chimeraslove

Your arms tightened around his waist, and you scootched even closer to him. “Much better now. Thank you, Clark.” 

His chest shook with silent laughter, one hand moving to hold you where your head meets your neck. “Haven’t even done anything yet.” 

You pulled back, eyes wide and confused. “What are you talking about?” 

He smiled, your noses nearly touching. Your hand unconsciously rose to touch the crinkles at the side of his eyes, his dimples. You can’t help but marvel at him, this kind, soft man you’d managed to swindle into loving you by some otherworldly miracle. “You had a hard day, honey. Gotta let me take care of you.” 

Your foreheads met gently. “You’re already taking care of me.” And that was the truth. You’d come home, tears in your eyes. It had been a horrible, no good, absolutely awful day. You were running late for work, and then splashed by a cab hitting a huge puddle on your way there. Your lunch salad had gone wilty and on top of all that, you’d forgotten that it was date night until you’d seen him waiting in your living room, a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table and his button up’s sleeves rolled up on his forearms. 

And Clark hadn’t missed a beat. He changed into comfy clothes in the literal blink of an eye, and he’d put your favorite pajamas in the dryer to warm up. Then, he’d led you into the bathroom, turning on the shower and sprinkling a few drops of essential oil on the floor for you. A kiss to one temple, and then the other one for good measure before he told you to take your time and stepped out. A shower was the last thing on your mind, despite the previous puddle incident, but as the steam enveloped you, you could feel the tension draining from your muscles. When you were all done and squeaky clean, he wrapped you in a warm towel and helped you slather yourself in lotion. He’d gently guided your arms through your pajama top and helped you step into your shorts before pulling you onto the couch and settling you against him.  At this point, you were in a better mood than you’d managed all day. And somehow, Clark seemed to think he hadn’t even gotten started yet. 

He began to sway you gently side to side, his hands supporting your head. Your eyes fluttered shut with the soothing motion, a contented sigh escaping from your lips. “I have pizza on the way, and your heating pad is already on in the bed.”

All you could do was grin from where you were tucked into the hollow of his throat. “You’re spoiling me again.” 

He sighed, but didn’t dignify that with a response. “Are we thinking Singin’ in the Rain or Princess Diaries tonight?” 

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re ruining me for future partners.” 

“Oh, there are going to be future partners, are there?” he asked, laughter coloring the edges of his voice. He clearly wasn’t taking you seriously, not stopping his rocking motions and only pulling you closer. 

“Oh yeah, tons.” you grumbled. He could feel you smirking against him, you knew it. 

“I guess I’m going to start using my powers for evil, in that case.” He mumbled into your hair. 

“I believe that even less than I believe I’m ever going to let you go.” 

Clark’s arms tightened around you in response. The two of you sat like that for a few more moments, quietly tangled up in the other. There was a small knock at the door, but somehow neither of you startled. “I told them to leave it at the door. Let’s give it a few seconds.” 

You nodded, breathing in his cologne and playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. You weren’t sure how that didn’t tickle, but you weren’t going to complain. Eventually, Clark’s arm wrapped around you, gently picking you up and adjusting you so that your legs were on either side of his waist. He stood, hand slipping around the backs of your thighs and holding you close. 

“You’re ridiculous.” you murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder while your arms looped around his neck. 

“Mmhmm,” Clark agreed, but made no motion to put you down as he swung the front door open and grabbed the pizza box from the small side table beside your door. He gently placed you on the kitchen counter, and the box beside you. He opened it to reveal your favorite and you were unsurprised. He was nothing if not incredibly observant. 

You grabbed a slice and took a bite, leaning against Clark for support. The silence that settled around you both was comfortable and familiar as ever. You both worked your way through the pizza, and you only caught Clark checking you over for signs of discomfort twice, which felt like a lot of improvement for both of you. 

When you were done, Clark framed your face with his hands. His eyes searched yours for a moment before he nodded to himself, clearly pleased with his assessment. He offered you a hand, helping you down from the counter. You took it easy on him and held back from pointing out that you were definitely capable of doing that yourself. 

He led you into the bathroom, and only let go of your hand when you reached for your toothbrush. You and Clark fell into your normal routine, brushing your teeth with shoulders bumping, Clark using a soft cloth to wipe away the bubbles of your facewash. You smoothed moisturizer across his cheeks and he sealed in your skincare routine with a kiss on your hairline, careful to avoid disrupting your freshly applied products. 

He pulled down the covers for you, pillows already arranged in the pattern that you favored most nights. He made a show of pulling the covers up to your chin and tucking the blankets tight against your side. You broke into peals of giggles, the gesture ridiculous when both of you knew Clark would pull you against his chest as soon as he rounded the bed. The grin that spread across his face made your heart stutter. His eyes crinkled, and it was clear he’d heard. You didn’t even have it in you to feel bashful about it. 

Like clockwork, Clark slid into bed beside you and you were quickly arranged with your back flush against his chest, one arm thrown over your stomach while you played with his fingers. You snuggled back against him, a contended sigh escaping your mouth. After what could have been a few moments or an eternity, you placed a kiss gently on the back of his hand. He squeezed you impossibly tighter against him. 

You take a breath, a thank you already on the tip of your tongue. Clark beats you to it. “You don’t have to thank me.” You crane your neck to catch his eyes, quirking a disbelieving eyebrow at him. His arm around your waist only tightened, a contented smile turning the corners of his lips up. “This was more for me than you,” he sounded sleepy, eyes half closed. 

You couldn’t help the cackle that shook your whole body. Clark held tight through it all. When you managed to calm your laughter, you turned to see him still clinging to you like the world’s most overgrown koala. “You’re a saint but I somehow find that hard to believe.” 

“I sleep better when I know you're happy.” Your heart lurched at his sleepy confession. “Sleep best when I know that I’m the reason you’re happy.” 

You turn in his arms, your forehead finding his in the dark for a moment. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he was beaming in a way that rivaled the sun. You tucked your head under his chin, making yourself at home against him. Your eyelids were heavy, and the weight of his arms around you was the most grounding experience of your life. “Maybe Jimmy has a point.” you mumbled. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Clark whispered, mostly to himself. 

“You are whipped.” 

Clark’s only response was to place a kiss on the top of your head. “You love it.” 

on ao3

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If you learned anything growing up as the preacher’s daughter, it’s how to be watched. 

Not looked at, but watched. Measured, judged. Eyes on you at all times, from quiet women who were taught to smile and men who think they know what God wants. You’re in a constant state of being weighed against a God you’ve never met, or at least you don’t think you’ve met. Who lives in your head, your closet, under your bed, behind your eyelids when you sleep. A constant reminder given to you by your father, by the cross nailed up above your bed and the one strung around your neck.

They started calling you “blessed” before you knew what the word meant, saying it in Sunday school like a promise. You had entire psalms memorized before reaching the age you learned to ride a bike. It’s set in your blood, set in the little marks on the back of your thighs from the church pews. 

The lord is your shepherd, but he never managed to follow you out of this estranged place. God loved you, but not enough to save you. 

Your daddy helped build the church with his own hands, laid the foundation while your mother was pregnant. His sweat is now fixed into the wood and the scripture forever set in the nails, or in his brain. Imprinted. He told you God spoke to him on hot Texas nights, the nights when the air was still and the crickets continued to blare and keep the town up. 

If your childhood taught you anything, it’s that love comes second to obedience. The lord is everything. The notion was engraved in your brain by the ripe age of six when you began first grade. 

And the truth is, you used to believe it. Or at least you always tried your best to believe: prayed the way you were taught, on your knees with a soft voice and clean hands. God never seemed to answer. Or maybe he did, and it sounded too much like your father’s voice to feel like genuine love. 

He didn’t feel like love, but more like a nagging weight hanging on your shoulders.

The town’s sweetheart, preacher’s daughter, and God’s little lamb. You wore white, especially on Easter, sat with folded hands and the softest smile the lord would ever see. Said grace, never missed Sunday school. A good girl. 

But you hoped, maybe, just maybe, the communion wine would drown you one day. 

Eighteen. You packed up and left for college, begging to leave this god awful town behind for at least a couple of years. Not quite sure where you’d end up, but hoping it was far, far away. With less dust, a louder city, maybe, loud enough to drown out the thoughts trumpeting in your head and alerting you that you weren’t a true baptist. You didn’t try hard enough to believe. You simply couldn’t be saved.

You stopped attending church. Stopped thinking about heaven. Even stopped calling your father every weekend–now a distant memory you tried with the best of your ability to push back and replace with the college kid lifestyle. The silence that followed didn’t even feel like guilt, but relief. A break from that damned church being forced onto you every day when you woke up. 

Hymns traded for headphones, soon picking up cigarettes not only to feel grown. The people there didn’t know you by your last name. Hell, they didn’t even know your last name: it didn’t matter in college. There, you weren’t just the preacher’s daughter.

Sure, you packed your bible, told yourself you’d put it to good use. But by the time you were exposed to the new world you’d never gotten close to experiencing, it was quickly forgotten in the drawer next to the bed in your dorm. 

The cover reading The Holy Bible soon was picking up dust and ended up stampeded by a variety of other items that certainly would be regarded as sinful on the sacred pages. Things that would make your daddy sick at the sight of. Cheap lace panties only to be worn under dresses, broken lipsticks and a pack of condoms–yet to be opened. 

The first time you kissed a stranger, the guilt finally got to you. Nipped at you, gave you true pain and fear you couldn’t seem to recognize. You let him take you home from a party, he didn’t ask your name, and you didn’t offer. 

Hand slipping beneath your shirt, all you could think of was the old Sunday school books you’d color in, your father and the other children sitting next to you. Soft pastel crayons and the sad-eyed saints on the pages. 

This boy was different. Your last name didn’t matter, he didn’t know you used to help with prayer circles, you’d lead choir at Christmas time, or that the first time you’d been touched by a man that wasn’t your family was when he was anointed you with oil on your forehead and swore he heard the voice of God when he laid his hands on you. 

He kissed you like you were a body, not your father’s name. And you just let him.

You didn’t cry after. You felt like it, but you didn’t. You laid on your bed in the dark, fingers splayed out over your stomach as you waited for something to feel inside of you. Something to split, to help you understand the gap between heaven and skin. Nothing.

It might seem reassuring, maybe something to give you a sign that you were really as pure as you were meant to be, growing up in such a sacred household. But no, it was worse. Feeling nothing meant that nobody was watching, not even Him. 

That was the night you entirely stopped praying. 

The only thing remaining was the cross hung around your neck at all times, more as a reminder of the girl you used to be, the girl who your parents tried to raise. Of the girl who believed love came second and was earned through suffering. Who didn’t know that wanting could also be holy. Who was more confused and guilty than anything. 

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The call came on a Monday on your walk home from your first class, and upon seeing it was your father, you let it go to voicemail. 

His voice always shared the same sound as the town: hollow, sun-bleached, left out too long in the heat to shrivel up and go to dust. You expected the usual, asking meaningless questions about school and reminding you about the church, giving you information about the town you’d simply rather not listen to.

Not today, though. His voice was slightly shriveled, softer than you were used to hearing over the phone. He didn’t cry, your daddy was never one for crying. Just said the words before ending the voicemail.

“Hey, sweet girl. I know I already called you yesterday. You didn’t pick up.” 

It would make you feel less guilty if he sounded upset about it, but the blank tone in his voice whenever he reminded you of your absence always seemed to hit you in the heart like a truck. He continues.

“Uh, it’s your Uncle John. He’s gone.” 

The two sentences were split by an awkward cough, a correction of his voice. Silence for a moment.

“Funeral’s Saturday, your room’s still here and put together if you wanna come. I didn’t know if you’d want to.” 

Your uncle was the first man to treat you like you weren’t just a creation for God, he’d hug you without quoting scripture and wouldn’t always be preaching at you. Fuck. A genuinely good man in a pitiful town that you have to call home. And you can’t name many men like that.

As terrible as it’d make you feel, you almost didn’t go. Going means seeing all the figures that you’ve spent nights crying about in your college dorm, everything from your childhood that tortured your later years coming back as if it's nothing.

But not going was blatant disrespect to your late uncle, one of the only men in the town you actually had some respect left for. So, you grabbed a suitcase and tossed in the necessities: toiletries, a few modest outfits for your seemingly brief return to Texas, a funeral dress. 

Preparing for the airport, you had the nagging feeling you were forgetting something. You forced yourself to recheck your bag at least three times, thinking it’d be a basic item–deodorant, toothpaste, socks? Everything was there.

The feeling lingered but you brushed it off for a bit, throwing your shoes on and tying them the way your daddy taught you. Bunny ears. One loop through the other, pulled into a tight knot.

You opened the damned nightstand drawer, the one that carried all forms of guilt, and the feeling finally dropped at the sight of your old bible hidden under a couple of old napkins and a bottle of Zoloft. Even though you were in a rush to get out to the airport, you took the time to finally sit down and look at it, hoping it’d take a bit of the weight off of your chest before seeing your father and the church again.

The surface was–obviously–incredibly dusty, but it looked the same. It was the same old copy you’d been given after your baptism, at such a young age. You were a daisy fresh girl then, with no guilt or sense of doom following you around.

The thought had you sitting for a moment. Fingers tracing down the bonded leather that’s creased over the years, over the lettering on the cover that you used to swear by. It was a horrible feeling and genuinely had your heart hurting for the first time in months, the first time since the day after your first kiss.

And for once, you swore you might’ve felt Him looking down on you.

But, opening it would be too much. Seeing the little underlines from your favorite pen as a child and notes written in the margins during Sunday School would make your heart heavier. Flying already makes you anxious, and the weight of reading through your bible right now wouldn’t ever help with that. Not anymore. 

The flight was rough. The drive from the airport to your childhood town was worse.

Smelling all the old scents–rust from fences, stale cigarette smoke everywhere in the air–it lingered as a constant reminder of your childhood in the church. The old wooden pews and the leather of hymnals, stretched fabric of you and your cousin’s best Sunday dresses. 

You passed by the baptismal river, the church-run thrift store run by your old elementary school teacher that’s full of Bibles and nearly broken toys. The Sunday school, farmhouses with broken shingles on roofs and chickens out back. The funeral home you’d be attending tomorrow, your old highschool, trailers with Virgin Mary statues in the front. 

The buildings sit still, watching you and judging like all the women in town do. Paint peeling in strips, the church bell groaning uncomfortably. The memories aren’t pleasant, your spine stiffening the second you pull into the old gravel driveway of your childhood home. Haunting, not comfortable, pressing down on you like guilt. 

From the outside, the house appears innocent, neat. White clapboards scrubbed over time by the sun, and the old porch that wraps around the front. You used to sit out there with your daddy and uncle on Sunday afternoons. 

Flag out front and fresh roses delivered on the steps, but with thirsty and brittle grass. Windows that catch light in a way that unsettles you–just so you can’t see what goes on inside. 

The door creaks like you remember, the floor following suit. And almost enough to scare you, your father was waiting in the kitchen for your arrival. He didn’t feel the same, though, more like a stranger. Unknowable, unrecognizable, like a celebrity in your own home. 

He greeted you like one, too. Of course, he tried his best, but the awkwardness spilled over and the air was tense–it’s been two years since you’d seen him, and you always seem to ignore his calls now. The only thing on you that reminded him of the little girl he once knew was the cross dangling around your neck. 

Your clothes were different. Your scent, your hair, the lipstick you’d chosen, everything. Not so much the town’s little angel, not coming off as God’s sweet creation, but just a girl. One he doesn’t recognize. 

“Hi, Angel.” 

His voice was softer, even more so than it sounded on the phone. Clothes more casual than the robes and vestments he’d have on on Sundays back then–a simple flannel and jeans. Fitting more in with the other men in town. A few in particular came into your mind. 

Your arms met his, and you were soon wrapped up in a hug that brought back feelings you hadn’t felt in a while. Maybe the lord. Maybe simple love. Maybe being home, feeling childhood. You don’t really know.

“Hi, daddy.” 

You mumbled, giving him a weak smile and pressing a soft kiss to his now withered and wrinkled cheek. Your hand came up to hold the cheek you’d kissed, shaking your head.

“Room’s clean.” Was all you got in response. He didn’t ask how you’d been this time, didn’t pay any mind to the way your dress now fit above your knee. He couldn’t pick up on the cigarette lighter in your bag. Nothing. Like you’re a stranger in another pew.

And somehow, it hurt more than the other times you’d heard from him and he did nag you about these things. You almost wanted him to notice something, to pick on you. It’d at least make you feel more at home.

There was a strange and hollow mercy in the silence he offered you–a grace you seemingly hadn’t earned again. Your stomach twisted, the same way going to church as a teenager would make you feel, back when forgiveness felt like a failed test. 

You feared his judgement in the past. He’d certainly say something about the length of your dress or your makeup. But now, you’re fearful of his indifference. Guilty. If he wasn’t picking you apart, was he noticing anything? Were you worth noticing? Is He noticing? The absence of shame this time isn’t as peaceful as it once seemed. 

It was like the funeral was all you’d come for. And yes, it was the only reason you came, but a part of you wanted your father to want you there for more of it. You don’t know if you even want that, but the little baptist girl inside of you is aching. 

You nod once and let go of him, shaking your hand off and grabbing your bag–making sure nothing sinful were to fall out. How he’d react if he saw cigarettes in your bag, you didn’t know, and you surely would never want to find out. You don’t see him until the next morning.

The walk to your bedroom brought you a little more peace. The creaks in the floorboards remembered you better than your own father seemed to. The Bible verses framed on the wall, the old air lingering that brought you back years. And for the first time in months, a scent hit you that reminded you of someone else in town.

Someone like your uncle–a man who never reached or treated you as some darling of God. Treated you like a human girl, not just under your father’s name. The first man to catch your eye the next day at your uncle’s service.

He stood towards the back of the church, one hand resting in the pocket of his worn button-down suit jacket and the other rubbing his thigh. He’d never usually dress like this, you know that. But for the sake of the funeral of a good man, he swapped his usual rugged look for a more respectful outfit. 

You were used to heavy boots that complimented the look of his broad shoulders. Hands that look like they’ve done years of work–carpentry. Like he works with them, like he smells like Marlboro Reds. A sharp face, both softened and withered by the sun over time. Deep lines carved into his brow, as well as a scar on his right temple. 

The graying in his beard would dull most men, and it’s gotten more grey than since the last time you’d seen him. But on him, it made him look more real. Like he’s aging on purpose. Dark and steady eyes, not exactly cold, but highly watchful. Like he’s untrusting, not letting a certain something out. 

When you stepped inside, his gaze finally moved from the ground up. Just for a second. At you. Like you’re the only one to draw his precious attention.

And it hit you like fucking thunder. Joel Miller was looking at you. You’ve changed since he’s seen you, grown up. Not a teenager anymore, but a woman. In a black dress, a grown body.

His gaze didn’t display any lust, not yet. But recognition, curiosity, maybe. Something old, low, and almost aching. Aching like his back now–you’re not the only one who’s grown older. He was in his mid thirties when your mother and father had you, and he’s known you ever since. Held you as a baby. Was there for your baptism, for the performances you put on as a child at church every Christmas. 

He’s fifty-six now and feeling as if your name on his tongue would still taste and feel like that little girl he used to know, the one you used to be. But his eyes showed that you weren’t her. He didn’t recognize you.

Not in the same way your father didn’t recognize you, no. In his own way. Your father saw through you, like a verse no longer needed. No comments or even a flicker of recognition in his eyes that matched yours, just polite distance and a kindness reserved for strangers–maybe even sinners not deserving of saving. Like you seemed too far gone to him. 

But Joel. His gaze lingered, not sliding over you. Not long enough to be too obvious or come off as creepy, just enough to feel. He paused, shifted. Trying to place you, not from memory but from instinct. 

To Joel, you’re not returning to town. Other women and neighbors whispered and stared when they saw you enter the church after a couple of years of absence. Judged. Joel, on the other hand, saw it as an entrance. As someone appearing, not returning as the same little girl seen only as her father’s daughter. 

You felt doubly unseen. By the man who helped conceive you, raise you. And by a man in town who is now even more of a stranger. Who you haven’t thought of in months, but now is rushing back. It’s dangerous, and now’s the time you definitely feel like God is choosing to watch–in this church after years of not attending, surrounded by people you used to consider family. 

You looked away first, reaching up to your neck to toy with the little cross displayed over your pretty collarbones. The chain you often subtly tug at to try and hang on to the remnants of religion still lingering in that head of yours. 

When Clark wakes, much later than he typically sleeps in even during the weekend, you’re still fast asleep beside him. The past week had been abnormally exhausting, and despite the small but persistent urge to gently rouse you in order to spend as much time as possible together, Clark knows you need, and deserve, some extra sleep. 

Plus, you look so lovely, so peaceful, when you’re asleep, he couldn’t live with himself if he’d woken you up.

Even with the dim light of your bedroom, most of the sun blocked out by thick, gauzy curtains, he can see your face clear as day. It might be the superpowers, or it might just be due to how many hours he spends staring at your face, tracing it with a gentle finger as you lie together in bed with you giggling beside him. 

Featherlight, he reaches out to you now, trailing his touch down the slope of your nose lazily. You stay fast asleep, your breathing heavy and even. As much as Clark wants to stay in bed next to you, waiting patiently for you to wake up, he comes up with an even better idea, an even better wake up call for you than having your boyfriend staring loveling at your sleeping form. 

He might mean well, but that could still be a startling sight as soon as you open your eyes. 

With a practiced stealth he slides out of bed, careful not to jostle you or rustle the sheets too much. He carefully moves towards the door, avoiding every creaking floorboard as he goes. The door opens and closes lightning fast, and then he’s safely in the living room, leaving you to your much-earned rest. 

Clark can’t help but smile to himself as he makes his way to the kitchen, passing by all the pictures you have hanging on the walls. Most of the photos are of the two of you, printed out and framed, with the occasional Polaroid picture stuck on the outside of the glass, most of them blurry and low quality but they’re always Clark’s favorites because you always look so happy in them. The rest of the wall space is pictures of the two of you with your friends, of him and his parents at varying stages of growing up, and one of the four of you from the most recent trip he took to visit them. 

Seeing the evidence of his life, of all the people he loves, always makes him so unbelievably happy, it’s rare for him to make the trek from the living room to the kitchen without smiling. He pauses to fix one of the small Polaroids that had started to slip from its precarious position, and he can’t help but stop and stare at the picture for just a second, taking in your smile, still dazzling in the low quality. 

Once he finally makes it to the kitchen, he’s careful not to be too loud. He’d be heartbroken if his surprise was ruined because he dropped a pan or a baking sheet, the metal clatter echoing the apartment. He gathers all of the ingredients without incident, and breathing a sigh of relief, he starts to cook. 

It’s only a few minutes later, with the pancake batter barely made and the bacon only recently placed in the oven, that the bedroom door opens again and you come padding out. You yawn once as you walk, and then a still-sleepy smile overtakes your face at the sight that greets you. 

Standing in front of the stove, shirtless and with plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips, is Clark, humming lowly to himself as he cooks. His hair, normally meticulously styled, is standing up every which way, a textbook picture of bed head. He looks warm, and inviting, and cozy, so you don’t hesitate before making your way to him. 

Without announcing your presence, you wrap your arms around his waist from behind and set your head against his back. Clark doesn’t even jump, not surprised at all by your touch, but he does place the spatula down on the countertop to be able to give a quick squeeze to your clasped hands. 

“What’re you doing up?” He asks, voice raspy and laced with sleep, low in the way that turns your legs to jelly. 

“You got up,” you pause for a yawn before continuing, “I can never sleep without you.” You can’t see it, but Clark is grinning like a fool, even as he flips the pancakes. 

“Sorry,” he says, even though based on his smile you’d think he wasn’t sorry at all, “I wanted to surprise you. Bring you breakfast in bed and all that.”

“You’re very sweet, you know that?” You ask as your eyes slip shut, until you force yourself to blink awake again, “Sweetest boy ever.”

Clark would never think he’d be grateful that you couldn’t see his face, but right now, that’s all he can think about as his face heats up, blush spreading across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He could be praised by the whole city of Metropolis like it’s no big deal, but whenever you call him sweet or thoughtful or, god forbid, pretty, it’s like his brain short circuits. It’s embarrassing, really, how easily you can send his head spinning until he can think of nothing at all, except for you. 

“Go sit,” he says as he turns around in your grasp once he no longer feels like his face is on fire. You tilt your head back, seeing his face for the first time this morning as he finally sees you. He’s amazed that someone can look so perfect after just waking up. Sure, your hair is a bit of a mess and you still don’t look completely awake, but you’re still the most beautiful person Clark has ever seen. It doesn’t help that all you’re wearing is an old t-shirt of his, rumpled and soft and hitting your mid-thigh, leaving the rest of your legs bare. 

“Between the two of us, we’ve got one whole outfit,” he jokes, and the laugh you let out is soft and sleepy, and he can’t help but lean forward to kiss you. When he goes to stand up again, though, you shift your grasp from around his waist to his jaw, pulling him gently towards you again. After a few more soft kisses are exchanged, he manages to pull back just enough, a millimeter of space between you. “I gotta focus, everything’s gonna burn.”

“I don’t mind,” you tell him, smiling as he makes no move to pull away any further. In fact, he even takes hold of your hips, somehow pulling you even closer. “Ok, ok, fine, I’ll let you make me breakfast.” You pull back, placing a kiss to the tip of his nose as you go. His hands fist into the t-shirt you’re wearing, and when you’re finally far enough to see his face again, you can’t help but laugh at his pout. 

“You’re the one who wanted me to go sit down,” you point out with a smile as you finally detach yourself, missing his warmth the second you step apart.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” he retorts, even as he turns back to the stove. You take a seat on the countertop, wanting to be as close as possible still. 

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply. 

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark’s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

You shot a mean look at Jake, because surely this was all his fault, right? Putting you into this stupid scenario, causing you to feel embarrassed in front of everyone from the squad. You stood up from your chair and decided to be the bigger person, but unfortunately to you what you said came out rather petty than pleasant.

“I can’t wait to work with you.” You told him as he gave you a death stare before you walked out the briefing room.

You couldn’t really tell why but Jake annoyed the hell out of you. You worked at the precinct for so long that you couldn’t remember if it was always this way, but the way he always acted, always goofing around at seemingly inappropriate moments, the way he was seemingly so full of himself just was not it for you. And the rivalry of course. He always had to have the last word in everything.

And now you were assigned on a stakeout together to keep an eye on a drop site in the more run-down part of the neighborhood. You thought this might be the way Holt was trying to put you two in a “Get along T-shirt”. You weren’t so sure if it would work though.

When you arrived at the site later he was already there, tinkering with the surveillance equipment, facing away from you. You looked around in the small room, it looked like this apartment was abandoned for a while now, most of the windows were boarded in, the walls were icky. Your small station consisted of two makeshift beds and a few tables and chairs and a lot of equipment.

“I thought you’ll never arrive.” He said without turning towards you.

“Shut up.” You replied and tossed your bag on the floor as you walked towards him. “At least would you mind trying not to be insufferable for the next whoever knows how many days?”

“That’s a pretty bold request coming from you, but sure.” He stood up from his chair and turned towards you as he started to explain the details of your mission – which you already knew, because you two were in the same briefing when you got the information.

“I know all this. I was there too you know.”

“Oh, you were? Didn’t notice I guess.” That stupid grin was spreading on his face that annoyed you so much. You knew this expression – this meant that he was very satisfied with himself, the way he can play you like a fiddle and get a reaction out of you. You clenched your jaw and fought the urge to say something in return and instead you took a seat next to the table and opened your notebook. You decided to ignore him for the rest of the day. Only talk to him when you had to switch positions and it was your time to watch the site. The surveillance was set 24/7 but you two had to make sure that it was running smoothly and take extra photos of suspicious activity.

The sun started to set as the first day passed without anything happening. Jake was starting to get bored, he paced the floors all day, sat down, stood up, checked the fridge every 10 minutes. No matter how hard you tried he started to get the worst of you.

“Can you just stop please?” You blurted as you looked at him, your voice not as calm as you meant it to be. His head snapped in your direction as he raised one of his brows.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do I bother the lady?” He asked with a fake and very overdone British accent. You flexed your jaw as you exhaled to stop yourself from shouting at him.

“Didn’t you bring a book or something? Oh wait, I forgot you can’t read.” You stood up to face him and you couldn’t help but a smug smile spread across your face and you felt a weird satisfaction. He mirrored your expression as he quickly looked you up.

“Wow, you really think so little of me? It breaks my heart.” He said with a fake pout as he put his hand on his chest.

“This shouldn’t surprise you this much.”

“C’mon (Y/N), admit it that you love me.”

“Oh my God, shut up!” You raised your voice but tried not too much to make others hear you. You rolled your eyes and went to the table to check on something, hoping it would make him leave you alone. You realized this hope was futile.

You heard him step closer to you and therefore you turned around, but you didn’t realize he would be this close. You were stuck between the table and him, and you gripped the edge of the table not to lose your balance.

“What do you want?” You practically snarked at him. He looked at your face, searching it for a second before he let out an annoyed groan.

“I can’t understand why would they send me here with you. You’re the worst partner for a stakeout.” His words were nothing new, you thought you were used to his constant bickering and mean spirited comments towards you just as he was with yours. But for some reason you felt like this was the last straw.

“Oh right, forgive me for forgetting that you, Jake Peralta are the best detective on the whole world and everyone should be grateful that they get to work with your annoying ass!”

“I’m annoying? Says you who did nothing all day but annoy the hell out of me and not leave me alone?” He first put his hands on his hips but shortly after decided to rest them on the edge of the table next to yours, caging you between the table and his body. From this close you could feel his after shave and it made you light hearted. What the fuck? You thought as you felt your body heat up.

“I didn’t even talk to you all day, what the fuck Jake?” He was thinking about your words for a second before he moved in front of you, moving his head to your ear and his hand on yours. Your breath hitched at the contact and you were more confused than ever before. Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest as he was so close to you, closer than ever before. Inappropriate thoughts filled your head as you felt dizzy.

“So you think it’s not annoying,” he started in a voice that you barely recognized was his, “that you sitting there all day, acting like you hate me is not annoying?”

“I do hate you,” you replied quickly but your voice was much weaker than you intended. You felt his hand move from yours to the side of your thigh, slowly making it’s way up from your knee to your bottom.

“Do you now?” You heard the smile in his voice and you could picture the stupid smug grin on his face that you knew so well. “Then why didn’t you tell me to stop?”

You hated how right he was. You did hate him though. For being so distractive. For intruding your thoughts at every occasion, you let him. For making you feel like a high schooler when he would sometimes honestly smile at you. For filling your mind when you felt lonely at sleepless nights. You felt your body heat up and arousal wash over you. He finally looked at you again, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen before.

“Fuck you.” You said through gritted teeth and tried to free yourself from your position but before you managed to do that, you suddenly felt his lips pressing onto yours and then everything came crashing down.

You threw your arms around his neck and buried your hands in his hair, tugging at it gently. He pulled you into him, away from the table and with one hand he cupped your cheek and with the other he grabbed your ass. His lips were soft – softer than you could ever imagine, and he didn’t waste no time to lick your lips, making you whimper. The kiss got heated very fast, your tongues were exploring each other and you bit down on his bottom lip, which made him smile.

He pushed you back towards the table and made you sit up on it, while still kissing you like a starving man. Your mind left all logic behind and all you could think of was him in front of you and the way he touched you. You spread your legs so he could stand between them which earned you a chuckle from him.

“If I knew all it would take for me to piss you off…” he said between kisses, it felt like his mouth never wanted to let you go. You let out an annoyed groan and bit his lip.

“You’re trying to tell me you could’ve been even more annoying?” You asked as you trailed your lips through his jawline and neck, nipping and suckling on it slowly. You felt your arousal pooling in your underwear as your body wanted more and more of him in this messed up situation.

“Oh dear,” he whispered as he started to trail his fingers up your inner thigh. “I haven’t even started.” HE grabbed both your thighs and pulled you closer to him, which made your still very much clothed core rub against his hard member. You let out a shaky breath which made him smile.

You quickly unzipped his hoodie and tossed it onto the floor behind him, followed by his t-shirt. You wrapped your arms around his back and pulled him closer to you, his skin burning against your palms. He was still kissing you passionately and had no intention to stop. His hands moved to the front of your blouse and he quickly unbuttoned it and tossed it next to the both of you, leaving you in your bra. He started to softly knead one of them and after a second he broke the kiss to look at you as he leaned down to press a kiss on your breast.

“You’re beautiful.” He said in a low voice and you felt your insides twist with anticipation and excitement.

“I didn’t think you’re capable of being nice.” You teased as he moved his lips to your neck.

“You better be a good girl,” he whispered into your ear and you let out a moan. “or I won’t be so nice anymore.” You couldn’t help but started to grind yourself against his dick. He bit down onto your neck and you hissed, which made him look at you and kiss you again. You decided you’ve had enough of this and quickly unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans and underwear down. You bit your lip as you looked down at him.

He smiled at your reaction and kissed you again. You started to gently stroke him which made a groan find its way past his lips, and he slowly started to move his hips against your palm.

“Fuck.” He said and buried his face into the crook of your neck. His hands were slowly caressing your body, slowly moving from your breast to your side where his feather light touch would leave goosebumps in its wake. You felt your need grow bigger by the second as you squirmed under his touch.

“Jake,” you whispered, and he raised his head to look into your eyes. “Touch me.” He let out a sound that was half a moan half a groan before he quickly moved his hands to get rid of your jeans and panties in a swift motion, making you sit on the cold table. The contrast made you shiver before he embraced you again, kissing you passionately and grinding himself against your now bare folds. He then slowly moved his hand from your neck to one of your breasts, squeezing it gently before swiping a finger across your nipple. The soft touch made you squeal into the kiss which made him smile.

“You’re not so angry now, are you?” He asked in a teasing way as his hand continued his journey down your body. You shot him an annoyed look but it immediately faded away when his fingers found their way between your folds.

“Fuck, Jake.” You whispered and gripped the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turned paler. He moved his fingers between your folds, grazing your entrance up and down as you soaked them in your arousal.

“You’re so wet,” he started to say between kisses. “Such a good girl for me.” You absent mindedly grinded yourself against him, urging him to touch you more. You were so turned on you felt like another second without him being inside you and you would blow up.

Luckily, he understood your movements and finally pushed his fingers inside you. The sensation felt sudden and it ripped a moan from your lungs as he started to move them, slow and steady, pulling them out almost completely before pushing them back in until his palm grazed your clit. Even in your lustful haze you found it hard to believe this was happening. His fingers were fucking you so good, your own ones could never do him justice when you imagined this happening at lonely nights. You moved your hands and started to stroke him again. He moved one of his hands to rest on your neck as he kissed your lips gently, then moved to your neck, his teeth and lips left sloppy marks on your skin in their wake as he moved his lips to your breast, kissing it gently before he lightly bit your nipple. You hissed at the sensation, which made him gently swipe his tongue against it before kissing it again.

Then he kneeled down before you and started to kiss your inner thighs on both sides. His fingers continued their ministrations all this time, never letting go of you for a second. He looked up at you from between your legs and smiled, there was no sign of anger or hatred in his expression, what you saw was pure adoration. It made your heart flutter, the way he looked at you like you were the most beautiful and precious thing on the planet. The sight of him kneeling in front of you made your legs tremble and you felt yourself clench around his finger. He must’ve felt it as he bit his lip before he leant in to plant a soft kiss on your clit before starting to circle his tongue around it gently.

Your head fell back as you were overwhelmed by the sensation of his fingers inside you and his mouth on you at the same time. His tongue was moving in harmony with his fingers, lapping and circling around your sensitive bud in sync with his fingers moving inside you. You buried one of your hands in his hair, using the other to keep your balance. The sensation started to overwhelm you, the tightening feeling in your belly stronger with every passing second. Your mind started to become numb, all you could concentrate on was him, the feeling of his fingers inside you, his warm tongue on you. You tugged on his hair as you grinded yourself against his mouth, your high rapidly approaching.

“Jake, I-“ you gasped as he started to move his fingers a little faster, pushing them inside you a little stronger, your moans filled the air as you felt your orgasm wash over you, white overtaking your vision as the coil snapped inside you when you finally came. Your breathing was erratic and you needed a second to collect yourself, allowing Jake to stand up in front of you and position himself between your legs. You rested your head against his chest for a second as he hugged you and gently caressed your back, before you looked up at him and kissed him. “I want you to fuck me,” you whispered against his lips before you kissed him.

“Aren’t you a greedy little thing?” He smiled as he kissed you while positioning himself at your entrance before slowly pushing into you. The way he stretched you felt incredible. “Fuck,” he breathed. “So good for me.”

He waited a second before he started moving. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he pulled you closer to him, making you sit at the edge of the table. One of his hands were tangled in your hair, the other rested at your ass, pulling you into him. Each of his movements made you see stars, he filled you up so perfectly. You rolled your hips against him to meet his rhythm, allowing his dick to push even deeper into you, hitting your sweet spot with every movement. Your mixed moans and whimpers filled the air as he was fucking you mercilessly, and you adjusted your hands on his back and dug your fingernails into his shoulder.

He hissed by the sensation and bit your lip before he moved his other hand on your ass as well. His movements started to become sloppy and you knew he was close. You moved your hand from his shoulder between your legs and started to touch yourself. He groaned when he looked down at where he entered you.

“You’re so hot.” He said and kissed you again. “Come with me babe.” You nodded as no words came out your mouth, you bit his lip before kissing him, your tongues danced around each other’s as he fastened his movements, his dick hit your sweet spot every time he slammed into you. You felt your stomach tighten and you buried your face into his chest as his name fell from your lips like a prayer. His nails dug into the flesh of your ass as he gripped it so tight.

“Jake, I-,” you moaned but he interrupted.

“I know, me too.” He breathed and you felt the whole world crashing down, your vision turned white and your toes curled as your second orgasm washed over you. After a few seconds you felt his hips still as well as he buried himself deep inside you and rested his forehead against yours. The room was silent other than the heavy breathing of yours. You opened your eyes and saw his smile. You couldn’t help but smile as well.

“So,” he started and kept a short pause before continuing. “What is the title of our sex tape?”

His heart pounded in his chest, siddiq’s eyes failing to remain closed as he laid against the tree, cold grass making his jeans wet, at least that’s what he tried to think what the uncomfortable feeling was. The horrors he saw constantly flashing behind his eyes, the fear of what laid just up the hill. He thought of you, your soft touch and caring voice. How your eyes looked when they creased at some silly joke he made. How you cared for rosita, helping her throughout her pregnancy when he couldn't understand. He craved your warm smile, your warmth holding him close. He needed you. 

He saw Daryl first, a breath of relief he wasn't going to slowly bleed out or freeze to death in the fall winds. “Y/n” he heard the rough man's voice call. You were next, your eyes filled with worry as you ran towards him, knees collapsing in the cold grass, he almost wanted you to stand up, avoid you getting cold. “Siddiq? Oh honey” your voice soothed as your warm fingers gently touched his head. “I-i, t-they” his words failed to come out of his mouth, unable to tell you what lay ahead, your friends headless on pikes. 

“Hey, it's alright. Where are the others?” you asked, your eyes were scared, a small tremble in your voice as you knew it wasn’t good. Siddiq tried to rise, choosing to show you instead of trying to get the words out. You helped him up, supporting him as he silently pointed up the hill. Your body was his rock, the thing that grounded him as he went to see the people that he loved so dearly dead, their last remains just growling on the pikes. “Stay behind please” he whimpered quietly next to you. “I don’t want you to see” 

The last sentence was delivered too late, your harsh gasp signalled that. His eyes remained glued on your hair, the way it moved in the winds. Unable to see your face, the guilt on how he survived and not the others, his worth only being a messenger to deliver bad news. Your grip tightened on him, holding him close as you wept at the sight of your family, all of you unsure how to tell the communities, how to explain the threat that lingered around them now. As the others worked to get their friends down, silencing their groans. You held him close, your fingers working through his hair. You were crying silently but he didn’t need sound to know. Your chest moved shakily as he laid upon it. 

Once you had all arrived back, deciding to stay the night before creating larger groups to travel back safely and the horrors that happened that night had been told, you led Siddiq back to a room given to you both to stay in. leaving briefly to grab some medical supplies to help his head injury. His teary eyes stared back at yours, his eyes filled with guilt and pain. “I’m so glad you are safe” you spoke first. Your hand gently wipes away the dried blood on his head. “I shouldn't be. I should be with them” he said silently. You nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. “I was just a messenger of bad news, i should be dead- not here getting to live my life” he cried, tears finally leaking from his eyes. Your brows furrowed with confusion as you thought about what to say. “Maybe- but you are also here now. They would be happy if all these people still had medical help, someone with experiance” You said softly, grabbing the balm to place over his wound. “First Carl, now Enid. two kids that should be living and not me. People that should be leading these people in the future. Both died instead of me” he whimpered. You held him close, tears of your own falling as you thought about the two teens. “Then live, because they gave you the chance to. Keep fighting like they would” you said. Holding his face gently in your hands, you lifted his face towards your. Pulling Him closer to meet his lips. The kiss started as gently and soft, melting away any sadness that remained for the night, hoping that he would be soothed to sleep. His lip worked well against yours, his fears of you being hurt poured passion into the kiss. Emotions shared using only love and passion. Each kiss explains each other's feelings easily. Your chest heaved heavily as you both pulled back. Staring at each other, scanning for regret. Only smiling when you both pulled closer together to repeat it, like magnets. 

“I know it's tough being the only survivor, but we will avenge them. We always do.” 

“Yeah, you're right. I don't think I can sleep tonight” 

“Welll, if i remember correctly, I’d have to wake you up every hour anyway due to your concussion so it saves me a job” you joked, a warm smile placed on your lips. Siddiq let out a breathy chuckle. Holding you close to him. “At least if anything, I’m a good teacher,” he joked back. You nodded your head, “she was proof of that”