Hello Boys

“I need you,” a beg ripples through your tongue. He’s the only god you need. Fuck the holy Spirit. “Please, Thor, please,”

A rough grunt spills from his lips, snagging his hand away from your cunt to glide up your midriff before tweaking at your breast, pinching a nipple. You could feel the smirk gloss his mouth as his head falls against your spine with each thrust of his hips. Your vision blurs as he whispers against your skin, “you want me to fuck you harder, saint?”

WIth vigor, you nod, an inviting moan falls past the back of your throat, causing his cock to twitch inside of you.

“Oh, precious little girl,” he coos, leaning his head next to your ear, “how does it feel to seee a God for all he’s worth, hmm? Oh, the sinner sins, hmm?”

A boistroius whine escapes your lips once more, lip quivering at the soft voice next to you as you allow your head to fall forward, his thrusts rocking your body on the cold stone steps of the church. Thank the heavens for he cover of hte night. 

“Oh, my gods,” a stutter climbs its way pass the moans from your chest as you clench his cock so tightly inside you, causing him to erupt moments later.

—you blink at him. “…What?”

Clark’s gaze softens like he’s remembering something fond. “Blue sweater,” he says quietly. “Coffee in your left hand. It was raining. You were standing outside that little café on 8th. I couldn’t stop watching as you waited for the bus.”

Your stomach tightens. You’ve been to that café. A lot.

“…Clark,” you say slowly, “that was months ago.”

His head tilts slightly. “I know.”

The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Because he doesn’t sound embarrassed. He sounds certain.

You give a small, uneasy laugh, leaning against the kitchen counter. “You’ve got a really good memory.”

Clark steps inside your apartment. You don’t remember inviting him in. The door clicks shut behind him. “It isn’t memory,” he says gently.

Your fingers tighten around the mug in your hands. “…Then what is it?”

Clark’s eyes flicker over you. Not casually. Not politely. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s comparing you to something. “Observation.”

Your pulse jumps. “You… observed me drinking coffee last year?”

“Yes.” His answer comes too quickly. Too simply. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You set your mug down. “…Why?”

Clark is quiet for a moment. Then he takes a step closer. The floor barely creaks under his weight. “You smiled that day,” he says.

Your chest tightens. “I smile a lot.”

“Not like that.”

Another step closer. “You had just read something on your phone. A message, I think. Your shoulders relaxed at whoever was texting you.” He lifts a hand slightly, like he’s tracing the memory in the air. “You tucked your hair behind your ear and looked up at the rain.” Your breath catches. “You closed your eyes for a second.”

The room suddenly feels too small. Too quiet.

Clark’s voice lowers. “You looked peaceful.”

You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

Clark doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies your face like he’s reading something only he can see. “You don’t look like that much anymore.”

Your heart thumps. “That’s… a weird thing to say.”

Another step. Now he’s only a few feet away. “You work too much,” he says softly. “You sleep less than five hours most nights. Your heart rate spikes when your phone buzzes.”

Your mouth goes dry. “…Clark.”

“You skipped lunch today.” The air leaves your lungs. “And yesterday.”

Your brain scrambles. “How would you—”

“I hear it.” Your voice cracks. “…Hear what?”

Clark finally lifts his eyes fully to yours. And for the first time since you’ve known him— there is nothing shy in them. “I hear everything.” The words land heavy between you. The refrigerator hums. A car passes outside. Clark takes another slow step closer. “You were happiest last October,” he repeats quietly.

Your back presses against the counter now. “…Why are you telling me this?”

Clark studies you for a long moment. Then his hand lifts. Your heart stops when his fingers brush the sleeve of your sweater. “You wore this one today,” he murmurs.

Your throat tightens. 

“It looked good on you then, too.”

You swallow hard. “Clark… this is starting to feel a little—”

“I was right there.”

Your breath stutters. “You… what?”

Clark’s voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. “Across the street.”

Your skin goes cold. “You were standing under the café awning,” he continues. “You almost spilled your coffee when someone bumped into you.” You remember that. You do. “And I caught the cup before it hit the ground.”

Your mind scrambles through the memory. You remember the cup tilting. You remember it not falling. You thought— You thought you’d caught it. “…That was you?”

Clark smiles faintly. “Yes.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Why didn’t you say anything?” His gaze darkens slightly. “I wasn’t ready yet.”

A long silence fills the apartment. “…Ready for what?”

Clark finally steps close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him. His voice drops. “To introduce myself.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s… not normal, Clark.”

“I know.” He says it so easily. Like he’s already accepted that part.

Your fingers grip the counter behind you. “So what—you’ve just been watching me for a year?”

Clark’s eyes soften. “Longer.”

Your breath catches. “…What?”

“You moved into this apartment two years ago,” he says gently. “You cried the first few nights because you felt lonely. Because you’d just wished thigns had goen differently with your ex.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “How—”

“You dropped a box in the hallway.” Your chest tightens. “Your neighbor helped you pick it up.”

Clark’s voice lowers. “You thanked him three times.”

Your legs feel weak. “You remember… all of that?”

Clark looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “Of course I do.” The room feels suddenly very, very small.

“Clark,” you whisper, “that’s not normal.”

His expression softens almost sadly. “I know.” His hand finally settles against the counter beside yours. Not touching. Just there. “You looked happiest last October,” he repeats quietly.

Your heart pounds. “Why does that matter so much to you?”

Clark watches you like you’re the only thing in the world. “Because I decided something that day.”

Your throat tightens. “…What?”

Clark’s voice drops to something deep. Certain. “That it’s my job to make sure you look like that again.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not your—”

“I can fix it.” The calm confidence in his voice is terrifying. “You’re tired because people keep hurting you. Stressing you. Taking things from you.”

Your pulse spikes. “Clark…”

“I can stop that.” He leans down slightly so his voice is softer. Closer, his mouth is barely inches from your ear.. “They don’t have to be a problem anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “…What does that mean?”

Clark studies your face. Then he smiles. Not shy. Not awkward. Something far more dangerous. “It means,” he says gently, “I’ve been paying attention.”

—you blink at him. “…What?”

Clark’s gaze softens like he’s remembering something fond. “Blue sweater,” he says quietly. “Coffee in your left hand. It was raining. You were standing outside that little café on 8th. I couldn’t stop watching as you waited for the bus.”

Your stomach tightens. You’ve been to that café. A lot.

“…Clark,” you say slowly, “that was months ago.”

His head tilts slightly. “I know.”

The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Because he doesn’t sound embarrassed. He sounds certain.

You give a small, uneasy laugh, leaning against the kitchen counter. “You’ve got a really good memory.”

Clark steps inside your apartment. You don’t remember inviting him in. The door clicks shut behind him. “It isn’t memory,” he says gently.

Your fingers tighten around the mug in your hands. “…Then what is it?”

Clark’s eyes flicker over you. Not casually. Not politely. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s comparing you to something. “Observation.”

Your pulse jumps. “You… observed me drinking coffee last year?”

“Yes.” His answer comes too quickly. Too simply. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You set your mug down. “…Why?”

Clark is quiet for a moment. Then he takes a step closer. The floor barely creaks under his weight. “You smiled that day,” he says.

Your chest tightens. “I smile a lot.”

“Not like that.”

Another step closer. “You had just read something on your phone. A message, I think. Your shoulders relaxed at whoever was texting you.” He lifts a hand slightly, like he’s tracing the memory in the air. “You tucked your hair behind your ear and looked up at the rain.” Your breath catches. “You closed your eyes for a second.”

The room suddenly feels too small. Too quiet.

Clark’s voice lowers. “You looked peaceful.”

You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

Clark doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies your face like he’s reading something only he can see. “You don’t look like that much anymore.”

Your heart thumps. “That’s… a weird thing to say.”

Another step. Now he’s only a few feet away. “You work too much,” he says softly. “You sleep less than five hours most nights. Your heart rate spikes when your phone buzzes.”

Your mouth goes dry. “…Clark.”

“You skipped lunch today.” The air leaves your lungs. “And yesterday.”

Your brain scrambles. “How would you—”

“I hear it.” Your voice cracks. “…Hear what?”

Clark finally lifts his eyes fully to yours. And for the first time since you’ve known him— there is nothing shy in them. “I hear everything.” The words land heavy between you. The refrigerator hums. A car passes outside. Clark takes another slow step closer. “You were happiest last October,” he repeats quietly.

Your back presses against the counter now. “…Why are you telling me this?”

Clark studies you for a long moment. Then his hand lifts. Your heart stops when his fingers brush the sleeve of your sweater. “You wore this one today,” he murmurs.

Your throat tightens. 

“It looked good on you then, too.”

You swallow hard. “Clark… this is starting to feel a little—”

“I was right there.”

Your breath stutters. “You… what?”

Clark’s voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. “Across the street.”

Your skin goes cold. “You were standing under the café awning,” he continues. “You almost spilled your coffee when someone bumped into you.” You remember that. You do. “And I caught the cup before it hit the ground.”

Your mind scrambles through the memory. You remember the cup tilting. You remember it not falling. You thought— You thought you’d caught it. “…That was you?”

Clark smiles faintly. “Yes.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Why didn’t you say anything?” His gaze darkens slightly. “I wasn’t ready yet.”

A long silence fills the apartment. “…Ready for what?”

Clark finally steps close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him. His voice drops. “To introduce myself.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s… not normal, Clark.”

“I know.” He says it so easily. Like he’s already accepted that part.

Your fingers grip the counter behind you. “So what—you’ve just been watching me for a year?”

Clark’s eyes soften. “Longer.”

Your breath catches. “…What?”

“You moved into this apartment two years ago,” he says gently. “You cried the first few nights because you felt lonely. Because you’d just wished thigns had goen differently with your ex.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “How—”

“You dropped a box in the hallway.” Your chest tightens. “Your neighbor helped you pick it up.”

Clark’s voice lowers. “You thanked him three times.”

Your legs feel weak. “You remember… all of that?”

Clark looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “Of course I do.” The room feels suddenly very, very small.

“Clark,” you whisper, “that’s not normal.”

His expression softens almost sadly. “I know.” His hand finally settles against the counter beside yours. Not touching. Just there. “You looked happiest last October,” he repeats quietly.

Your heart pounds. “Why does that matter so much to you?”

Clark watches you like you’re the only thing in the world. “Because I decided something that day.”

Your throat tightens. “…What?”

Clark’s voice drops to something deep. Certain. “That it’s my job to make sure you look like that again.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not your—”

“I can fix it.” The calm confidence in his voice is terrifying. “You’re tired because people keep hurting you. Stressing you. Taking things from you.”

Your pulse spikes. “Clark…”

“I can stop that.” He leans down slightly so his voice is softer. Closer, his mouth is barely inches from your ear.. “They don’t have to be a problem anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “…What does that mean?”

Clark studies your face. Then he smiles. Not shy. Not awkward. Something far more dangerous. “It means,” he says gently, “I’ve been paying attention.”

That’s what pulls him out of it. He exhales slowly, runs a hand over his mouth, and finally steps forward. Picks the test up. Looks at it closer this time, like maybe it’ll change if he stares hard enough. It doesn’t. He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving huff of a laugh. “…We’re having a baby.” It’s not a question.

When he walks back into the bedroom, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in your shirt, eyes searching his face like you’re bracing for something—fear, anger, doubt.

Nick sees it immediately. And it guts him. “Hey,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Hey, none of that.” He crosses the room in a few strides and crouches in front of you, big hands coming up to hold your face, grounding you. “Look at me.”

You do.

“I’m not mad,” he says firmly. “I’m not… running, or whatever the hell you think.” His thumb brushes under your eye. “You kidding me? That’s—” he shakes his head, almost smiling, overwhelmed. “That’s mine. That’s ours.”

Your breath stutters. “You’re… happy?”

Nick lets out a low laugh, something rough and real. “Terrified,” he admits. “But yeah. Yeah, I’m happy.” He presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes for a second like he needs to steady himself. Then his hand slides down, slow, almost reverent, to rest against your stomach. Something shifts in him right there.

You feel it.

Nick has always been protective—dangerous men are, it comes with the territory—but this is different. This is deeper. Quieter. Colder. More final. “You’re not going out alone anymore,” he mutters, already thinking ahead. “No more late nights. No more—hell, I’m getting someone with you when I can’t be there.”

“Nick—”

“No,” he cuts in, but his voice isn’t harsh. It’s firm. Unmovable. “You don’t get it. This isn’t just you now.” His hand presses a little more firmly over your stomach, like he’s shielding something already. “This is everything.”

—

The change is immediate. It’s in the way he walks—closer to you, always between you and the door, the street, anyone who looks twice. It’s in how his hand never really leaves you anymore, always resting at your back or your hip or low on your stomach like he needs constant reassurance you’re still there.

Alive. Safe.

His guys notice. They see the way Nick’s temper shortens, the way he doesn’t tolerate mistakes anymore. The way one wrong move gets you a look that could end careers… or lives.

“Boss has something to lose now,” someone mutters one night. They’re right. And that makes him more dangerous than ever.

—

But at home? He’s different. Softer in ways he doesn’t let anyone else see.

You wake up one night to find him sitting beside you, lamp on, just… watching you. “Nick?” you mumble.

He startles slightly, like he didn’t expect to be caught. “Go back to sleep,” he says quietly.

You push yourself up on your elbows, squinting at him. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

He hesitates. Then his hand comes to your stomach again, gentle. “Just making sure,” he says.

“Of what?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “That you’re still here in the morning.”

The words hang heavy between you. You sit up fully now, reaching for him. “Nick…”

He exhales, shaking his head like he said too much. “I’ve buried people for less than what I do every day,” he mutters. “I’ve made enemies that don’t forget. And now—” his hand spreads over you again, protective, possessive in the quietest way. “Now I got you. And a kid on the way.”

You take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “We’re not going anywhere,” you whisper.

His eyes search yours like he wants to believe that. Like he doesn’t. “…I might leave it,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Leave… what?”

“All of it.” His voice is low, serious. “The business. The jobs. The whole damn thing.”

That does shock you. Nick doesn’t walk away from things. Nick is the thing people don’t walk away from. “Nick… you built this.”

“I know.”

“And you’d just—what? Walk away?”

His gaze drops back to your stomach. “For them?” he says quietly. “Yeah.” There’s no hesitation. No doubt. Just that same terrifying certainty he brings to everything—except now it’s pointed in a different direction.

Not violence.

Not power.

You.

Your future.

Your child.

“I don’t need the money,” he continues. “Don’t need the reputation. All that does is paint a target on your back.” His jaw tightens. “I’m not raising my kid in that.”

You swallow hard. “You really mean that.”

He looks at you like it’s obvious. “I’d burn the whole thing down if it meant you were safe.”

Your breath catches at that—at the intensity, the promise, the quiet threat underneath it.

And then he softens again, just for you. His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re not losing me,” he says. “You’re gaining a version of me nobody else gets.”

You lean into him, heart full and aching all at once. “Good,” you whisper. “Because they don’t deserve you.”

Crowley didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, tilting your chin gently up with one finger, his touch light but deliberate. His other hand hovered over your forehead, hesitating for the briefest moment—as if savoring the contact—before pressing it softly against your skin.

“You’re burning,” he murmured, almost to himself, and the corners of his lips tugged into a smile that was more tender than teasing. “Not quite deathly, but enough for a king to be concerned.”

You tried to protest, but the warmth of his hand, the slow, careful pressure as he lingered, made your words fizzle into a sigh. Crowley’s thumb traced an absent-minded circle along your temple, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

“You know,” he said softly, almost shyly, “if you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked. You didn’t have to nearly melt my heart by looking so… fragile.”

You chuckled weakly, leaning into his touch despite yourself. “I don’t usually get checked for fever by… kings.”

“And yet here I am,” Crowley whispered, voice low and intimate, “because I care. Because I can’t—won’t—let you suffer alone.”