes, feeling so deliciously trapped.

“Your demon wants to play.” He taunts, his voice sending trills through your heart. He dips his head, and you realise what he wants, rising onto your toes in response, angling your head upward, eager to kiss this version of him.

You think it's going to be aggressive, but it starts slow, your lips moving gently against his, feeling the desire grow inside of you till you're reaching up to cup the back of his neck.

It's what he's waiting for, he makes a hum of approval before you feel his influence wrap around you, the air going from breezy to still, the sound of crashing waves changes to one of falling rain.

You draw back, finding that he's back to his normal self, dark brown eyes, rosy skin, free of black veins.

He watches you as you look around next, mouth dropping open in surprise as you take in the surroundings.

There's a very large telescope elevated behind Billy, pointing up at the glass domed roof. It's night here, and through the murky glass, you can just barely make out the ripples of cascading rain on glass. There’s one area of the roof that's got heavy plaster smeared on, no doubt sealing the roof from ever opening for the telescope again. 

There are candles spotted throughout the room that helps you see all of this, and when you turn, you gasp in shock at the beautiful sight before you. 

What catches your eye first is the circle of stained glass, your heart squeezing at the resplendent scene it depicts. Fractals of blue glass, every shade you've ever seen, compiled to form an image of the night sky, interspotted with yellow glass to represent stars, and an ivory, almost pearlescent circle to symbolise the moon.

On the outskirts of the mural, are swirling yellow pieces of glass, indicating that within the glass piece, the sun is nearby. The mural is large, and where it ends, the art continues on in coloured tile intermittently dispersed throughout the walls and floor. 

You don't get a chance to study that, because at the base of the stained glass, a bed, draws your attention next.

It's low to the floor, set into a circular wooden frame, surrounded by flickering candles. 

Dark green sheets, you giggle when you feel his hands snake around you, his lips finding their way to your neck.

“Do you bring all your mistresses here?” You tease.

He rumbles in disagreement.

“Only the ones that call me theirs.”

You huff out a laugh, heart full, swaying as he continues to kiss your skin.

“What is this place?” You ask softly, staring at the glass, in the dark, you can’t see anything more.

“It was part of a monastery nearby, back when they studied the heavens in an attempt to understand God. If the rain stops, you can probably hear their singing echo through the mountains.”

You let out a soft sigh.

“And they just forgot about it? That's terrible. Look at this place.”

He hums in agreement.

“It's actually one of the more spiritual places on earth. There are a couple, but this one has been gladly lost to time and reclaimed by the forest.”

“Why here?” 

He's silent for a long time.

“Before you, this was the closest I'd thought I'd get to heaven.”

You lips part, you turn your head to meet his eyes.

“What? Me?” You whisper, almost afraid to say the words out loud in fear that he comes to his senses and takes them back.

He turns you, hands gripping your shoulders tightly, all calm touches lost to desperation.

“You.” He confirms, tucking his fingers under your chin to tip your head up.

The kiss that follows makes your knees weak, you cling to him, gasping as your mouth works against his, feverish kisses that stop you from thinking, his tail wrapping around your thigh to keep you close like it always does.

It's familiar, but brand new, you can feel the way his need burns inside of him, like a fire that won't go out, it sparks yours, and feeds into his, like vicious and consuming cycle.

You make it to the bed next, trapped below him, his mouth never leaving yours, you're not sure how you got here, but you're not complaining.

Moaning into his mouth, you push your body into a sitting position, feeling the bed dips as he adjusts his body to sit beside you. 

His thumb presses into the side of your mouth, hooks against your teeth, pulling your jaw open. 

He pauses, stares at you for a moment while your tongue drags along the tip of his tongue.

You’re on the brink of insanity, you feel so intertwined with him, body crying out for any bit of him that it can get.

He slots his thumb between your teeth, your eyes falling shut as you breathe heavily around the appendage, sighing easily when he delves his rough tongue into your mouth.

All you can do is take, enjoy the feeling, unable to really reciprocate. 

It’s messy, barely a kiss and more of an enjoyment of your surrender to him.

“Tell me again.” He hums, slipping his thumb from your mouth, holding your jaw in place purposefully. You blink slowly, trying to understand what he’s saying.

“Say those words to me again.”

“My demon.” You say easily, looking up at him.

You watch his eyes go black once more.

He slides to his knees in front of you, reaching up to tug your bottoms off, you lift your hips to let it happen.

“Need to taste you, mistress.” He mumbles, as if it explains his feverish movement. 

He kisses the inside of your knee when he finally gets your legs bare, sighing in bliss each time his mouth meets your skin.

“You’re so soft. I love it. I never want to stop touching you.” 

You groan his name, his words melting right into your heart.

He knows what he's doing, praising you relentlessly because he likes the feeling of your reaction to it, a warmth spreading out from the deepest parts of himself.

His hands squeeze gently at your thighs, enraptured by the feeling against his palms.

Leaning closer, his warm breath tickling your mound, you shiver when he kisses the inside of your thigh.

“So good for me.” He praises, grins when he feels your reaction, “You're so beautiful.”

You shudder out a breath.

Reaching down, you grip his horn with a groan, trying to urge him into moving faster.

He accepts your guidance, you part your legs wider for him to fit between them, and after a moment, he guides your legs over his shoulders.

“My mistress.” He rumbles, dark eyes flitting to you before he presses his mouth flush to your cunt.

You feel his delight, tilting your head back, gasping at the level of enjoyment he feels. 

His tongue slides against your clit, sparks erupting in your head, you feel your body fall back onto the soft bed, a boneless mess.

He pauses, chuckling, retracting his body so that he can shift you, adjusting you till your head is pressed against the soft pillows, looking up at the curved ceiling.

His head pops into your vision, chest bare, he must have taken his shirt off at some point.

“Comfortable?” He asks softly.

You bite down on your bottom lip, nodding.

“Good,” he leans in to give you a quick kiss, “Enjoy.”

Your shirt disappears in a flash of purple, his mouth descending on your shoulders.

It's amazing, the way he feels, the delight coursing through his body as he touches you, the way it makes you more sensitive, makes you feel so much more desirable.

He trails soft kisses down your body, until he's back between your thighs, mouth exploring the most intimate parts of you.

It feels too good, you grip the sheets as his tongue works over you, kissing, licking, wet sounds of his tongue reaching your ears along with the sound of falling rain.

When you get too close to the edge, you sit up, making him pause and look up at you from between your thighs.

“I'm not ready to come yet.” You whisper, aching to prolong the feeling of this, the way you feel him and the way he makes you feel yourself.

He smiles in understanding, dipping his head, slows the pace of his tongue, explores you instead, delves into the most primal parts of you.

You tremble, the yearning so intense that your body shakes, and yet you close your eyes, and feel him, the demon between your thighs and the delight that fills him, the devotion.

You cry his name, feel tears slip from your eyes at the intensity of everything, your body aching for release while your mind demands you feel every second of denial.

You're everywhere, all at once, expanding from one singular point, he moves your legs over his shoulders, hands wrapping around your hips to hold your body tight to his face, cunt pressed flush to his eager mouth, the way it was always meant to be.

He moans, the vibrations soft against you, and then he moans again, delight and adoration coming from him.

Your head sinks deeper into the pillows, body arching, his fingertips pressed to your mound, holding you fast as you lose control of your own body.

You raise a hand, pressing it to your mouth on instinct to fight the scream you're no doubt going to release. An invisible force grabs your wrist, pinning your hands to either side of your head.

Trapped, you can only wriggle and his tongue licks over your clit, sliding from side to side, speeding up ever so subtly.

He hums again, and it's that low, delicious feeling of his desire that reverberates through your bones, locking them into place as your release slams into you.

Your back arches so forcefully that you swear you'll dislocate something, mindless whimpers and moans leaving your lips.

He keeps licking gently over you, soft, careful, attentive in a way that makes you grind against his tongue to prolong your orgasm.

When it's over, your body relaxes, panting, desperate for air, your heart pounding in your head, the back of your neck feverishly hot. You feel his invisible hold on your wrists release you.

He withdraws a little, kissing at the tops of your thighs, chin wet, leaving cool little spots over your hips as well.

You tilt your head to look down at him. You've never felt so many emotions before, yours and his, blending together in your head because you feel the same things.

“I would gladly do that forever.” He finally says, looking up at you.

You let out a breath, reaching a hand out to him, hoping that he can read your mind and know what you want.

He smiles, obliges, crawls his way up your body and covers you with his larger one, burying his face into your neck as your jelly arms wrap around him.

It scratches an itch in your brain to feel his large form over you like this, you feel so safe, protected, and something deeper, too deep to name.

“I'm not done,” he finally says into your hair, “Remember when I promised to teach you how to take me?”

Your breath hitches.

“Yes?”

He raised his body a little so that he can look into your eyes, the flickering of the candles reflected in them.

“I've got some… items to help you.”

He turns his head to the side, and when you turn to follow his line of sight, you see five phallic shaped objects lined up, the smallest being the width of two of your fingers and the largest being… just a little smaller than his actual member.

You gulp.

“Don't be scared,” he says, no doubt feeling your trepidation, “I won't hurt you.”

That, you believed. You turn to look at him, nodding your head, indicating your eagerness to begin.

He smiles, reaching for the smallest one with his tail. You lose sight of it, before you gasp, feeling it running along the seam of your cunt.

You look up, into his eyes, watching him watch you.

“You're so wet, this one will go in easy.” 

He proves his point by notching it against your entrance, twisting it slightly to coat it in your arousal.

It's like his fingers, you determine, mouth dropping open in delight as the object fills you.

“Breathe.” He guides, and you do, feeling him move the object in and out, pumping it into you slowly until you shudder, easily accepting this size.

“That's good, mistress, this isn't so scary, right? You just have to relax and trust me.”

You swallow, nodding, eyes locked on his. 

He withdraws this size from you, reaching for the next size up- the approximate size of his tail.

This one takes a little bit more effort, but it doesn't hurt, and you drop your head back, moaning as euphoria overtakes your body.

He chuckles above you.

“Yes, you're used to this size as well,” he whispers, pumping the shaft of the object deeper and deeper into you.

You whine, toes curling, a spot deep inside of you aching, threatening release long before you're even ready.

“Already, mistress?” He clicks his tongue in disappointment, you can feel that he's just teasing you, but his words still draws another high pitched keen from you.

“I'm not even trying, you're just that needy, hmm?”

You nod your head eagerly, feeling him drag the silicone object out and then back in, pushing it fully into you.

“Fuck- Billy- I'm-”

“Don't, mistress. You don't cum unless I say.”

You wished it was that easy, you wish You could make your body understand and prioritize what your demon wanted above itself. But it just didn't work like that.

His hand moves under your head, fisting your hair tightly, grabbing your attention, forcing you to look into his dark eyes.

“Don't. Cum.” He growls, his eyes flashing red, as if that's supposed to stop you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep breath, trying to relax your body, looking up at him with teary eyes when you get yourself under control.

“Good.” He whispers, leaning in to press his lips to yours.

It's a good distraction, you focus on the kiss so much that you're not expecting him to reach for the larger size, pressing it against you with his hand when he withdraws the other one with his tail.

You shudder out a breath, looking up at him, feeling your cunt stretch, taking this size, feeling so unbelievably full, glancing over at the unused sizes, trying to figure out how much fuller you're going to feel with those.

It aches a little, and he pauses halfway in, to let you grow accustomed to the size.

His thumb brushes over your cheek, swiping at some of the tears slipping from your eyes.

“You tighten up when you come, it would have made taking this size more painful. But you’re doing so good, mistress, so good for your demon.”

You hum when you hear him say those words, tilting your hips up to drive the dilator deeper into you.

He smiles, taking your guidance, slowly working this size into you, before moving his hand away.

“This one stays for a little while, till you’re dripping around it.” He says, leaning up, and away, so that he can see between your legs. You feel his appreciation through the bond.

“That little cunt is so good for me. I can’t wait to break her in.”

You shudder, aching.

Experimentally, you squeeze your walls around the object, sighing when pleasure fills your body.

He gives you a breathy grin, watching you carefully.

“Good, get used to it. Maybe I should leave it in longer, it would be fun to watch you move around with one of these inside of you.”

You groan, he really was some kind of evil.

It was torture, you wanted to rock your hips so badly, your need to come was even worse. Your body was aching for release, and you weren’t sure how long you would be able to take it.

His tail wraps around your thigh, pressing gently against your clit. Your body shudders in response.

“Does it hurt at all?” He asks.

You swallow, shaking your head.

His tail moves softly on your clit, relaxing you.

“I’ll let you come on the next size, okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, skin growing sensitive with the need for release, “O-okay.”

After a few minutes, he gently moves this one out, and then in, getting you used to the sensation, your eyes closed, when he finally withdraws it, and presses the second largest one against you.

You go tense.

“No, sweetheart.” Billy murmurs, his tail pressing down firmer on your clit, “Relax for me, deep breaths, you can take it.”

He keeps saying that, mumbled encouragements, you can take it, so sweet for me, relax a little bit more baby, you’re made for this, promise.

Your breath hitches when he finally works the tip in.

He’s used some kind of lubricant to help it move easier, you tremble as you try your best to relax, to remind yourself that this is worth something, that you wanted to take him fully.

It’s a little uncomfortable, but most importantly, it doesn’t hurt, you hear the rolling of thunder outside, or maybe that’s just the sound of your heart pounding in your chest.

“Billy.” You cry, a mix of pleasure and discomfort swimming inside of you, and he reaches to hold your hand with his free one, his words not stopping for a second.

“Perfect for me, sweetheart, you wanna take me so bad, hmm? Need to feel your demon’s cock fill you up?”

You nod, mindlessly thinking about it, the way he’d press into you like he did before, the way he’d move, the way he’d feel.

“Want you to cum inside of me.” You babble, watching his eyes go pitch black once more, eyes following the black veins as they trace their way down his body.

He tilts his head, studying you as you watch him.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.” He says, his voice deep- almost a low grovel, “You don’t want that.”

“Why not?” You ask, absently realising that he’s still slowly guiding the dilator into you.

“I’m a demon, mistress. A prince of Hell. Evil.”

You blink, shuddering when the dilator finally presses tightly against that spot deep within you.

“So?” You challenge, trying to focus on two things at once.

“You think I’m attached to you now, there won’t be any letting go if you give yourself to me like that. Remember a few days ago when you offered to break the bond if I wanted?”

You nod your head, cunt full.

“If you let me cum deep inside of you, I’ll never want to let you go, ever. I’d own you, mistress, you’d never be free of me. If you ran from me, I’d chase you. If you hid, I would find you. There is no corner on Earth you could ever go to, that would rid you of me.”

Your lips part, cunt clenching as he slowly pumps the slick dilator in and out of you.

“Please,” you gasp, “More.”

He obliges, pushing in deeper, rocking the pseudo-cock into you until your toes curl, a loud roaring in your head that threatens a supernova.

You squeeze his hand tightly when you come, gasping, shuddering violently, your cunt clamping down around the large size, making you feel fuller than ever, your mind drunk on the pleasure you were experiencing, unsure of where your body began and his ended.

You drop back against the bed, apparently having arched your body so forcefully that your back had raised a little off the bed.

“Oh my fucking god.” You draw out, body still convulsing occasionally, shards of pleasure still cutting through you in waves. You blink, hypersensitive, feeling your skin flush with an abundance of heat.

His lips are on your shoulder, peppering sweetly over your chest, soft, ticklish even in its gentleness.

He was right, orgasms make you a little tighter, you only realise this when he tries to tug the dilator out, and encounters resistance.

He doesn’t try to force it, twisting the object gently, continuing to kiss your shoulders.

“Deep breaths, mistress, relax.” His free hand smooths over your face, delving into your hair, squeezing at your shoulders.

His gentle touches work, and before you know it, he can tug the silicone out without hurting you.

“Last one, sweetheart.” He murmurs, reaching for the final size.

You try not to be scared, to remember that Billy was attentive, and gentle, and would rather die than have you hurt in any way.

You barely feel it, sliding into you, only a touch wider than the last and the pleasure from your last orgasm numbs the discomfort of this purple dilator as it slides into you.

You take it easily, breathing deep and even, only hitching when his tail flicks gently on your clit.

“Good, mistress, so perfect for me.” He praises guiding it in till it fits snugly inside of you.

Is this what he would feel like? Pressed deep, so deep you could feel it in your throat?

You blink up at him, wishing it were him inside of you, and not this unfeeling thing.

You feel a tug at the connection between you, telling you that he felt the exact same way.

“That demon I saw in your dreams last night, that was the real you.” You say, no question in your tone, already suspecting the answer.

You watch his throat bob, nodding.

“Will you show me?” You ask, clenching gently around the dilator.

He exhales, nodding again, backing away from you, stepping off the bed to show you his full form.

The first thing you see is his nails sharpen, then his horns growing larger, eyes going fully black, and then the beautiful dark veins spreading over his body. The darkness pools at the tips of his fingers, fading into his natural skin as it moves up his wrist. 

He looks bigger somehow, more menacing, an aura of darkness unleashes itself around him and it only arouses you more.

You glance down at the boxers he’s still wearing, watching the dark veins torment you as they dip beneath the waistband.

You sit up, gasping when the dilator feels bigger in this position, you take your time, crawling on all fours till you’re sitting on the bed just in front of him.

Your demon is beautiful, ethereal, and without a doubt, pure evil.

You smile up at him, reaching for either side of his boxers, excitement deepening when he doesn’t stop you.

The veins do in fact extend lightly over his large cock, and you moan when you observe that the tip is untouched, remaining pink, beads of precum pooling on his slit.

You look up at him, his chest heaving, fingers curled into fists, watching as you extend your tongue to softly lick at the head of his cock.

You moan at his taste, eagerly wrapping your lips around the head of him, sucking eagerly.

Big, deliciously big that you have to raise a hand to work at the base of him while you suck slowly on his tip. Every now and then, you look up at him to remind yourself that he looks like that.

So unbelievably gorgeous, you take him as deep into your mouth as you can, wanting to feel him fill your mouth, take up space in your throat, own you.

You moan, reaching down between your legs with your other hand, you gently slide the dilator in an out of you, using it to fuck yourself while you suck him off.

His hand grips the back of your head, nails scraping gently on your scalp.

“Filthy little mistress, likes being full on both ends.”

You whine at his words, flicking your eyes up to meet his dark ones.

He’s so divine, you want to tell him but you can’t spare the air it would take.

Instead you nod, forcing him deeper into your mouth.

He moans, his pleasure settling at the base of your spine, hand guiding your head up and down on his cock, panting as he looks down at you.

You want him to come in your mouth, to make you cum drunk and able to take him better. You rock your hips harder on the dilator inside you, feeling so full that you’re not sure how you’re ever going to survive without him inside of you.

You hasten the movement of your hands, abandoning your own pleasure to ensure he experiences his.

“Mistress,” He gasps, tilting his head back, you stroke him faster eagerly.

You’re greedy for his cum, he groans loudly as he spills himself into your mouth. You lose control of the quantity, some of it dripping down your chin and falling onto your breasts as you try your best to swallow.

You draw back with a gasp, and a final bit of his cum hits your cheek. You wipe your lips, sucking your fingers into your mouth, to try cleaning yourself up.

There’s too much of his spend on your skin though, and you don’t get the chance to try fully before his hand is wrapped around your throat.

You’re pressed to the bed suddenly, his body over yours, dark eyes looking at you as you feel your head go hazy.

You moan, writhing under his grip so that he’s forced to squeeze tighter, loving the attention as you get high on his cum.

Ropes wrap around your wrists, over your knees, spreading them wide the way he’s done before.

You moan when you feel him wipe at your chin and cheek, cleaning the remnants of his cum from your skin.

“My demon.” You whisper, arching your back, not trying to break free, but to beg him to fuck you any way he wanted.

The only answer you receive, is the feeling of him gripping the ends of the dilator, tugging it out slowly before pressing it back in.

“You look like a work of art, mistress.” He murmurs lowly, “Hands and legs bound, the circle of candles, the way they light up your pretty skin-” He uses a single digit to tease your stiff nipple, making you gasp, skin oversensitive, “-You’d fuel an artist’s best daydream.”

You say his name on a half sob.

“I can’t believe I get to have you like this” He continues, his tail gliding over your thighs and to your cunt, “You’re the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

His tail circles your clit, as he slowly pumps the silicone into you, you thrash a little, the sensations are so strong, almost overpowering.

You stutter out a moan, fingers curling, unable to do anything except feel.

“That's it, mistress, show me how you'd take me.”

You gasp, eyes wide, arching your hips towards his hand in hopes that he gives you more. He obliges easily, speeding up his rhythm, your head so full of bliss that you can barely think about anything else.

He slides his free hand up from your thigh, to press over the space of your womb, he presses down a little, and you swear the sensations grow even more intense.

“I can't wait to finally fuck you, mistress. I hope you know, I'll be insatiable after. I'll probably need you so much more.”

You nod your head, easily agreeing, your body locking into place once more as your orgasm approaches.

You gasp, feeling him deepen his thrusts just a little bit more until it almost aches with how good it feels, deep, measured, something you never even knew you were craving.

You come hard, harder than you ever have before, crying out loudly as pleasure hits you at full force, your skin tingles, your cunt spasms around the silicone, holding it in place, euphoria spreading through your nerve endings, sparking heat that you can barely keep track of.

Your invisible bindings fall away as you go boneless, shuddering still as waves of bliss continue to move through you.

He falls into the space beside you, and it's through heaving breaths that you realise he's shaking too.

“Billy?” You say carefully, reaching to caress whatever part of him you could, the backs of your fingers tracing his shoulders.

He turns his head to look at you.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, “I think I just felt every second of that orgasm.” He crawls his way higher, till he's face to face with you, studying you like words on a page, “Does it always feel like that?”

You chuckle, throat dry and a little achey from overuse.

“That, was probably the hardest I've ever come.” You answer.

He hums, eyelashes fluttering as he dips his head to kiss along your jaw. You tilt your head to give him space, smiling easily at his gentle and persistent attentions.

“If I hadn't come earlier, that would have no doubt set me off untouched.”

You groan, liking the sound of that.

The dilator is still inside of you, and squirm a little in discomfort.

He gets the message, reaching down, with a soft voice guiding you to relax, you feel him tug it out of you.

You let out a soft breath as it slides out, your body going from uncomfortably full, to very empty in the span of a few seconds.

“I'll be honest, I thought when we started, that you would fuck me at the end of this, but honestly, I don't think I could handle it.” You say, laughing as you finish your sentence, emphasising your own point by closing your legs, feeling how blissfully sore you are at this very moment.

He laughs along with you, a low chuckle of amusement.

“You definitely wouldn't, no offence, you're going to be really sore tomorrow, and I'm not going to help you with it.”

You blink.

“Why not?”

You feel his deviousness wrap around you. The look in his human eyes is sinister.

“I want you to ache, mistress, I want you to remember what I did, what you begged me to do, every time you move I want you to feel it, I want you to wonder how much worse it will be when it's my real cock, and not some poor substitute.”

Now why on earth did that arouse you so much?

He grins when he feels your reaction, eyes flashing red for just a moment, and you wonder if this was the corruption promised.

His hands drift over your thighs, up your stomach, cupping your breast softly on its way up to grip your throat.

You feel your body go pliant underneath him, you feel like his, a plaything for his desires.

“Ready for your bath, mistress?” He asks with a tilt of his head, and it takes you a moment to think about his words before nodding.

He scoops you into his arms, a pleased expression on his face when you wrap your arms around him easily.

Who knew that when you met him all those months ago that this is where you would end up? That one traumatic night would lead to something so… perfect.

He opens a heavy wooden door, and descends down a stone staircase, it opens up into a hallway, made of the same stone. You lose focus of where you're going in favour of snuggling into him, nose buried in his chest that you almost ignore the first sparkle you see.

You raise your head, mouth dropping open in surprise when he walks past a little table piled high with shiny gems.

“Uhhhh, Billy?” 

“Hmmm?”

You try to say more when he passes a jewel encrusted, solid gold candelabra.

You turn your head quickly to watch where you're going, finding that the hallway is lined with dozens of these shiny, jewel encrusted items of different shapes.

“What?” You ask, with absolutely zero context.

He chuckles.

“Asmodeus, the demon before me, he was something of a collector, things that were lost to time, he'd find and keep them. When I inherited his title, I also received sole access to his treasures. I'd started to move it here, until I realised that he had way too much stuff, which is why you might find these things piled anywhere I could find a space.”

You watch, amazed as he passed another little table piled high with gold coins, except that a few of the piles have toppled, spilling gold over the stone floor.

“The bathroom is gonna blow your mind.” He says without elaboration, and you feel a touch of excitement go over you.

It does, you almost think you're dreaming.

There are several lamps scattered around the room, but the chandelier hanging from the roof acts the way a suncatcher does, sending fractals of light scattering, catching on the many shiny objects in the room.

There are so many shiny things that your brain can hardly comprehend, a glittering ship, that looks like it's been made out of the finest diamonds, a large floor to ceiling mirror made out of what you think might be real rose gold and the bath- the bath is built into the floor of the room, covered, absolutely full, of shiny gold coins, crystal waters still above it.

“You're Scrooge McDuck.” You whisper in shock.

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Cartoon duck,” you mumble absentmindedly as he approaches the bath, “filthy rich, bathes in his money.”

He huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, I have no defence for that, I'm a duck I guess.”

The water is nice and warm, soothing your body from the minute he steps in.

He settles you against his body, your back to his front in the sparkling water.

A swipe of his influence, and you watch a little solid gold fountain start up, spilling water into the bath, the chandelier above head begins turning, the light spinning around the room.

It's so relaxing, you settle against him, the sound of dribbling water lulling your sated body.

“I can't believe you're this rich.” You murmur sleepily.

“We are,” he corrects, raising your hand to remind you of the tattoo on your inner wrist, “This gives you access to my things.”

You hum, deep in thought about that, the way he makes it sound like you were one.

He scoops up some gold coins from below, dropping them over your thighs. You feel the heavy weight of them, the way they slide off of your skin back to the bottom.

You feel his contentment, it melds with yours. You turn your head to kiss at his cheek and chest, the warm water soothing your little aches the way he said he wasn't going to.

It makes you smile, settling against him, heart full of something, so deep that you're not really sure which one of you is really feeling it.

.

“What about this one?” You ask, turning slowly to show him with the weight on your head.

He studies you, the lavish crown sitting on your head, a sheer robe wrapped around you that he knows will reveal your body to him in the right lighting.

“A queen I'd gladly kneel for.” He answers, eyeing you hungrily.

He watches you fight a smile, turning away to put the crown back, he feels your delight at his words.

You're examining a very long string of pearls when he decides to make his way to you. Billy breathes in your soft scent as he wraps his arms around you.

“These are really long, I wonder how they were worn.”

He hums, pressing his nose to your neck.

“I think these were made to wrap around the body.”

“Really?” You say in interest, winding them around your arm to examine the look of them.

“Let me.” He says, extending his hand, his cock stiffening in excitement of the way you'd look.

You pass them over to him curiously, turning to face him. He takes the opportunity to push the robe from your shoulders.

You gasp, and he tries not to let it distract him from his purpose, carefully starting at your neck, winding the strings of pearls over your body, he has to bite his tongue hard with the way they decorate your perfect breasts, resisting the urge to take you into his mouth before he's done.

Every curve on your body is delicious, and he crisscrosses the pearls several times over your stomach, lowering his body to his knees when he has to decorate your hips. 

He's a little sinister, guiding the pearls between your thighs, ensuring that they're pressed securely to your clit before routing them between the curves of your ass, tugging a little tightly, watching you stiffen as you experience pleasure. 

He pretends that it's normal, winding them around your body a few more times before securing it around your waist.

He looks up at you, his work of art, his mistress, he feels your arousal, worsening the longer the pearls rub against you.

He stands, taking your hands in his, tugs you forward, knowing that motion increases the sensations on your body.

He brings you to a mirror, turning to show you how beautiful you look.

Nothing stands a chance against you, he thinks to himself, admiring his work, watching you lift a hand to touch the pearls in wonder.

“Only thing that might make you prettier, is my cum soaking into your skin.”

He feels the exact moment you decide he's right.

“Only one way to find out.” You respond, turning to sink to your knees in front of him.

He groans, tilts his head back when your lips seal around the head of his cock.

Heaven wasn't as far away as it had seemed.

.

.

But James has already lifted you, one hand under your knees and another supporting your back as he moves you smoothly from your chosen position of rest and into his lap. He makes it look like nothing, which is the first offense (Sirius isn’t sure which of you he’s more jealous of), but the second is that you let him. Sirius and Remus have both looked up in alarm, waiting for a biting protest that doesn’t come. Instead, you remove your hand from your face, burying in it James’ brawny shoulder instead. 

“Bad,” you grumble, but your tone lacks the venom you’d spat at Sirius a moment before. 

James coos like he’s got a kitten in his lap instead of a viper, bringing his considerable arms around you. His palm cups the back of your neck, kneading gently at the tensed muscles there. “Where does it hurt, darling?” 

“Everywhere.” 

“By your eyes?” 

“No.” 

He hums, brows furrowing as he works steadily at your neck. You’ve gone nearly lax in his arms, trusting him to hold you up as you slump against his front. “Have you been drinking water?” 

“It’s not that.” Some of the irritation is back in your tone, Sirius notices, but it’s been markedly softened for James. “I had tons of water this morning.” 

“Probably a tension headache then, yeah?” He looks to Remus, who nods. The quiet boy looks as dumbstruck as Sirius feels. 

James moves his grip to your sides and lifts you again, rearranging his legs to get more comfortable before placing you back in his lap. He places a hand on each side of your head, thumbs pushing into your temples and rubbing in slow, soothing circles. You begin to look like you might fall asleep.

“This is so unfair,” Sirius hisses to Remus. 

“He has a power,” Remus admits weakly, “which transcends understanding.” 

“Do you want some tea?” James murmurs to you after a while. Sirius’ eyes have gotten stuck watching the movement of his forearms, and he snaps them reluctantly back up. 

You hum, uncertain but definitely considering it. Behind you, Remus throws up his hands. James sees him and smiles, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. 

“I’m getting the sense this isn’t the first cup you’ve been offered,” he says, looking immensely entertained. 

You sigh, but even that sounds pleasurable as his big thumbs drill diligently into your temples. “Yeah, but I just wanted to be left alone.” 

Remus and Sirius exchange a look. You seem perfectly fine with company now. 

“Don’t be silly,” James chides lightly, “a warm drink will make you feel better. Remus, love, would you be so kind as to make her a cup?” 

“Sure.” His voice is gruff, but then you murmur a quiet thanks, Rem and Sirius actually sees the moment his heart turns to mush. “No problem,” he says, softer now. 

“Attagirl.” James’ hand drops to give your shoulder a squeeze, his bicep flexing slightly with the movement. Christ, Sirius might have to fake a headache later, if this is the sort of treatment those receive. “Drink your tea and then we’ll get you to bed, yeah? You can sleep the rest of this off.” 

“You know, I offered to carry her to bed earlier,” Sirius says, still slightly bitter, “and she told me very clearly to fuck off.” 

You don’t sound so much exasperated now as exhausted. “Siri, when you carrying me doesn’t involve setting me down every five steps for a break, then we’ll talk.”